to consider, and then I resolved I would take it all on myself. I returned to the count’s room. I looked in—not a soul was there! Impossible! the man was in the last agonies of death. I ran into the corridor like a madman. No one was there! Into the long gallery—no one! Then I lost my presence of mind, and rushing again into the young countess’s room, I rang again. This time she appeared, crying out—‘Is my father dead?’ ‘No.’ ‘Has he disappeared?’ ‘Yes, madam. I had gone out for a minute—when I came in again—’ ‘And Doctor Fritz, where is he?’ ‘In Hugh Lupus’s tower.’ ‘In that tower?’ She started. She threw a dressing-gown around her, took her lamp, and went out. I stayed behind. A quarter of an hour after she came back, her feet covered with snow, and so pale and so cold! She set her lamp upon the chimney-piece, and looking at me fixedly, said—‘Was it you who put the doctor into that tower?’ ‘Yes, madam.’ ‘Unhappy man! you will never know the extent of the harm you have done.’ I was about to answer, but she interrupted me—‘No more; go and fasten every door and lie down. I will sit up. To-morrow morning you will find Doctor Fritz at Knapwurst’s, and bring him to me. Make no noise, and mind, you have seen nothing and know nothing!’”
“Is that all, Sperver?” I asked.
He nodded gravely.
“And about the count?”
“He is in again. He is better.”
We had got to the antechamber. Gideon knocked at the door gently, then he opened it, announcing—“Doctor Fritz.”
I took a pace forward, and stood in the presence of Odile. Sperver had retired, closing the door.
A strange impression crossed my mind at the sight of the young countess standing pale and still, leaning upon the back of an arm-chair, her eyes of feverish brightness, and robed in a long dress of rich black velvet. But she stood calm and firm.
“Doctor,” she said, motioning me to a chair, “pray sit down; I have a very serious matter to speak to you about.”
I obeyed in silence.
In her turn she sat down and seemed to be collecting her thoughts.
“Providence or an evil destiny, I know not which, has made you witness of a mystery in which lies involved the honour of my family.”
So she knew it all!
I sat confounded and astonished.
“Madam, believe me, it was but by chance—”
“It is useless,” she interrupted; “I know it all, and it is frightful!”
Then, in a heartrending appealing voice, she cried—
“My father is not a guilty man!”
I shuddered, and with hands outstretched cried—
“Madam, I know it; I know that the life of your father has been one of the noblest and loveliest.”
Odile had half-risen from her seat, as if to protest, by anticipation, against any supposition that might be injurious to her father. Hearing me myself taking up his defence, she sank back again, and covering her face with her hands, the tears began to flow.
“God bless you, sir!” she exclaimed. “I should have died with the very thought that a breath of suspicion was harboured against him.”
“Ah! madam, who could possibly attach any reality to the action of a somnambulist?”
“That is quite true, sir; I had had that thought myself, but appearances—pardon me—yet I feared—still I knew Doctor Fritz was a man of honour.”
“Pray, madam, be calm.”
“No,” she cried, “let me weep on. It is such a relief; for ten years I have suffered in secret. Oh, how I suffered! That secret, so long shut up in my breast, was killing me. I should soon have died, like my dear mother. God has had pity upon me, and has sent you, and made you share it with me. Let me tell you all, sir, do let me!”
She could speak no more. Sobs and tears broke her voice. So it always is with proud and lofty natures. After having conquered grief, and imprisoned it, buried, and, as it were, crushed down in the secret depths of the mind, they seem happy, or, at any rate, indifferent to the eyes of the uninformed around, and the eye of the most watchful observer might be mistaken; but let a sudden shock break the seal, an unexpected rending of a portion of the veil, then, as with the crash of a thunderstorm, the tower in which the sufferer hid his sorrow falls in ruins to the ground. The conquered foe rises more fierce than before his defeat and captivity; he shakes with fury the prison doors, the frame trembles with long shudderings, sobs and sighs heave the breast, the tears, too long contained within bounds, overflow their swollen banks, bounding and rushing as if after the heavy rain of a thunderstorm.
Such was Odile.
At length she lifted her beautiful head; she wiped her tear-stained cheeks, and with her arm on the elbow of her chair, her cheek resting on her hand, and her eyes tenderly fixed on a picture on the wall, she resumed in slow and melancholy tones:—
“When I go back into the past, sir, when I return to my first impressions, my mother’s is the picture before me. She was a tall, pale, and silent woman. She was still young at the period to which I am referring. She was scarcely thirty, and yet you would have thought her fifty. Her brow was silvered round with hair white as snow; her thin, hollow cheeks, her sharp, clear profile—her lips ever closed together with an expression of pain—gave to her features a strange character in which pride and pain seemed to contend for the mastery. There was nothing left of the elasticity of youth in that aged woman of thirty—nothing but her tall, upright figure, her brilliant eyes, and her voice, which was always as gentle and as sweet as a dream of childhood. She often walked up and down for hours in this very room, with her head hanging down, and I, an unthinking child, ran happily along by her side, never aware that my mother was sad, never understanding the meaning of the deep melancholy revealed by those furrows that traversed her fair brow. I knew nothing of the past, to me the present was joy and happiness, and oh! the future!—the dark, miserable future!—there was none! My only future was to-morrow’s play!”
Odile smiled bitterly and went on:—
“Sometimes I would happen, in my noisy play, to disturb my mother in her silent walk; then she would stop, look down, and, seeing me at her feet, would slowly bend, kiss me with an absent smile, and then again resume her interrupted walk and her sad gait. Since then, sir, whenever I have desired to search back in my memory for remembrances of my early days that tall, pale woman has risen before me, the image of melancholy. There she is,” pointing to a picture on the wall—“there she is!—not such as illness made her as my father supposes, but that fatal and terrible secret. See!”
I turned round, and as my eye dwelt upon the portrait the lady pointed to, I shuddered.
It was a long, pale, thin face, cold and rigid as death, and only luridly lighted up by two dark, deep-set eyes, fixed, burning, and of a terrible intensity.
There was a moment’s silence.
“How much that woman must have suffered!” I said to myself with a pain striking at my heart.
“I know not how my mother made that terrible discovery,” added Odile, “but she became aware of the mysterious attraction
