The Breaking of the Storm Volume Iii Part 15

"I cannot accept this sacrifice, gentlemen. One wrong figure spoils the sum, one false premise nullifies the conclusion. You must allow a father to draw the inference which you from friends.h.i.+p and compa.s.sion would not draw. If with the a.s.sistance of Captain von Schonau--for alone it would be impossible--I took upon myself my son's fraud and thus--which G.o.d forbid!--allowed a man who is himself not rich, like you, my dear Schonau, to impoverish himself for the sake of a swindler, my son would then be allowed, there being nothing further against him, to retire with honour. His Majesty, our gracious commander-in-chief, would certify to the honour of a man, who, before G.o.d and his conscience, before his father and you, gentlemen, who cannot at this moment raise your eyes to me, is dishonoured. He could call to account those who doubted his honour, and there would be enough of them--his enemies would see to that--he who must acknowledge to himself that they are in the right, and that in the very act of demanding and receiving satisfaction he was perpetrating another deceit.

"And thus, gentlemen, the one lie--forgive me the word!--would call forth a thousand new lies; and we who sit here should have spun this web of deceit, and must leave those who become entangled in it without warning or aid.

"The situation is impossible, gentlemen! Impossible--even for my son.

Guilty as he is, he cannot be so false to the blood of his ancestors as to determine to exist at the mercy of even his best and most generous friends; to live under the sword of the doubtful reputation that must precede and follow him whichever way he turned; to endure the scorn that any man might make him feel as he pleased, without the power of defending himself.

"And it is impossible--to me. Suppose to yourselves that I were the president of a court of honour which had to decide upon this case; forget for a moment that I am a father--and you would, you must answer me that it is impossible."

"I cannot forget it!" cried Schonau wildly; "I cannot!"

"You must," returned the General, "as the Colonel here has already done."

The Colonel was in the most painful embarra.s.sment. The General was undoubtedly right, and he would thus be released from a very difficult position; and yet! and yet!

"I have already expressed my most decided wish to arrange the affair without letting matters proceed to extremities," said he, "I hope the General may yet persuade himself of the possibility of so doing, however difficult I allow such a solution may be. Meanwhile, Herr von Werben is on leave of absence. Bills of exchange have, if I remember rightly"--the Colonel attempted a smile--"three days' law. Let us make use of this delay granted by the law; three days count for a great deal under some circ.u.mstances in the life of a man. Shall we leave the General alone now, my dear Schonau?"

The two officers went silently down the street, with their heads bent, and from time to time pressing on their caps more firmly, which the storm that raged through the streets threatened to blow away. At the corner of the cross street Schonau said: "I must take a carriage from here, Colonel."

"You are going to him?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is a hopeless case, my dear Schonau."

"I fear so."

"You will bring me news!"

"Certainly, sir."

"It is eleven o'clock now; I shall be at home till two."

The Colonel pressed the Captain's hand with a warmth very unusual for him, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and went on down the street.

Schonau's cab drove quickly up the side street.

The General had remained standing at the door, to which he had accompanied the others, and listened mechanically to their steps upon the stone floor of the hall, then under the window of his room, and pa.s.sing away down the street.

Now he could hear nothing more, excepting the storm which was raging without. They were gone, these men of the highest honour, the representatives of his cla.s.s, gone after p.r.o.nouncing sentence upon the dishonoured and unworthy member of that cla.s.s.

And that sentence was--death.

Death by his own hand.

And his father must announce it to him.

No! not that; only confirm what he must have already said to himself; only say: "Your father, agrees to what you have already decided upon, and may G.o.d have mercy upon your soul!"

He pressed his hands together, and heavy cold drops of sweat stood on his deeply-furrowed brow.

"Must it be? oh G.o.d, my G.o.d, have mercy upon me! must it be?"

But no word of comfort or hope came to him. All was dumb within him, in his burning head, in his panting breast, and through that dumb silence only the fearful words: "It must be!"

When August entered the room at the sound of the bell, the General was sitting, turned away from him, at his writing-table, leaning his head upon his hand. On the round table behind him, on which he used always to put his finished papers, stood a box, and on the box lay a letter.

August turned cold all over; it was the box in which his master kept the two beautiful old pistols which he had inherited from his father, and on which he set such great store.

"My son is obliged to undertake a long journey," said the General; "and he will require my pistols. The key is in the letter. You will go to him at once, and take him the box and the letter; there is no further message, the letter contains everything. Afterwards I shall go away also; when you come back you will put up my things for a few days'

absence."

"Very well, General," said August, merely to say something, and so perhaps to get free of the horror which oppressed him.

With mechanical obedience he had carefully taken up the letter and box, and stopped at the door.

"Shall I say anything kind from you to the Lieutenant, sir?"

There was a few moments' pause before the answer came.

He mustered all his courage:

"Tell him, I hope to G.o.d to be with him soon again."

The faithful servant breathed again. He was satisfied now; whatever had happened between the General and the Lieutenant must be something very bad, much worse than it had ever been before, but if the General hoped to meet the Lieutenant again, and that very soon too, there was nothing to break one's heart over, and it would soon be all right, as the Captain had said indeed.

But when August had left the room, the General let his head fall upon his clasped hands, and so sat for a long time, while his whole frame was shaken at times as if with ague, or at others a dull groan was forced from his oppressed breast, as he prayed for his son's soul, and took leave of that son of whom he had been so proud, and who might no longer live now with the shame that he had brought upon himself; the son whom he had so dearly loved, and whom he still loved, oh! how dearly!

At last he rose, an old, broken-down man, with but one thing more for him to do on earth.

For that, he knew that his strength would suffice.

And not trembling and with burning tears as he had loaded the pistol which he sent to his son, but with a steady hand and rigid flaming eyes did he load the second, with which to shoot down the scoundrel who with devilish cunning had enticed his son to disgrace and death.

CHAPTER II.

Ferdinanda had gone to-day, as usual, at her accustomed hour to the studio, and had even attempted to work; but, in spite of the determination which she had long exercised in subduing her talent to her will, and the success which had often attended her efforts, the struggle was vain to-day, and she threw down her tools again.

"For the last time," said she to herself.

She had meant for to-day; but the words, as she spoke them aloud, sounded strangely in the great, high room, as if not she but some one else had said them--a ghostly, prophetic voice speaking from far off, that left her standing and listening in terror lest the voice should speak again.

What need was there of a prophetic voice to convince her of what her own broken heart had said long since?

It was all in vain--her efforts, her struggles, her renunciation, vain--even the tender remonstrances, the gentle warnings, the bright example of the saintly Cilli herself!

How often and often, when that angelic being had left her, had she thrown herself in the dust before the Pieta, which she had modelled two months ago from her, and prayed that the all-merciful love with which the heart of the blind girl overflowed might descend upon her heart too, if it were only a drop! Even that would suffice to extinguish the flames that raged there! But in vain.