"He has sworn never to allow you to marry a Russian."
"Oh, that was long ago," said she, smiling, "when Russia was our enemy. Now we are at peace. The b.l.o.o.d.y streams of discord are dried up, and an angel of peace rules over all countries. Even my father will feel his influence, and make peace with you and me."
Feodor did not answer immediately. He stood thoughtful and contemplative, weighing the necessary and unavoidable, and considering what he should do. One thing only was clear. Neither Elise nor Gotzkowsky must be allowed to suspect on what extraordinary mission his empress had sent him thither. Only when Elise was irrevocably bound to him, when she was his without recall, when Gotzkowsky had given his consent to their union, then would he dare to disclose it to him. It was necessary, above all, to postpone the negotiations about the Russian demands for a day, and therefore he only gave his agents his instructions, and imposed on them silence and inactivity for a day longer. The princ.i.p.al thing, however, was to convince Elise and her father that their union should suffer no delay, because he was only allowed to remain a few hours. He put his arm around Elise"s slender waist and pressed her to his heart. "Listen to me, my beloved; my time has been but sparingly dealt out to me. I have come on with courier horses, so as to allow me more leisure on my return with you. But to-day we must leave, for the army is on the frontier, equipped and ready for war. Only out of special favor did the empress allow me a short leave of absence, to fetch my wife. In her clemency she has done what she was able to do, and I must now obey her orders to return speedily, if I do not wish to bring her anger down upon me. That nothing might prevent or delay us, I have brought a chaplain of our Church with me, to bless our union. You see, my beloved, that every thing is ready, and all that is wanting is the wreath of myrtle in your hair."
"And the blessing of my father," she replied solemnly.
Feeder"s brow darkened and an angry expression flashed across his countenance. Elise did not perceive it, for, in her n.o.ble forgetfulness of self, she had leaned her head on his breast, and all doubt and distrust were alien to her free and confiding love. The love of a woman is of divine nature; it forgives all, it suffers all; it is as strong in giving as in forgiving. Every woman when she loves is an inspired poetess; the divine frenzy has seized her, and poetic utterances of ecstasy issue from her trembling lips. This poor girl, too, had become inspired. Confidingly happy, she reposed on the breast of the man whom she had never ceased to love, whom she had blest in the midst of her bitterest tears, whom she had prayed for, earnestly entreating G.o.d to have mercy on him.
"Do you go to your father," said Feodor, after a pause. "Pray for his consent and his blessing on both of us--I hasten to prepare every thing. Tell your father that my whole life shall be spent in the endeavor to redeem every tear you have shed for me with a smile; that I will love him as a son to whom he has given the dearest treasure of life, his Elise."
He pressed her to his heart and kissed her forehead. Elise raised her face from his breast, and smiled on him with loving emotion. But he placed his hands over her eyes; he was not callous enough to be able to bear those innocent, yielding, tender looks.
"I must be gone," he said. "But this shall be our last separation, and when I return, it shall be to lead you to the altar. In an hour, dearest, you must be ready. At the end of that time, I will come to take you to St. Petersburg, and present you at the empress"s court as my bride, the Princess Stratimojeff."
He looked down at her with an air of triumph, to see what impression his words would have on her. He had expected to prepare a pleasurable surprise for her with the princely t.i.tle--to see her blush with proud satisfaction. But Elise felt neither elevated nor honored by the high rank. What did she care whether Feodor was a prince or a poor officer, so that he only loved her, and would never again forsake her?
She replied, with some surprise, "Princess Stratimojeff! What does that mean?"
"For three months," said he with a proud smile, "I have been Prince Stratimojeff. The empress gave me this t.i.tle. The world calls me prince, but you--you will call me your Feodor?"
"Oh," said she feelingly, "my heart called you so when you did not hear me."
"Well, then, go wind the wreath of myrtle in your hair, and wait for me. In an hour I will return."
He hastened to the door, but on the threshold he turned to send a farewell greeting to her. Their eyes met and rested on each other, and suddenly a deep, indescribable feeling of grief came over him. It seemed to him as if he would never see her again; as if the threshold once crossed, Elise was lost to him forever. Once again he returned, and folded her pa.s.sionately in his arms, and, completely overpowered by his painful presentiments, he bowed his head on her shoulder, and wept bitterly. He then tore himself loose. "Farewell!" he cried, but his voice sounded hoa.r.s.e and rough--"farewell! in an hour I will return for you. Be prepared, do not keep me waiting in vain.
Farewell!"
CHAPTER X.
THE MAGISTRACY OF BERLIN.
Gotzkowsky had conquered his proud heart; he had left his house to apply to those whom he had benefited and saved in the days of their need and distress, and who had then avowed him everlasting grat.i.tude.
He resolved now, reluctantly and with deep humiliation, rather to remind them of those days than to ask of them any favors or a.s.sistance beyond the payment of their debts to him.
First he went to the ober-burgomaster, President Kircheisen; to the man whom he had saved from death, who had clung to him, and, when he had found his speech again, had vowed with tears that he would be forever grateful to him, and would bless the arrival of the hour in which he could prove it to him by deeds.
This hour had now arrived, but Herr von Kircheisen did not bless it; on the contrary, he cursed it. He was standing at the window of his ground floor when Gotzkowsky pa.s.sed by. Their eyes met. Gotzkowsky"s were clear and penetrating; Kircheisen"s were cast down, as he stepped back from the window. He only had time to tell the servants that he was not at home for any one, whoever it might be, when the bell rang, and Gotzkowsky inquired for Herr von Kircheisen.
"Not at home, sir."
"Not at home! but I saw him just this moment standing at the window."
"It must have been a mistake, sir. The president has just gone to the Council-chamber."
"Very well. I will go to the town-hall," said Gotzkowsky, as he left the house.
Pa.s.sing by the window he looked in again. This time, however, Kircheisen was not standing before the sashes, but at the side, ensconced behind the curtain, he was spying Gotzkowsky through the window. As he saw him pa.s.sing by, pale of countenance, but erect and unbent, he felt involuntarily a feeling of remorse, and his conscience warned him of his unpaid debt toward the only man who came to his rescue. But he would not listen to his conscience, and with a dark frown he threw back his head with contempt.
"He is a bankrupt--I have nothing to do with him!" So saying, he retired to his study, and in obedience to a natural instinct, he opened his strong box, and refreshed himself with a look at the thousands which he had earned from Gotzkowsky as "detective and informer." And now his conscience no longer reproached him; the sight of the shining money lulled it into a gentle slumber.
In the meanwhile Gotzkowsky continued his toilsome and humiliating journey. He met men who formerly bent humbly to the earth before him, yet who scarcely greeted him now. Others, again, as they pa.s.sed him, whispered, with a malicious smile, "Bankrupt!" As he came to the corner of a street, he met the valiant editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, who was coming round from the other side. As they met, he jostled Gotzkowsky rather roughly, yet Mr. Kretschmer did not think it worth while to excuse himself, but pulling his hat over his face he walked on with a dark and scornful look. As Gotzkowsky pa.s.sed the houses, he could hear the windows rattle, and he knew that it was his former good friends, who were drawing back when they saw him coming, and who, after he had pa.s.sed, opened the windows again to look after him, to laugh at and mock him. It was an intellectual running of the gantlet, and Gotzkowsky"s heart bled from the blows, and his feet were tired to death. What had he then done to burden himself with the cruelty and contumely of the world? Had he not been benevolent and kind, full of pity and humanity, obliging to every one? Had he not always shown himself ready to serve every one, and never requested nor desired services in return? Therein lay his fault and his crime.
He had been independent. He had never sought the favor of any man, but, trusting solely to himself, had always relied on his own strength. And now mankind wished to make him feel that he had mortified them by his self-sufficiency--for small natures never forgive one who dares to be independent of others, and finds his source of honor in himself. And this crime Gotzkowsky had been guilty of. What he was, he had made himself. He had owed nothing to protection, nothing to hypocrisy or flattery, eye-service, or cringing. Only by the strength and power of his own genius had he elevated himself above the world which he ruled.
And now that he was down, it was but natural that the world should fall upon him, tear him to pieces with its venomous fangs, to enjoy his torture, and joyfully to witness the lowering of pride and independence. Gotzkowsky arrived at the town-hall and slowly ascended the steps. How often had he gone this same road in answer to the pressing cry for help which the magistrate would utter in his distress! How often had he mounted those steps to give his advice, to lend his energy, his money, and his credit to these gentlemen of the Council!
This day the doors were not thrown open to him the beadle did not bow down to the earth before him, but proudly and with erect head stepped up to him and bade him wait in the antechamber until he had announced him to the a.s.sembled Council. He had to wait long, but finally the doors opened and he was admitted. There sat the aldermen and councillors, and the burgomaster, just as they had when, in their need and distress, they had appealed to Gotzkowsky for advice and a.s.sistance--just as they had when, in solemn session, they determined to present him with a silver laurel-wreath as an honorable testimonial.
Only the chief burgomaster was absent. Herr von Kircheisen was at home, enjoying the sight of the money he had won from Gotzkowsky. This day they did not receive him as a counsellor or friend, but more like a delinquent. No one rose to greet him--no one offered him a seat!
They knew that he came to ask for something. Why, then, should they be polite to him, as he was only a pet.i.tioner like all other poor people? In the mean time Gotzkowsky did not seem to be aware of the alteration. Smiling, and with a firm, proud step he walked to a chair and sat down.
After a pause the burgomaster asked him churlishly what his business was. He drew out a parcel of papers, and laying them on the table, said, "I have brought my accounts."
A panic seized the worshipful gentlemen of the Council, and they sat petrified in their seats.
"Your worships have forgotten my claims," said Gotzkowsky quickly.
"However, that I can easily understand, as the accounts are somewhat old. It is now four years since I have had the honor of having the Council of Berlin as my debtor; since I thrice performed the perilous journey to Konigsberg and Warsaw in order to negotiate the war contribution in the name of the town. At that time, too, I was obliged, in the service of the Council, to take with me many valuable presents. I may enumerate among them the diamond-set staff for General von Fermore, and the snuff-box, with the portrait of the empress, surrounded by brilliants, which I delivered to the General Field-Marshal Count b.u.t.terlin, in the name of the magistracy and town of Berlin. But, gentlemen, you will find the accounts of all these things here."
The gentlemen of the Council did not answer him; they seized upon the papers hastily, and turned them over, and looked into them with stern and sullen eyes. Not a word was said, and nothing was heard but the rustling of the papers, and the low muttering of one of the senators adding the numbers, and verifying the calculation. Gotzkowsky rose, and walked to the window. Raising his looks to heaven, his countenance expressed all the pain and bitterness to which his soul almost succ.u.mbed. Ah! he could have torn the papers out of the hand of this miserable, calculating, reckoning senator, and with pride and contempt have thrown them in his face. But he thought of his daughter, and the honor of his name. He had to wait it out, and bend his head in submission.
At last the burgomaster laid the papers aside, and turned scowlingly toward Gotzkowsky. The latter stepped up to the table with a smile, making a vow to himself that he would remain quiet and patient.
"Have you read them, gentlemen?" he asked.
"We have read them," answered the burgomaster roughly, "but the Council cannot admit that it owes you any thing."
"No?" cried Gotzkowsky; and then, allowing himself to be overcome by a feeling of bitterness--"I believe you. Those in authority seldom take cognizance of what they owe, only what is owing to them."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said the first councillor with solemn dignity, "we know very well that we owe you thanks for the great services you have rendered the town."
Gotzkowsky broke out into a loud, ironical laugh. "Do you remember that? I am glad that you have not forgotten it."
"It is true," continued the councillor, in a tone of conciliation, "at the request of the magistracy you took charge of the affairs of the town. You travelled to St. Petersburg to see the empress; twice did you go to Warsaw to see General Fermore, and twice to Saxony to visit the king. You see the Council knows how much it is indebted to you."
"And we are cheerfully willing to be grateful to you," interrupted the burgomaster, "and to serve you when and in what manner we can, but these debts we cannot acknowledge."
Gotzkowsky looked at him in dismay, and a deep glow suffused his cheek. "You refuse to pay them?" he asked, faintly.
"It pains us deeply that we cannot recognize these claims. You must abate somewhat from them if we are to pay them," answered the burgomaster rudely.
"Do you dare to propose this to me?" cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flashing, his countenance burning with anger and indignation. "Is this the way you insult the man to whom four years ago on this very spot you swore eternal grat.i.tude? In those days I sacrificed to you my repose, the sleep of my nights; for, when the town was threatened with danger and alarm, there was no Council, no authority in existence, for you were base cowards, and abjectly begged for my good offices. With tears did you entreat me to save you. I left my house, my family, my business, to serve you. At the risk of my life, in the depth of winter, I undertook these journeys. You did not consider that Russian bayonets threatened me, that I risked health and life. You thought only of yourselves. I have not put down in the account the sleepless nights, the trouble and anxiety, the privation and hardships which I suffered. I do not ask any money or recompense for my services. I only ask that I may be paid back what I actually expended; and you have the a.s.surance to refuse it?"