Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 44

Erika was startled. Where had she heard that voice before? Out into the drooping garden came a tall, well-formed woman, with regular features, fair, slightly rouged, every fold of her dress, every curl of her fair hair,--yes, even the perfume which breathed about her,--betraying her cult of physical perfection. A scarlet veil was drawn tightly about her face: otherwise her dress was simple and becoming.

Erika recognized her instantly, and guessed the truth. For a moment the garden swam before her eyes: she was afraid she should fall. Meanwhile, the new-comer laid a very shapely and well-gloved hand upon the artist's arm, and cried, "_Une surprise--hein, mon bebe! Tu ne t'y attendais pas--dis?_"

"No," he replied, sharply.

She frowned, and, challenging Erika with a look, she said, "Have the kindness to introduce me."

He cleared his throat, and then, sharp and hard as the blow of an axe, the words fell from his lips, "My wife."

Erika had recovered her self-possession. She had advanced sufficiently in knowledge of the world since Bayreuth to know that no one, not even Frau Lozoncyi, could expect her to be cordial. She contented herself with acknowledging Lozoncyi's introduction by a slight inclination.

Meanwhile, the old Countess appeared from the studio to see what was going on. She took no pains to conceal her astonishment, and when Lozoncyi presented his wife her inclination was, if possible, colder and haughtier than Erika's had been, as she scanned the stranger through her eye-gla.s.s. Lozoncyi's servant announced the gondola.

Erika offered her hand to Lozoncyi and had the courage to smile.

The old lady also held out her hand to him, but did not smile. Her manner was very cool as she said, "Thank you for all the kindness you have shown us. I had hoped you would dine with us to-night; but you will not wish this first day to leave--to leave Frau von Lozoncyi."

The gondola pushed off. The water gurgled beneath the first stroke of the oar, and the wood creaked slightly. For an instant the artist stood upon his threshold, looking after Erika; then he went into the house, and the light-green door which she knew so well closed behind him.

How did she feel? She had no time to think of that. All her strength was expended in concealing her agitation. She arranged her dress, and remarked that the water was unusually muddy. In fact, it had an opaque greenish hue. The old Countess did not notice it.

"I never suspected that he was married!" she exclaimed. "He should have told us. A man has no right to conceal such a fact."

And Erika replied, with an air of easy indifference that surprised even herself, "I suppose, grandmother, he did not imagine that the circ.u.mstance could possess the slightest interest for us."

CHAPTER XXIII.

In addition to many trying and strange characteristics possessed by Erika, Providence had bestowed upon her one which at this time stood her in stead. Upon any severe agitating experience a few hours of cool, hard self-consciousness were sure to ensue,--hours in which she was perfectly able to appear in the world with dry eyes, and not even the keenest observer could perceive any change in her, save that her laugh was perhaps more frequent and more silvery.

This condition of mind was far from being an agreeable one: moreover, the reaction afterwards was terrible: nevertheless, thanks to this moral paralysis, Erika was able in critical moments to preserve appearances.

The day on which, as she supposed, her happiness, her faith, the entire purpose of her life, lay in ruins about her, was occupied with social duties of every description. She performed them all,--an afternoon tea, with lawn-tennis, a dinner, and at last a supper with music at the Austrian Consul's.

And even when the old Countess on their way home from the Consul's proposed that they should look in at Frau von Neerwinden's, upon whom they had not called since the memorable evening when Minona read, Erika declared herself quite willing to do so. Perhaps this was because she had a secret hope of meeting Lozoncyi there; for she longed to see him, to show him how entirely he had been mistaken if he had supposed----

Ah! what pretexts we invent to deceive ourselves as to the cowardly impulses of our desires!

But he was not at Frau von Neerwinden's, where the old Countess found herself so well entertained, however, that she pa.s.sed an hour, discussing the latest Venetian scandal, in which Erika took no interest. She strolled away from the group of elderly guests and through the open gla.s.s doors leading out upon a balcony above the water, where she seemed quite forgotten by those within the apartment.

Beneath her on the dark surface of the lagoon the gondolas were crowding from all quarters around a bark whence came music and song.

They glided past over the black water, a broad stream of humanity attracted as by a magnetic needle, lured by a voice. Nearer and nearer came the song, until it swept past beneath Erika's balcony:

"Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, Toi, qui n'as pas d'amour?"

And above her glimmered the stars, myriads of worlds, sparkling, and s.h.i.+ning down disdainfully upon wretched humanity writhing and striving in its efforts to attain paltry ends, so vastly important in its own estimation.

Erika lay awake all night long, oppressed by a terrible burden,--not grief for a happiness of which she had dreamed and which had proved to be impossible, but something infinitely harder to be borne by a person of her temperament, the sense of disgrace.

So long as she had been firmly convinced that he loved her, far from resenting the unconventional expression of his admiration, she had taken pleasure in it. But now the whole matter bore another aspect in her eyes. She remembered with painful distinctness the superficial, frivolous theories of life which he had advanced upon their first acquaintance. Love! yes, he might perhaps have experienced what he designated thus, but at the thought her cheeks burned. She had pleased him, as hundreds before her had done, and in the full consciousness of the ties of marriage by which he was bound he had allowed himself to make love to her as he would have done to any common flirt. When at last, in entire faith in the sincerity--yes, in the sacredness--of his feeling for her, she had generously laid bare her heart before him, he had been simply terrified by the revelation.

"He is probably laughing at me now," she said to herself, trembling in every limb. Then, with infinite bitterness, she added, "No; he is probably reproaching himself, and wondering at my folly."

It was enough to drive her insane. She buried her burning face in her pillow, and groaned aloud.

She shed not a tear throughout the night, and she appeared punctually as usual at the breakfast-table, but in the midst of the pleasant little meal, which was always taken in her grandmother's boudoir, she was overcome by an intense weariness; she longed to flee to some dark corner where no one could find her and there let the tears flow freely.

The meal was, however, unusually prolonged. The old Countess, who had quite forgotten her vexation at Lozoncyi's concealment of his marriage, and who had been vastly entertained the previous evening at Frau von Neerwinden's, was in an excellent humour, and was full of conversation, in which she showed herself both amusing and witty.

Erika forced herself to laugh and to seem gay, when, just as she felt unable to endure the situation for another moment, Ludecke appeared with a note for her. It had come, he informed her, the day before, shortly after the ladies had gone out to dinner, and he begged to be forgiven for having forgotten to deliver it.

"Old donkey!" the Countess Lenzdorff murmured. Erika opened the note with trembling hands. It came from Fraulein Horst, the poor music-teacher. She wrote that she had been worse for a couple of days, and had made up her mind to go home. With pathetic grat.i.tude and sincere admiration she desired to take leave of Erika thus in writing, since her weak condition would not allow her to call upon her.

Really distressed, and a little ashamed of having of late somewhat neglected the poor creature, Erika had a gondola called, and went immediately to the Pension Weber. When she asked in the hall of the establishment for Fraulein Horst, the dismay painted on every face at once revealed to her the truth: the poor music-teacher had pa.s.sed away.

She asked to be taken to the room where the dead woman lay; and as Attilio, the hotel waiter, conducted her thither, he told how there had been for a long time no hope of the invalid's recovery; the day before yesterday the last symptom had appeared,--a restless longing for change,--for travel; her departure had been fixed for this evening; they had all hoped so that she would get off; but she had died here: they had found her dead in bed this very morning, her candle burnt down into the socket, and her open book on her bed. Oh, yes, it was very sad to die so, away from home, and it was very unpleasant for the establishment. Eccellenza had no idea of the injury it was to the Pension! The Signor Baron in the first story had declared that he would not spend another night there.

As Attilio finished, he unlocked the room where the body lay, and ushered in Erika. She motioned to him to leave her alone.

The room was darkened. Erika drew aside the curtains a little. There was a crucifix among the medicine-bottles on the table beside the bed, and a book, open apparently at the place where the dead woman had been last reading. It was a German translation of 'Romeo and Juliet:' it was open at the balcony scene, 'It is the nightingale, and not the lark----'

Erika kneeled down at the bedside, buried her face in the coverlet, and wept bitterly. When Attilio came to remind her gently not to stay long, she arose and followed him with bowed head from the room.

As she was going down the stairs, she heard a harsh grating voice with a slight Polish accent call, "Sophy, Sophy, are you ready?"

and then from the end of the corridor two figures appeared, one a short, thick-set woman heavily laden with a bundle of shawls, a travelling-bag, and several umbrellas, and looking up at a man who walked beside her, his hands in the pockets of his plaid jacket, his eye-gla.s.s in his eye, allowing himself with much condescension to be adored. They were Strachinsky and his second wife.

"II signore Barone," murmured Attilio.

Strachinsky glanced towards Erika: he frowned and looked away. She was glad that he did so, for in her dejected condition she could hardly have brought herself to speak to the couple. Her whole soul was filled with a desire to creep away to some quiet spot where she might find relief in tears.

She sent away her gondola, and hurried through the narrow streets to the Piazza San Zacharie. There she took refuge in the church of the same name.

It was empty: not even a tourist was present to gaze upon the beauty of the famous Gianbellini.

She crouched down in the darkest corner upon the hard stones, and there, leaning her head upon the rush seat of a church chair, she wept more uncontrollably than she had done beside the corpse of the poor music-teacher. All at once she felt that she was no longer alone. She looked up. Beside her stood Lozoncyi.

She arose, doing what she could to summon her pride to her aid. "What strange chance brings you here?" she asked him.

"No chance whatever," he replied. "I saw you enter the church, and I followed you."

"Ah!" By a supreme effort she forced herself to a.s.sume an indifferent tone. "I have just been to the Pension Weber to take leave of my poor music-teacher. I found her dead. You may imagine----"