The Merchant of Berlin Part 14

"No one!" repeated he, sternly. "Why, then, do you tremble?"

"I tremble because you look at me so angrily," said she, terrified.

Her father cast her hand pa.s.sionately from him. "Liar!" cried he. "Do you wish me to kill him?"

He took his sword from the table, and approached the door.

"What are you going to do, my father?" cried she, throwing herself in his way.

"I am going to kill the thief who stole my daughter's honor," cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with rage.

"Father, father, by the G.o.d in heaven I am innocent!" cried she, convulsively, striving to hold him back.

"Then let me have the proof of this innocence," said he, pus.h.i.+ng her back.

But she sprang forward with the agility of a gazelle, rushed again to the door, and clung with both hands to the lock.

"No, no, father, I remain here. You shall not insult yourself and me so much as to believe what is dishonorable and unworthy of me, and to require a proof of my innocence."

This bold opposition of Elise only excited Gotzkowsky's anger the more, and was to him a fresh proof of her guilt. His rage overpowered him; with raised arm and flas.h.i.+ng eye he strode up to Elise, and cried out: "Away from the door, or by Heaven I will forget that I am your father!"

"Oh," cried she breathlessly, "you have often forgotten that, but think now; remember that I am the daughter of the wife whom you loved!

Trust me, father. By the memory of my mother, I swear to you that my honor is pure from any spot; and, however much appearances may be against me, I am nevertheless innocent. I have never done any thing of which my father would have to be ashamed. Believe me, father; give me your hand and say to me--'I believe your innocence; I trust you even without proof!'"

She sank down on her knees, raising her arms imploringly to him, while burning tears streamed down her cheeks. Gotzkowsky gazed at her long and silently, and his child's tears touched the father's heart.

"Perhaps I do her injustice," said he to himself, looking thoughtfully into her weeping face. "She may be really innocent. Let us try," said he, after a pause, pressing his hands to his burning temples. As he let them drop, his countenance was again calm and clear, and there was no longer visible any trace of his former anger. "I will believe you,"

said he. "Here, Elise, is my hand."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, sprang up from her knees, rushed toward her father, and pressed her burning lips on his extended hand. "My father, I thank you. I will ever be grateful to you," cried she, fondly.

Gotzkowsky held her hand firmly in his own, and while speaking to her approached, apparently by accident, the door so bravely defended by Elise. "You are right, my child; I was a fool to doubt you, but I am jealous of my honor, the most precious property of an honest man. Much can be bought with gold, but not honor. True honor is bright and clear as a mirror, and the slightest breath dims it. Oh, how would this envious, grudging, malignant world rejoice if it could only find a spot on my honor! But woe to him who dims it, even if it were my own child!"

Elise turned pale and cast down her eyes. Gotzkowsky perceived it. He still held her hand in his, and approached the door with her, but he compelled his voice to be gentle and mild.

"I repeat," said he, "I wronged you, but it was a terrible suspicion which tortured me, and I will confess it to you, my child. The Russian flag of truce which came into town to negotiate with the authorities was accompanied by ten soldiers and two officers. While the commissioner was transacting business in the Council-chamber above, they remained below in the lower story of the building. I accompanied the commissioner, as he left the Council, down-stairs, and we found his military escort in a state of anxiety and excitement, for one of the officers had left them two hours before, and had not yet returned, and they had called and hunted for him everywhere. The Russians were furious, and cried out that we had murdered one of their officers.

I succeeded in quieting them, but my own heart I could not quiet; it felt convulsively cramped when I heard the name of this missing officer. Need I name him?"

Elise did not answer. She looked at her father, with tears in her eyes, and shook her head languidly.

Gotzkowsky continued: "It is the name of a man to whom I formerly showed much friends.h.i.+p; toward whom I exercised hospitality, and whom I made free of my house, and who now shows his grat.i.tude by stealing the heart of my daughter, like a pitiful thief. Oh, do not attempt to deny this. I know it, Elise; and if I have hitherto avoided speaking to you about this matter, it was because I had confidence in your sound sense, and in the purity of heart of a German girl to sustain you in resisting a feeling which would lead you astray from the path of duty and honor. I do not say that you loved him, but that he wished to seduce you into loving him clandestinely, behind your father's back. That is his grat.i.tude for my hospitality."

Speaking thus, Gotzkowsky pressed his daughter's hand more firmly in his own, and continued approaching more closely to the door. "Only think," continued he, "the mad thought crossed my mind--'How if this man should be rash and foolhardy enough to have gone to my daughter?'

But I forgot to tell you his name. Feodor von Brenda was the name of the treacherous guest, and Feodor von Brenda was also the name of the officer who left the commissioner, perhaps in search of some love adventure. But why do you tremble?" asked he in a loud tone, as her hand quivered in his.

"I do not tremble, father," replied she, striving for composure.

Gotzkowsky raised his voice still higher till it sounded again.

"Forgive me this suspicion, my daughter. I should have known that, even if this insolent Russian dared to renew a former acquaintance, my daughter would never be so mean, never stoop so low as to welcome him, for a German girl would never throw away her honor on a Russian boor."

"Father," cried Elise, terrified and forgetting all her prudence, "oh, father! do not speak so loud."

"Not so loud? Why, then, some one can hear us?" asked Gotzkowsky, pressing the arm of his daughter. "I will speak loud, I will declare it aloud. He is a scoundrel who conceals himself in a dastardly and dishonorable manner, instead of defending himself! a coward who would put the honor of a maiden in the scale against his own miserable life.

No German would do that. Only a Russian would be base enough to hide himself, instead of defending his life like a man!"

At this moment the door of the bedroom was violently torn open, and the Russian colonel appeared on the threshold, his cheeks burning and his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with anger.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TWO CANNONEERS.

Elise uttered a cry of terror, and stared at her lover with wide-opened eyes. But Gotzkowsky's countenance was illuminated with a dark and savage joy. "Ah, at last, then!" said he, letting go the arm of his daughter, and grasping his sword.

But the colonel advanced proudly and collectedly toward him. "Here am I, sir," said he; "here am I, to defend myself and avenge an insult."

"I have driven you out of your hiding-place, as the fox draws the badger out of his kennel," cried Gotzkowsky, with derisive laughter, purposely calculated to irritate the anger of the young officer to the highest pitch.

The two men stood opposite to each other, and gazed at one another with faces full of hatred and rage. Elise threw herself between them, and falling on her knees before her father, exclaimed, "Kill me, father; save your honor--kill me!"

But Gotzkowsky slung her pitilessly aside. "Away!" cried he, roughly.

"What do you here? Make room for us! Here is a man with whom I can fight for my honor."

Feodor stepped quickly toward Elise, who was still kneeling on the floor, wringing her hands, and sobbing from intense pain. He raised her up, and whispering a few words in her ear, led her to the sofa.

He then turned to Gotzkowsky, and said, "Your honor is pure and unspotted, sir! Whatever you may think of me, you must respect the virtue of your daughter. She is innocent."

"Innocent," cried Gotzkowsky derisively, "innocent! why, your very presence has polluted the innocence of my daughter."

"Father, kill me, but do not insult me!" cried she, a dark glow suffusing her cheeks.

"Pour out your anger on me," said Feodor ardently. "It is a piece of barbarism to attack a defenceless girl."

Gotzkowsky laughed out loud and scornfully: "You speak of barbarism, and you a Russian!"

An exclamation of rage escaped the colonel; he seized his sword and drawing it quickly advanced toward Gotzkowsky.

"At last!" cried Gotzkowsky, triumphantly, raising his blade. But Elise, beside herself, and heedless of the flas.h.i.+ng steel, threw herself between them. With burning words she entreated Feodor to spare her father, and not to raise his sword against him. But Gotzkowsky's voice overpowered hers. Such wild words of contempt and insulting rage issued from his lips, that the young officer, hurt in his military honor, did not dare to listen to the voice of his beloved. It was he now who pressed Elise back, and with raised arm placed himself opposite to her father.

"You must kill me, sir, or wash out this insult with your blood,"

cried he, preparing himself for the combat.

Both were then silent. It was a terrible, unearthly silence, only broken by the clash of their swords or the occasional outcries of anger or savage joy, as one or the other received or gave a blow.

Elise raised her head to heaven and prayed; every thing became confused before her eyes, her head swam, and she felt as if she would go crazy. She prayed G.o.d that He would release her by madness or death from the suffering of this hour, or that He would point out to her some way of deliverance or escape. But in the violence of their dispute and combat, the two men had not heard that there arose suddenly in the house a loud tumult and uproar; they had not perceived that a guard of soldiers was drawn up in the street, and that the commanding officer with a loud voice was demanding the delivery of the cannoneer who had taken refuge in this house.