mean Hedwige and Huldine, the two wives of Hugh Lupus.”
And laying down his volume he descended from his ladder to speak more at his ease. His eyes glistened, and the delight of gratified vanity beamed from them as he displayed his vast erudition.
When he had arrived at my side he bowed to me with ceremonious gravity. Sperver stood behind us, very well satisfied that I was admiring the dwarf of Nideck. In spite of the ill luck which, in his opinion, accompanied the little monster’s appearance, he respected and boasted of his superior knowledge.
“Sir,” said Knapwurst, pointing with his yellow hand to the portraits, “Hugh of Nideck, the first of his illustrious race, married, in 832, Hedwige of Lutzelbourg, who brought to him in dowry the counties of Giromani and Haut Barr, the castles of Geroldseck, Teufelshorn, and others. Hugh Lupus had no issue by his first wife, who died young, in the year of our Lord 837. Then Hugh, having become lord and owner of the dowry, refused to give it up, and there were terrible battles between himself and his brothers-in-law. But his second wife, Huldine, whom you see there in a steel breastplate, aided him by her sage counsel. It is unknown whence or of what family she came, but for all that she saved Hugh’s life, who had been made prisoner by Frantz of Lutzelbourg. He was to have been hanged that very day, and a gibbet had already been set up on the ramparts, when Huldine, at the head of her husband’s vassals, whom she had armed and inspired with her own courage, bravely broke in, released Hugh, and hung Frantz in his place. Hugh had married his wife in 842, and had three children by her.”
“So,” I resumed pensively, “the first of these wives was called Hedwige, and the descendants of Nideck are not related to her?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I can show you our genealogical tree; Hedwige had no children; Huldine, the second wife, had three.”
“That is surprising to me.”
“Why so?”
“I thought I traced a resemblance.”
“Oho! resemblance! Rubbish!” cried Knapwurst with a discordant laugh. “See—look at this wooden snuff-box; in it you see a portrait of my great-grandfather, Hanswurst. His nose is as long and as pointed as an extinguisher, and his jaws like nutcrackers. How does that affect his being the grandfather of me—of a man with finely-formed features and an agreeable mouth?”
“Oh no!—of course not.”
“Well, so it is with the Nidecks. They may some of them be like Hedwige, but for all that Huldine is the head of their ancestry. See the genealogical tree. Now, sir, are you satisfied?”
Then we separated—Knapwurst and I—excellent friends.
CHAPTER V
“Nevertheless,” thought I, “there is the likeness. It is not chance. What is chance? There is no such thing; it is nonsense to talk of chance. It must be something higher!”
I was following my friend Sperver, deep in thought, who had now resumed his walk down the corridor. The portrait of Hedwige, in all its artless simplicity, mingled in my mind with the face of Odile.
Suddenly Gideon stopped, and, raising my eyes, I saw that we were standing before the count’s door.
“Come in, Fritz,” he said, “and I will give the dogs a feed. When the master’s away the servants neglect their duty; I will come for you by-and-by.”
I entered, more desirous of seeing the young lady than the count her father; I was blaming myself for my remissness, but there is no controlling one’s interest and affections. I was much surprised to see in the half-light of the alcove the reclining figure of the count leaning upon his elbow and observing me with profound attention. I was so little prepared for this examination that I stood rather dispossessed of self-command.
“Come nearer, monsieur le docteur,” he said in a weak but firm voice, holding out his hand. “My faithful Sperver has often mentioned your name to me; and I was anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Let us hope, my lord, that it will be continued under more favourable circumstances. A little patience, and we shall avert this attack.”
“I think not,” he replied. “I feel my time drawing near.”
“You are mistaken, my lord.”
“No; Nature grants us, as a last favour, to have a presentiment of our approaching end.”
“How often I have seen such presentiments falsified!” I said with a smile.
He fixed his eyes searchingly upon me, as is usual with patients expressing anxiety about their prospects. It is a difficult moment for the doctor. The moral strength of his patient depends upon the expression of the firmness of his convictions; the eye of the sufferer penetrates into the innermost soul of his consciousness; if he believes that he can discover any hint or shade of doubt, his fate is sealed; depression sets in; the secret springs that maintain the elasticity of the spirit give way, and the disorder has it all its own way.
I stood my examination firmly and successfully, and the count seemed to regain confidence; he again pressed my hand, and resigned himself calmly and confidently to my treatment.
Not until then did I perceive Mademoiselle Odile and an old lady, no doubt her governess, seated by her bedside at the other end of the alcove.
They silently saluted me, and suddenly the picture in the library reappeared before me.
“It is she,” I said, “Hugh’s first wife. There is the fair and noble brow, there are the long lashes, and that sad, unfathomable smile. Oh, how much past telling lies in a woman’s smile! Seek not, then, for unmixed joy and pleasure! Her smile serves but to veil untold sorrows, anxiety for the future, even heartrending cares. The maid, the wife, the mother, smile and smile, even when the heart is breaking and the abyss is opening. O woman! this is thy part in the mortal struggle of human life!”
I was pursuing these reflections when the lord of Nideck began to speak—
“If my dear child Odile would but consult my wishes I believe my health would return.”
I looked towards the young countess; she fixed her eyes on the floor, and seemed to be praying silently.
“Yes,” the sick man went on, “I should then return to life; the prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a young family, and of pressing grandchildren to my heart, and beholding the succession to my house, would revive me.”
At the mild and gentle tone of entreaty in which this was said I felt deeply moved with compassion; but the young lady made no reply.
In a minute or two the count, who kept his watchful eyes upon her, went on—
“Odile, you refuse to make your father a happy man? I only ask for a faint hope. I fix no time. I won’t limit your choice. We will go to court. There you will have a hundred opportunities of marrying with distinction and with honour. Who would not be proud to win my daughter’s hand? You shall be perfectly free to decide for yourself.”
He paused.
There is nothing more painful to a stranger than these
