Part 43 (1/2)
Gotzkowsky was silent for some minutes, then looked at Bertram sadly and sorrowfully. ”You know that this has always been the wish of my heart. But what I have longed for, for so many years, that I must now refuse. I dare not drag you down in my misfortune, and even if I were weak enough to yield to your request, I cannot sacrifice the happiness of my daughter to my welfare. Do you believe, Bertram, that Elise loves you?”
”She is kind to me, and is anxious for my welfare--that is enough,”
said Bertram, sadly. ”I have learned for many a long year to renounce all claim to her love.”
”But if she loves another? I fear her heart is but too true, and has not forgotten the trifler who destroyed her happiness. Ah! when I think of this man, my heart trembles with anger and grief. In the hour of death I could forgive all my enemies, but the hatred toward this man, who has so wantonly trifled with the faith and love of my child, that hatred I will take with me into the grave--and yet, I fear, Elise has not forgotten him.”
”This dead love does not give me any uneasiness,” said Bertram. ”Four years have pa.s.sed since that unlucky day.”
”And for four years have I been faithful in my hatred to him. May not Elise have been as constant in her love?”
Bertram sighed and drooped his head. ”It is too true, love does not die so easily.” Then after a pause he added in a determined voice: ”I repeat my request--give me your daughter!”
”You know that she does not love you, and yet you still desire her hand?”
”I do. I have confidence enough in her and in myself to believe Elise will not refuse it to me, but will freely make this sacrifice, when she learns that you will only allow me, as your son, the privilege of sharing my little fortune with you. For her love to you, she will give me her hand, and invest me with the rights of a son toward you.”
”Never!” cried Gotzkowsky, vehemently. ”She must never be informed of that of which we have been speaking. She does not forebode the misfortune which threatens her. I have not the courage to tell her, and why should I? When the terrible event happens, she will learn it soon enough, and if it can be averted, why then I can spare her this unhappiness. For my child I wish a clear, unclouded sky; let _me_ bear the clouds and storms. That has always been the object of my life, and I will remain faithful to it to the last.”
”You refuse me, then?” asked Bertram, pained.
”No, my son. I accept you, and that which you have given me in this hour, the treasure of your love; that I can never lose. That remains mine, even if they deprive me of all else.”
He opened his arms, and Bertram threw himself weeping on his breast.
Long did they thus remain, heart to heart, in silence; but soul spoke to soul without words and without expressions of love.
When Gotzkowsky raised himself from Bertram's embrace, his countenance was calm, and almost cheerful. ”I thank you, my son; you have given me new courage and strength. Now I will preserve all my composure. I will humble my pride, and apply to those who in former times professed grat.i.tude toward me. The Council of Berlin have owed me twenty thousand ducats since the time that the Russians were here, and I had to travel twice in the service of the town to Petersburg and Warsaw.
These accounts have never been asked for. I will make it my business to remind the Council of them, as in the days of their need they swore eternal grat.i.tude to me. Come, Bertram, let us see whether these wors.h.i.+pful magistrates are any better than other men, and whether they have any recollection of those sacred promises which they made me in the days when they needed help, and when misfortune threatened them.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RUSSIAN PRINCE.
Before the door of the first hotel in Berlin stood a travelling-carriage covered with dust. The team of six post-horses, and the two servants on the coach-box, showed that it was a personage of quality who now honored the hotel with a visit; and it was therefore very natural that the host should hurry out and open the carriage door with a most respectful bow.
A very tall, thin man descended from the carriage with slow and solemn dignity, and as he entered the house gravely and in silence, his French valet asked the host whether he had rooms elegant enough to suit the Prince Stratimojeff.
The countenance of the host expanded into a glowing smile; he s.n.a.t.c.hed the candlestick hastily from the hands of the head butler, and flew up the steps himself to prepare the room of state for the prince.
The French valet examined the rooms with a critical eye, and declared that, though they were not worthy of his highness, yet he would condescend to occupy them.
The prince still remained silent, his travelling-cap drawn deep down over his face, and his whole figure concealed in the ample robe of sable fur, which reached to his feet. He motioned to the host with his hand to leave the room; then, in a few short words, he ordered his valet to see to supper, and to have it served up in an adjoining room, and as at that moment a carriage drove up to the house, he commissioned him to see whether it was his suite. The valet stated that it was his highness's private secretary, his man of business, and his chaplain.
”I will not see them to-day--they may seek their own pleasure,” said the prince, authoritatively. ”Tell them that our business begins to-morrow. But for you, Guillaume, I have an important commission. Go to the host and inquire for the rich banker, John Gotzkowsky; and when you have found where he lives, enter into further conversation, and get some information about the circ.u.mstances of this gentleman. I wish to learn, too, about his family; ask about his daughter--if she be still unmarried, and whether she is now in Berlin. In short, find out all you can.”
The courteous and obedient valet had left the room some time, but Prince Stratimojeff still stood motionless, his eyes cast on the ground, and muttering some unintelligible words. Suddenly, with an impatient movement, he threw his furred robe from his shoulders, and cast his head-gear far into the room.
”Air! air! I suffocate!” cried he. ”I feel as if this town lay on my chest like a hundred-pound weight, and that I have to conceal myself like a criminal from the eyes of men.”