The European Magazine/Volume 87/March 1825/Death Tokens

by Friedrich August Schulze

DEATH TOKENS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF A. APEL.

Baron von Eschenburg and his lady were in the middle of a game at chess, when the servant entered to announce Colonel Von Wartenstein.

“We are not at home,” said Clotilde, and John retired.

“He will take it amiss,” said the Baron.

“So much the better—then he will spare us his visit another time.”

“To display his malicious wit elsewhere at our expense.”

“Let him! If the Marchioness had banished him from her house in the same manner, there would have been no occasion given for the scandal that has arisen between herself and the Marquis. I will show that his impertinent glances are repelled by me, no less than his flattery.”

“But why avoid him?”

“Certainly not from fear, but rather from a love of convenience.”

“Often, Clotilde, the love of convenience renders life very inconvenient and disagreeable. The Colonel has a large acquaintance, and it is in his power to injure us much, if he be so disposed. He may know, perhaps, that we are both at home. In a word, love, I must think of making some excuse for you: I’ll say you were indisposed.”

“Truly, I do, at this moment, feel a violent head-ache,” said she, rising.

“One must avoid giving offence to any body,” said the Baron, with an affectionate embrace; but, to judge by the indifferent manner in which it was returned, he had for the moment fallen into disgrace with his wife.

Eschenburg nevertheless kept his word, and a few days afterwards contrived to detain the Colonel with them the whole evening.

“Well, my dear,” said he, the following morning to his wife, “I thank you for so kindly sacrificing your convenience to me, and receiving the hated guest with becoming civility.”

“But did you remark how every word that he uttered was accompanied by a longer glance at me; how his eye watched my every motion; and his foot was pressing mine every instant?”

“Mere bagatelles, dear child. In truth I am too vain to fear that such a man as Wartenstein will ever, I will not say, supplant me in your heart, but even obtain the smallest portion of your esteem.”—“Have I deserved such a suspicion?—but here he comes again round the corner,” exclaimed Clotilde, exclaimed Clotilde, “perhaps he is coming here.”

“Assuredly, he has promised me a rare coin out of his collection.”

“But this time, Eschenburg, spare me his detested presence, for the sake of the sacrifice I made to you yesterday.”

With that she skipped out of the room. When the Colonel was gone, Eschenburg related with a smile with what eagerness Wartenstein had kept his eye fixed upon the door, and had probably only detained him thus long with his wearisome gossip, in the hope of her making her appearance.

“Detestable creature!” cried Clotilde, “he will often rob me of your loved society, by his disgusting intrusion.”

But humours are not alike. A few weeks afterwards, Eschenburg strode up and down the room one afternoon yawning with ennui, and his wife was only half taken up with a romance, the leaves of which she turned from time to time. A carriage passed the house, and she sprang up so eagerly to look out of the window, that the volume fell upon the floor.

“Where is my book gone to?” said she, returning to her seat.

“Where your haste threw it,” answered her husband, laughing, and pointing to the floor.

“How rapidly the times change!” said she, stooping to pick up the book. “A year ago I should have needed neither the question, nor the trouble of stooping, because your gallantry would have prevented both.”

“A year ago, my dear, you would not have had recourse to a book for relief from my conversation.”

“But at that time, Eschenburg, you had not yet contracted the disgusting habit of yawning.”

“Because then your disposition was always sprightly and agreeable.”

“But only recollect how amiable you used to be last year; how eagerly you caught at every opportunity of shewing me attention; how my poorest words, my slighest glance, would fill you with rapture.”

“Last year! my dear child.—But why heap reflection upon reflection, and bitterness upon bitterness? The days of our romantic hopes are passed; we now know that passion nourishes a great many which can find their fulfilment only in the land of dreams. Let us be contented with such little joy as may remain to us.”

With that he left the room, and Clotilde reflected with disgust upon the wide difference that unhappily exists between the luxuriant poetry of courtship, and the meagre, matter of fact prose of married life.

The hour of tea brought Eschenburg back, at length, and with him a host of company whom he had invited.

With a variety of topics before them, the party soon found material for a loud and lively conversation. Eschenburg, in particular, got entangled in a spirited contest with a charming lady, and acquitted himself with such politeness and gallantry, that Clotilde could think of nothing but revenge. And the Colonel, she conceived would be the most proper man for her purpose. He happened also to be almost the only gentleman near her not engaged in the general conversation, and he from time to time shewed her particular marks of attention.

The Baroness conversed much and familiarly with him; but, however earnestly she endeavoured to attract her husband’s attention by her sprightliness, he had no ears for any body but the Countess. Her vexation drew her deeper and deeper into conversation with Wartenstein.

“A charming social evening,” said Eschenburg to his lady, when the company had withdrawn.

“Delightful! Wartenstein can really make himself a great deal more agreeable than I had imagined.”

“Oh, but you should have observed the Countess—I should never have expected to find in a lady such a cultivated mind, so richly and variously stored.”

“Nor I, in a man so much politeness, in following every turn and caprice of conversation, and with such urbanity and such fertility of genius.”

“The Countess is better read in history than most men.”

“The Colonel is acquainted with every tender emotion of the female heart.”

“A man ought to marry, in order to know it thoroughly.”

Oh, the Colonel in your place would have shewn me that small attention, I am convinced.” She pointed to the spot where the book had lain on the floor.

“And the Countess in your place, would certainly not have been guilty of that great neglect—the preferring a paltry romance to my conversation.”

Both were extremely nettled—both soon perceived that they ought not to have been so. In short, both sincerely repented what had passed, and felt anxious to prevent its recurrence. But neither would make the first advance; and several days passed over in mutual coolness. In the interim the Countess had set out for her country seat, without Eschenburg’s letting fall a single word of regret at her departure.

On the fourth day the Colonel paid them his promised visit. The undissembled friendliness with which Von Eschenburg received him, did not fail of its effect upon Clotilde.

“I believe I have extolled Wartenstein too highly, lately,” said she, as soon as he was gone, and offering her hand to her husband as she spoke.

“I willingly take upon myself a portion of that blame,” replied the Baron, embracing her.

“In fact the Colonel cannot be so dangerous as he is represented to be.”

“Now you see, my dear, our agreeable party has produced at least one good effect, namely, that of destroying, in some measure, your prejudice against Wartenstein.”

“But I cannot conceive how we both fell into so tetchy a mood.”

“Nevertheless that is a thing that often happens, my dear Clotilde. In the marriage state one must learn to forget.”

This subject was further discussed in all its bearings, until it was agreed that the marriage state does make adequate compensation for the loss of those tender blossoms with which the passion of unwedded lovers is adorned.

But the consequences of that charming party were not yet over: the Colonel redoubled his visits, and became at length, a necessary appurtenance to the family.

Von Eschenburg had some suspicion of Wartenstein. The town pretended to know that he set no bounds to his passion, but let it carry him whithersoever it would, regardless of the happiness it might destroy, or, indeed, of any consequences it might occasion. Judging from his palpable attentions to the Baroness, it would appear that he had no design to proceed very cautiously in his present amour. However, the Baron was aware of the decided aversion which his wife had for the Colonel; and he confided in the tried virtue of his lady, and even more in her taste. For vanity persuaded him it was impossible that a lady of taste could prefer the insignificant looking Colonel, to one of his own prepossessing exterior. Daily experience warned him in vain, for his obstinate vanity had made him deaf to her voice. In the meanwhile the Colonel had, by a thousand trifling attentions, gradually ingratiated himself so much with Lady Von Eschenburg, that every evening in which she was deprived of his society, was followed by a sleepless night. Unknown to herself, “the friend of the family” had risen so high in her estimation, that among her confidential acquaintances, when the conversation turned upon particular virtues, or traits of character, she generally found examples of them in the Colonel’s life and conduct.

At first Wartenstein appeared only occasionally and accidentally to drop in at those hours in which the Baron was absent; but in a short time Clotilde discovered it was at such times only that he seemed delighted with her society. She reproached herself with not having earlier opposed and discouraged his growing passion. She could not but be conscious that she had deviated almost too much from her former harsh conduct towards him. Yet, said she, excusing herself, how could I afterwards have begun to discourage an attachment, which from its unpretending delicacy, seemed, and seems to this hour, deserving not merely of pardon, but of gratitude.

Her goodness of heart led her to remove everything that could give the Colonel a pang. She had remarked that a ring with Eschenburg’s portrait was hateful to him, and she avoided wearing it in his presence. Her gratitude for his good opinion shewed itself in a thousand similar observances, which, however innocent they were in themselves, nevertheless tended naturally to fan the Colonel’s flame.

One favour only he had begged of her, namely, the liberty of calling her by her Christian name, and, for the very reason that it was his only request, she considered that she ought to grant it.

The Colonel evidently had long sought an opportunity of giving vent to some powerful feeling that agitated his bosom; this the Baroness perceived and avoided. One day he suddenly surprised her with the following declaration.

“Clotilde,” said he, “you must long ago have perceived that my whole existence depends on you.” Lady Von Eschenburg was the more startled at this abrupt declaration, as he accompanied it with a passionate grasp of her hand, and she was on the point of withdrawing it, when he continued in a milder tone—“Let me but speak, Clotilde! This suppression of my feelings has torn my bosom; if it continued longer it must destroy me utterly, and that would surely pain you a little?”

“What would you have, when you know”—here she cast a look at her husband’s portrait, which hung over the sopha, “I know—and I request no more than the acceptance of my vows of eternal constancy.”

“Impossible, Wartenstein—What return could I make you?”

“Have I then desired a return? Is it not the ravishing thought of the sacrifice that renders me happy—the sacrifice I make for thee? I stand upon the brink of a precipice—your refusal will thrust me headlong down it.”

With these words he threw himself at her feet, and, at the same instant Madame Selter entered.

“I disturb you!” exclaimed the lady, startled at the scene before her. “By no means!” cried Clotilde, and the Colonel rising hastily, said, “Pray, Madam, since you have seen so much, do me the favour to decide between us.”

Madame Selter being made acquainted with the nature of his suit, replied that the thing was so novel that it required consideration.

“But I request nothing more than the acceptance of a voluntary gift.” “Very possibly: but constancy is a gift, that—according to rule at least—demands a return in kind.”

Wartenstein replied in offensive terms, that an extraordinary case could not be decided by a common rule, and it was fortunate that the entrance of the Baron put an end to the discussion, as Clotilde observed to her great regret, that both parties were on the point of launching out into bitter invective.

Von Eschenburg was at a loss what to make of it. His wife’s uneasiness, the Colonel’s confusion, and Madame Selter’s glowing cheeks, involved him in perplexity—could all this be the effect of chance? Add to this that he found it impossible to introduce a topic of conversation—no string that he could touch upon seemed attuned to the humour of the company. The Colonel, unable longer to master his feelings, took a hasty leave and withdrew.

“What is the matter with him?” enquired the Baron.

Fortunately for Clotilde, Madame Selter relieved her from the disagreeable question, by replying, “I got into a dispute with him, and that too about a trifle, as it generally happens.”

“For example?”

“Really, I scarcely know how to tell you; and it is not worth repeating.”

The Baron was far from being satisfied with this answer, for his wife’s confused and restrained behaviour could not escape his notice. However he deemed it more prudent to leave the room, than to dive further into the cause of dispute, which it seemed they had reason for concealing from him.

“Heaven be thanked!” exclaimed Clotilde, “His eyes struck me like the sword of Justice. But what is to be done, now, my dear?”

“Avoid every thing that may lead you into a similar dilemma.”

“And the Colonel?”

“Is, after the pretensions he has advanced to-day, the first to be avoided?”

“But, my dear Selter, is a voluntary sacrifice, then, of itself a pretention?”

“Sacrifices of that kind are somewhat suspicious.”

“How little do you know the man!”

“Perhaps better, my dear Clotilde, than your gentle heart knows his flattering mirror. I do not mean to say that Wartenstein is dishonourable, but he gives way to passion, and follows wherever it leads. The charms of every lady become magic snares to him.”

“I am now better informed upon that subject, and know how much report calumniates him. However, I will not contradict you, although I might; but pray tell me, what am I to do?”

“Compel him, by a decided coldness on your part, to seek a new amour.”

“My dear Selter,—he loves nobody but me, and can love no other.”

“You dont know him in the least—the loss of me will be his destruction.”

“The loss! then he has already gained your affections?”

“No, not so—I love Von Eschenburg sincerely, but—”

“No but, my dear! I will leave you to your own reflections on your duty, which demands unconditional obedience, and will admit of no wavering.”

The deep impression which this remonstrance made upon Clotilde, was shewn when the Colonel returned soon after Madame Selter’s departure. He pressed more warmly than before, for her decision—Clotilde disengaged her hand and retreated a few steps backwards—“You are acquainted with the relations in which I stand, and you, as the friend of the family, ought to be the last to think of destroying them.”

“Destroy them, did you say? My wish is, on the contrary, to lighten them.”

“Who told you that they were oppressive to me?”

“How often, Clotilde, have I watched you, when your moist eye was turned to heaven, as if to ask what crime you had been guilty of, that your tender feelings were committed to such ungentle keeping? How often have I perceived that your most reasonable wishes found resistance, where they ought to have been anticipated with rapture! It is no consolation to you then to know that there exists a being who understands you better—who, had fortune created him a heaven on earth, by bestowing you on him, would certainly not have extinguished your sublimest feelings with an ice-cold philosophy—a man, who, wherever he lives, lives but for thee; who feels ten-thousand-fold every pang that seizes thee, and who, since he has enjoyed thy intercourse, finds joy only in thy loved presence.”

“And if it were, Wartenstein, that I prized your goodness, I would surely not be cruel enough to accept a promise of constancy, which, under existing circumstances, could be so little conducive to your happiness.”

“Heaven has long since accepted my vow, with many others of renouncement. I desire only your approval, which, closely examined, is nothing more than the acknowledgment that you deem my love equally disinterested and unperishable. For I swear—”

Here the servant interrupted the scene, by announcing a visitor. In vain the Colonel hoped for her departure. Monosyllabical as the conversation was, the lady stayed even after he was gone, and till the Baron returned.

When the husband and wife were left alone, the former asked Clotilde what ailed her, and his visible sympathy affected her so much, that she gathered confidence, and acquainted him with the Colonel’s conduct, taking care, however, to suppress every circumstance that might offend him.

“And how do you mean to decide?” enquired the husband, at length, after changing colour several times.

“It is upon that point that I desire your advice, my dear.”

“There are but two ways. Total separation—either from your lover or your husband.”

“Oh, Eschenburg! how can you name the second?”

“Because you overlooked the first, and most palpable alternative.”

“But, my love, sighed Clotilde—poor Wartenstein.”

“Mention not that name again, unless you are resolved to prefer the man: I dont know how he first came into our house.”

“But I know,” said Clotilde, in the softest tone, taking her husband’s hand as she spoke.

“Am I to hear reproaches even now? At that time propriety was concerned. I have remarked how this man has exerted all his powers to gain a footing here, and at this moment I discern clearly all the thousand preparatory steps that have led to this dishonour. He who makes a promise of love requires a like return, and conceals his expectation no longer than until he is sure of his object. From this hour my house will be closed to him, and you will decide whether, under these circumstances, you will for the future consider it as yours.”

“Eschenburg!” exclaimed Clotilde, and would have folded him in her arms—but he stepped back saying,—“I now require a decision, and not a caress. Shall I announce to him, in writing, that he is henceforth the master here, or shall I give you the keys until our legal separation can be effected?” Clotilde opened the secretaire, and begged him only not to forget the invalid in writing to the Colonel.

“Be under no uneasiness—I shall not waste a word upon him.”

The Baron wrote—“At my wife’s request I hereby desire that you will never again pass the threshold of our house.” Clotilde turned pale as she perused the billet, and her husband said while closing it, “I must say, ‘at your request’—your own honour demands it. And yet one thing more!” continued he, “I desire that every letter which may find its way to you from his hand, shall be delivered over to me unopened; this I owe to my own honour.”

Clotilde consented, weeping, and entreated only that he should make no secret to her of the contents of such letters.

The Colonel wrote the following in answer—“The sentence of death which your Lady has pronounced upon me, I have just received.”

“The ridiculous hero of romance!” exclaimed the Baron angrily.

“But, suppose now that he should,”—rejoined Clotilde who was near swooning away.

“Suppose! then the world would contain one fool the less.”

With these words, pronounced harshly enough, he left the room.

An hour afterwards Clotilde sought her husband in his study—“Here is a letter to me,” said she presenting one to him.

“How received?”—“Through his servant.”

Von Eschenburg opened the letter and read:

“Gracious Lady! I may have caused you uneasiness, therefore these lines. Whatever may become of me, no blame shall attach to you. You have rejected the verbal assurance of my constancy; therefore I now repeat, that I dedicate it to you for ever, and will rather part with life, than receive my happiness from any other female hand. Adieu! The horses which are to bear me away, are harnessed to my carriage. May happiness attend you!”

“A pleasant journey!” cried the Baron. “That resolution shows, however, that his love has not robbed him of all his reason. The rest is to be proved.”

Clotilde shook her head with a sigh.

Lady Von Eschenburg passed a sleepless night. In her dreams she beheld the Colonel committing in various ways the dreadful act of suicide. She roused herself, and every thing in the chamber that could rattle, as wardrobes, tables, and the like, gave the most decisive tokens of an approaching death. “Alas! he certainly died last night!” sighed she in the morning to the four desolate walls of her chamber. “And all for love of me.” No sooner was breakfast over than she threw on her mantle, and hurried to her friend Madame Selter.

The latter was rejoiced to hear what had happened.

“But my peace of mind,” cried Clotilde.

“That, my dear, could in no other way be preserved to you; for they alone have claim to it, who know how to respect the relations of civilized life.”

Upon that the Baroness related the story of her dreams, and the tokens of death.

“Tokens! Alas, child, how long have you been so superstitious?—Nay, you will become a ghost-seer presently.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Heaven will forbid it; and heaven, as well as your own reason, forbids you to give the vein to your imagination, as you did last night, for otherwise it may come even to that; and truly it is bad enough to hear tables and chairs talk.”

Clotilde confessed that she had now not much faith in the tokens, and Madame Selter kindly undertook to make enquiries respecting the Colonel’s residence and mode of life, and conscientiously impart the result to her friend.

However, unfortunately all her endeavours proved entirely fruitless; not a soul knew which road he had taken after the first post. Clotilde was inconsolable; her husband tried every thing that was likely to dissipate her grief and anxiety; but without effect. Society produced as little change in her as solitude; although the latter sometimes, and particularly at night, brought with it new tokens and warnings, which she dared not communicate to any body in the house, for none but the most incredulous of Adam’s children had abode there.

The continued depression of the Lady of the house gradually cast a gloom over each member of the family. At length, however, the arrival of an old university friend of the Baron’s, who came unexpectedly to pay them a visit, produced another agreeable evening.

Clotilde confessed, when Von West was gone, that his wit and humour had very much contributed to dispel, for a time, the heavy clouds which darkened her spirit; and the Baron went early the following morning to repeat so pressingly his request that his friend would make his house his home, that he could no longer resist his entreaties.

The inexhaustible fund of entertainment which their new inmate possessed, quickly brought about a favourable change in the Baroness; he had so many anecdotes to relate, and had the art of giving an interest to the most trivial. “My whole family,” said he, one day when they were praising his constant flow of spirits, “possess the same; and if my sister be not grown too sentimental, through a love affair of which she has just informed me by letter, you shall soon be acquainted with a charming sprightly lass, whom I should feel disposed to marry myself, if she were not my sister. Immediately after the nuptials, she will repair hither with her husband—I hope he will not turn out a churl, or if he is, I will not rest until I have separated them, or I’ll shoot him through the head—for I’ll not have my family blood adulterated with any thing gross and dull.”

A circumstance, however, soon occurred, which overthrew at once all that improvement in Clotilde’s mind, which the visitor’s sprightliness had brought about. A story which obtained currency in the neighbourhood was the occasion of it. The attachment of a young lady to a man beneath her in rank and fortune had been discovered by her relatives, and all intercourse between the parties consequently stopped. The lady had wisely opened her ears and understanding to the remonstrances of her friends, but the young lover took the disappointment so much to heart, that he fell into a violent fever which put an end to his torments. Almost every night since his death, he appeared to his cruel mistress cloathed in white and with threatening gestures. The ghost was not intimidated by the number of persons who sat up with her all night—but continued his troublesome visits, and followed her from chamber to chamber. Horror, grief, and deprivation of sleep, threatened the poor maiden with premature death.

This was the story told and attested by numbers of soi-disant eye-witnesses, and it produced a violent effect upon the romantic Baroness. In her own opinion she was far more blameable than the persecuted maiden, and the latter had the consolation of knowing that she had only broken off an unworthy attachment, and that the lover received only the punishment due to his presumption. But what was Wartenstein’s crime? “Is it not the extreme of cruelty,” said she to herself, “to reject the most disinterested offer of love, and to deny a man the house, merely for having made such an offer? and ought I to have let a husband’s authority go so far, as to make me deliver over an innocent mortal to the most horrible of deaths, because he possessed a heart for me, yet a heart devoid of guile, and even disowning all pretensions to my love? Thus Clotilde argued; for that Wartenstein would not survive his banishment from her society, she was as fully convinced as of her own existence. The circumstance that no person could give any intelligence of the Colonel, raised her dark forebodings to certainty. She at last, however, persuaded herself that he might have returned back to the city, under an assumed name, in order to be as near her as possible, and there contrive his death.

She passed a dreadful night; for it occurred to her, before she fell asleep, that the Colonel had frequently expressed himself in admiration of the character of Werther; her dream, therefore, presented her lover to her in the act of preparing for his long journey. She strove by screaming aloud to prevent the fatal touch of the trigger, but her voice failed her, and at the same instant the report of the dreadful pistol awoke her out of her disordered slumber.

Clotilde rang up the servants. “Go down, instantly, and see what is the matter out of doors!” cried she with a pale and distorted countenance, and sank back upon her pillow. The Baron, awakened by the noise, desired to know the meaning of this singular behaviour.

“You will know all,” said his lady, “when the servants return. Oh God! that I should have submitted, like a child, to your outrageous demand!”

“What demand?” “Have but patience, you will hear all.”

The servants now came up, and assured their mistress that they had discovered nothing at all in the street. “Oh! yes, Wartenstein, the unhappy Wartenstein, has been making an attempt on his life close by our door.”

“How do you know that improbable fact?” demanded the husband in a distant and ironical tone.

“I know it. Ascribe it to a presentiment, or a dream, or what you will—it is enough that I saw the unhappy youth distinctly, and heard the report of the pistol with my own ears.”

“And the servants, who are neither in a dream, nor under the influence of superstition, have been below, and have discovered no trace whatever of such an occurrence.”

“May he not, after the commission of the dreadful act, have dragged himself away a street or two? Alas! if he could be saved!”

“We will not lose our reputation as people of sound mind by making such a search, or keep the servants longer from their beds, since they have been uselessly disturbed.”

With these words the Baron laid himself down.

Clotilde arose and began to dress herself, but her husband told her, somewhat harshly, that if the fever of her imagination led to such unheard of exploits, he should be compelled to lock his doors. This he, in fact, caused to be done.

Clotilde complained aloud, and could not comprehend how want of feeling could rise to such a pitch.

In the morning she betrayed no disposition at all to rise from her bed. The physician, who was called in, found her pulse in a very feverish motion. Her husband implored her to take the prescribed remedies; the doctor’s opinion had so roused his sensibility that he seldom quitted her bedside.

“And have you heard nothing yet of his death?” inquired she.

Von Eschenburgh replied in the negative.

“Do not disguise the truth!”

“Certainly not, my love,” replied the affectionate husband.

“In bed!” exclaimed Madame Selter, who came to make a morning call.

“A sudden fever,” said the Baron, who was just at that instant called away.

“Dont believe it, my dear Selter,” said Clotilde. “But pray tell me, have you heard any thing? Wartenstein?”

“Yes, I am come to tell you.”

“Alas! I know all already.”

“Well, I am told that he lives not far from here.”

“Lives! Would it were so!”

“Why surely, and, moreover, is very happy in a new amour.”

Clotilde withdrew her hand and turned away. “Wretched delusions!” cried she. “I perceive that you have been fetched to restrain me, as a maniac with fabricated stories. Believe me, I know too well, that he died last night—here too, in this very town.”

“Last night!” Madame Selter recollected the fever that the Baron had mentioned, and deemed it prudent to avoid contradicting the invalid. That is something new, however!”

“Is nothing then really known in the town of his violent death?”

“I come from his sisters, who had not heard a syllable about it, but on the contrary told me what I say.”

“Apropos! There is some news!” said the Baron entering just then. “The papers announce that Wartenstein has got married.”

Clotilde turned herself again to the wall, and could not be prevailed upon to hear or speak a word. After Madame Selter had quitted the chamber, shaking her head pensively, she again turned her face and said—“I know not why you suppose me capable of so much credulity.”

“The paper will be here in half an hour to convince you.”

“Here, my dear Clotilde,” said Eschenburg shortly after, presenting her the paper. She took it, and read:

“To-day is the first day of our happy union.

Moritz Fraug von Wartenstein,
Leopoldine von Wartenstein.
formerly Von Landau.”

“The Christian names agree. It’s not amiss, but it is all in vain!” exclaimed Clotilde laying down the journal.

“In vain! Why do you suppose the whole is fabricated? When and wherefore? On account of your indisposition this morning, I suppose, when the paper was printed the day before yesterday!”

“But perhaps reprinted this morning here such deceptions have lost their novelty.”

“Clotilde, what strange infatuation is this?” cried the Baron with an expression that she could not misunderstand. “Well, then, somebody has made a bad jest at Wartenstein’s expense. Examples of that kind, too, are frequent enough.” “But why not credit at once what is the most likely case? Clotilde, I almost fear that your heart will deeply feel this step of Wartenstein’s.”

“My heart! Indeed, Eschenburg, you do my heart a great injustice.—I could go mad with joy if he had married; and thus restore my peace of mind for ever. But, alas! the occurrences of the past night are too memorable, and if it were only an illusion that represented his death to me, yet I am firmly persuaded that it was one of those illusions which are called death-tokens, and that a marriage would be the last thing to follow it.

The Baroness had no sooner risen and joined her husband in the breakfast room, than West came in laughing with the news of the elucidation of the ghost story, which had first imbued Clotilde’s mind with these presentiments; an elucidation, however, which was not particularly agreeable to her credulous caprice. The whole proved to be a deception carried on by the two lovers, for there was no more foundation for the report of the man’s death, than for that of his persecuting the lady in the shape of a ghost, and the women who watched by her were bribed to their interest.—“That is quite a new piece of news,” added West, “but now for an old one, which I have also received this morning.” With that he drew an open letter from his pocket. “Half an hour ago this billet was sent to me, after having lain for a fortnight enclosed in a letter to a lady resident here, but who has been absent on a journey. It is from my sister, who at length acquaints me with the name of her bridegroom. The man has a residence in this city, and she writes me that he has already confessed to a great many juvenile indiscretions; but nevertheless, she is willing to undertake the task of his reform. What will a maiden in love not venture on? Apropos! he is an acquaintance of yours, and has visited you very recently. I should be delighted if you would acquaint me with the particulars of a few of his pranks, that I may put them into verse, and send it to him. But you don’t imagine, I dare say, that it is Colonel Von Wartenstein whom my sister is to marry, or doubtless has married by this time.”

“Then you, my dear West, are also a party in the scheme of counteracting my too well-grounded apprehensions. Well, I am only at a loss to imagine why there is such a want of consistency in your preconcerted reports.”

“Bless me, Madam, I have lost all power of comprehension!” cried West. I know not whether my ears still possess the faculty of distinguishing sounds. A scheme to counteract your apprehensions!”

“Aye, a scheme full of inconsistencies. According to your account your sister is Wartenstein’s bride, while the latest journals give her quite a different name.”

“What! do the papers already make mention of the name?”

“Yes, but according to that authority, as you will see, the Colonel has married a Fraulein von Landau,” said the Baron.

“Well, well! I thought you were aware that she is my half-sister, the daughter of my mother’s second husband.”

West handed the letter to Clotilde, who instantly becoming convinced of the truth, at last grew instantly tranquil, and explained to him the meaning of her mysterious assertion. It led to a thousand jokes, sometimes touching the death-tokens, sometimes the early occasionsof of Wartenstein’s familiarity with the family. “Well, it is a fortunate conclusion after all,” said Clotilde, when alone with her husband. “From this moment, Eschenburg, I will never take up a novel in your presence.”

“Or, if you should, and the volume should fall upon the floor, I will instantly pick it up for you.”

“If you had not been so gallant to the lovely Countess on the following evening!”

“True, my love, I was to blame.”

“But who will not forget all in the happy conclusion?”

W. S.

 

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