Part 34 (1/2)

The countess shrugged her shoulders as if in pity. ”You do not believe me, then?” said she; ”but you will believe this witness?” and she drew a letter from her bosom and handed it to Elise.

”It is his handwriting,” cried the young girl, terrified, as she took the letter.

”Ah! you know his handwriting, then? He has written to you, too?”

sighed the countess. ”Well, then, read it. It is a letter he wrote me from Berlin at the commencement of his captivity. Read it!”

”Yes, I will read it,” murmured Elise. ”These written words pierce my eyes like daggers, but I will not mind the pain. I will read it.”

She read the letter, which annihilated her whole happiness, slowly and with terrible composure. Drop by drop did she let the poison of these words of love, directed to another, fall into her soul. When she had finished reading it, she repeated to herself the last cruel words, the warm protestations, with which Feodor a.s.sured his bride of his unalterable love and fidelity, with which he swore to her that he looked upon his love to her not only as a happiness, but as a sacred obligation; that he owed her not only his heart but his honor. Then long and carefully she considered the signature of his name, and folding up the paper, she handed it back, with a slight inclination to the countess.

”Oh, my G.o.d! I have loved him beyond bounds,” muttered she, low; and then, unable to restrain her tears, she put her hands to her face and wept aloud.

”Poor, unhappy girl!” exclaimed the countess, laying her arm tenderly around her neck.

Elise drew back violently and regarded her almost in anger. ”Do not commiserate me. I will not be pitied by you! I--”

She suddenly stopped, and an electric shock pa.s.sed through her whole frame. She heard the concerted signal; and the tones of the post-horn, which slowly and heavily sounded the notes of the sad Russian melody, grated on her ear like a terrible message of misfortune.

The two women stood for a moment silent and motionless. They both listened to the dirge of their love and their happiness, and this simple, hearty song sounded to them horrible and awful in the boundless desolation of their hearts. At last the song ceased, and a voice, too well known and loved, cried, ”Elise! Elise!”

The maiden started up, shuddering and terrified. ”His voice frightens me.”

But still she seemed not to be able to withstand the call; for she approached the window, and looked down hesitatingly.

The countess observed her jealously, and a fearful thought suddenly entered her mind. How, if this young girl loved him as much as she did? If she were ready to forgive him every thing, to blot out the whole past with the hand of love and commence a new existence with him? If she felt no compa.s.sion for Feodor's forsaken bride, and were willing to trample triumphantly on her broken heart at the call of her lover, and follow him to the altar? Her whole soul writhed in pain, ”Follow his call,” cried she, with a derisive smile. ”Leave your father, whom you have betrayed, for the sake of a traitor! You have vowed to love him. Go and keep your vow.”

Outside Feodor's voice called Elise's name louder and more pressingly.

A moment she listened, then rushed to the window, threw it open, and called out, ”I come, I come!”

Lodoiska flew to her; drew back the young girl violently from the window, and throwing both arms firmly around her, said, almost breathlessly, ”Traitress! You shall not cross this threshold! I will call your father. I will call the whole household together! I will--”

”You will call no one,” interrupted Elise, and her proud, cold composure awed even the countess. ”You will call no one, for I stay, and you--you go in my stead.”

”What say you?” asked Lodoiska.

Elise raised her arm and pointed solemnly to the window. ”I say,”

cried she, ”that your bridegroom is waiting down there for you. Go, then.”

With an exclamation of joy the countess pressed her in her arms. ”You renounce him, then?”

”I have no part in him,” said Elise coldly. ”He belongs to you; he is bound to you by your disgrace and his crime. Go to him,” cried she more violently, as she saw that the countess looked at her doubtingly.

”Hasten, for he is waiting for you.”

”But he will recognize me; he will drive me from him.”

Elise pointed to her clothes, which were placed ready for her departure. ”There lie my hat and cloak,” said she haughtily. ”Take them; drop the veil. He knows this dress, and he will think it is me.”

At this moment the door was torn open, and Bertram burst in. ”Make haste,” he cried, ”or all is lost. Count Feodor is becoming impatient, and may himself venture to come for Elise. Gotzkowsky, too, has been awakened by the unaccustomed sound of the post-horn.”

”Help the countess to prepare for the journey,” cried Elise, standing still, motionless, and as if paralyzed.