The Merchant of Berlin Part 34

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.

Bertram looked at her, astonished and inquiringly; but in a few rapid words the countess explained to him Elise's intention and determination, to allow her to take the journey in her stead, and with her clothes.

Bertram cast on Elise a look which mirrored forth the admiration he felt for this young girl, who had so heroically gained the victory over herself. His reliance on her maiden pride, her sense of right and honor, had not been deceived.

The countess had now finished her toilet, and donned Elise's hat and cloak.

Bertram called on her to hasten, and she approached Elise to bid her farewell, and express her grat.i.tude for the sacrifice she had made for her. But Elise waved her back proudly and coldly, and seemed to shudder at her touch.

"Go to your husband, countess," cried she, and her voice was hoa.r.s.e and cold.

Lodoiska's eyes filled with tears. Once more she attempted to take Elise's hand, but the latter firmly crossed her arms and looked at her almost threateningly. "Go!" said she, in a loud, commanding voice.

Bertram took the arm of the countess and drew her to the door.

"Hasten!" said he; "there is no time to lose."

The door closed behind them. Elise was alone. She stood and listened to their departing steps; she heard the house door open; she heard the post-horn once more sound out merrily, and then cease. "I am alone!"

she screamed, with a heart-rending cry. "They are gone; I am alone!"

And stretching her arms despairingly to heaven, and almost beside herself, she cried out, "O G.o.d! will no one have compa.s.sion on me?

will no one pity me?"

"Elise," said her father, opening the room door.

She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly, "Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you! You are my only refuge in this world."

Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully to heaven. "Oh! I well knew my daughter's heart would return to her father."

He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was resting on his breast. "Do not weep, my child, do not weep," whispered he, tenderly.

"Let me weep," she answered, languidly; "you do no know how much sorrow and grief pa.s.s off with these tears."

The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and then the rapid rolling of a carriage.

Elise clung still more closely to her father. "Save me," she cried.

"Press me firmly to your heart. I am quite forsaken in this world."

The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath, exclaiming: "She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for you. The countess--"

He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had just become aware.

Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, "Who is gone? What does all this mean?"

Elise raised herself from his arms and gazed at him with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. "It means," she answered, "that the happiness of my life is broken, that all is deception and falsehood where I looked for love, and faith, and happiness!" With a touching cry of suffering, she fell fainting in her father's arms.

"Do not rouse her, father," said Bertram, bending over her; "grant her this short respite, for she has a great sorrow to overcome. When she comes to herself again, she will love none but you, her father."

Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her brow, and blessed her in his thoughts. "She will find in me a father," said he, with deep emotion, "who, if necessary, can weep with her. My eyes are unused to tears, but a father may be allowed to weep with his daughter when she is suffering."