A Love Story
unruffled surface, and, noting its aspect so serene, preach from that
placid text, peace to the wearied breast.
They were shown into a room in the inn, already thronged with strangers.
These were students on their way to Heidelberg.
They were sitting round a table, almost enveloped in smoke; and were
hymning praises to their loved companion--beer.
As being in harmony with the moustaches, beard, and bandit
propensities--which true bürschen delight to cultivate--they received
the strangers with an unfriendly stare, and continued to vociferate
their chorus.
Sir Henry, a little dismayed at the prospect before them, called for the
landlord and his bill of fare; and had the pleasure of discovering, that
the provisions had been consumed, and that two hours would elapse, before
more could be procured.
At this announcement, Delmé looked somewhat blank. One of the students,
observing this, approached, and apologising, in English, for their
voracity, commenced conversing with the landlord, as to the best course to
be pursued towards obtaining supper.
His comrades, seeing one of their number speaking with the travellers,
threw off some part of their reserve, and made way for them at the table.
George and Henry accepted the proffered seats, although they declined
joining the drinking party.
The students, however, did not appear at ease. As if to relieve their
embarrassment, one of them addressed the young man, with whom Sir Henry
had conversed.
"Carl! it is your turn now! if you have not a song, we must have an
original story."
Carl at once complied, and related the following.
The First Story.
Perhaps some of you remember Fritz Hartmann and his friend Leichtberg.
They were the founders of the last new liberty club, and were famous at
_renowning_.
These patriots became officers of the Imperial Guard, and at Vienna were
soon known for their friendship and their gallantries.
Fritz had much sentiment and imagination; but some how or other, this did
not preserve him from inconstancy.
If he was always kind and gentle, he was not always faithful.
His old college chums had the privilege of joking him on these subjects;
and we always did so without mercy. Fritz would sometimes combat our
assertions, but they ordinarily made him laugh so much, that a stranger
would have deemed he assented to their truth.
One night after the opera, the friends supped together at Fritz's.
I was of the party, and brought for my share a few bottles of
Johannisberg, that had been sent me by my uncle from the last vintage.
Over these we got more than usually merry, and sang all the songs and
choruses of Mother Heidelberg, till the small hours arrived. The sitting
room we were in, communicated on one side with the bedroom;--on the other,
with a little closet, containing nothing but some old trunks.
This last was closed, but there was a small aperture in the door, over
which was a slight iron lattice work.
The officer who had last tenanted Fritz's quarters, had kept pheasants
there, and had had this made on purpose.
After one of our songs, Leichtberg attacked Fritz on the old score.
"Fritz! you very Werter of sentiment! I was amazed to see you with no
loves to-night at the opera. Where is the widow with sandy hair? or the
actress who gave your _kirschenwasser_ such a benefit? where our
sallow-faced friend? or more than all, where may the fair Pole be who
sells such charming fruit? Fritz! Fritz! your sudden attachment to grapes
is too ominous."
"Come, Leichtberg!" said Hartmann, laughing, "this is really not fair. Do
you know I think myself very constant, and as to the Pole, I have thought
of little else for these three months."
"Not so fast! not so fast! Master Hartmann. Was it not on Wednesday week I
met you arm in arm with the actress? Were you not waltzing with the widow
at the Tivoli? have you not"--
"Come, come!" said Fritz, reddening, "let us say no more. I confess to
having made a fool of myself with the actress, but she begged and prayed
to see me once more, ere we parted for ever. With this exception----"
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Leichtberg, "I know you, Master Fritz, and all
your evil doings. Have you heard of our Polish affaire de coeur, Carl?",
and he turned to me.
"No!" replied I, "let me hear it."
"Well, you must know that a certain friend of ours is very economical, and
markets for himself. He bargains for fruit and flowers with the peasant
girls, and the prettiest always get his orders, and bring up their
baskets, and--we will say no more. Well! our friend meets a foreign face,
dark eye--Greek contour--and figure indescribable. She brings him home her
well arranged bouquets. He swears her lips are redder than her roses--her
brow whiter than lilies--and her breath--which he stoops to inhale--far
sweeter than her jasmines. To his amazement, the young flower girl sees no
such great attractions in the Imperial Guardsman; leaves her
nosegays,--throws his Napoleon, which he had asked her to change, in his
face,--and makes her indignant exit. Our sentimental friend finds out her
home, and half her history;--renews his flattering tales--piques her
pride,--rouses her jealousy;--and makes her love him, bon gré--mal gré,
better than either fruit or flowers.
"Fritz swears eternal constancy, and keeps it, as I have already told you,
with the actress and the sandy haired widow."
Leichtberg told this story inimitably, and Fritz laughed as much as I did.
At length we rose to wish him good night, and saw him turn to his bedroom
door, followed by a Swiss dog, which always slept under his bed. The rest
of the story we heard from his dying lips.
It was as near as he could guess, between two and three in the morning,
that he awoke with the impression that some one was near him. For a time
he lay restless and ill at ease; with the vague helpless feeling, that
often attacks one, after a good supper.
Fritz had just made up his mind to ascribe to this cause, all his
nervousness; when something seemed to drop in the adjoining room; and his
dog, starting to its feet, commenced barking furiously.
Again all was still.
He got up for a moment, but fancying he heard a footstep on the stair,
concluded that the noise proceeded from one of the inmates of the house,
who was come home later than usual.
But Fritz could not sleep; and his dog seemed to share his feelings;
for he turned on his side restlessly, and occasionally gave a quick
solitary bark.
Suddenly a conviction flashed across Hartmann, that there was indeed some
one in the chamber.
His curtain stirred.
He sprang from his bed, and reached his tinder box. As the steel struck
sparks from the flint, these revealed the face of the intruder.
It was the young Polish girl.
A fur cloak was closely folded around her;--her face was deadly
pale;--with one hand she drew back her long dark hair, while she silently
uplifted the other.
Our friend's last impression was his falling back, at the moment his dog
made a spring at the girl.
The inmates of the house were alarmed. His friends were all sent for.
I arrived among the earliest. What a sight met me!
The members of the household were so stupefied that they had done nothing.
Fritz Hartmann lay on the floor insensible:--his night shirt steeped in
blood, still flowing from a mortal wound in his breast.
At his feet, moaning bitterly, its fangs and mouth filled with mingled fur
and gore, lay the Swiss dog, with two or three deep gashes across the
throat. In the adjoining room, thrown near the door, was the instrument of
Fritz's death--one of the knives we had used the evening before.
Beside it, lay a woman's cloak, the fur literally dripping with blood.
Fritz lingered for five hours. Before death, he was sensible, and told us
what I have stated:--and acknowledged that he had loved the girl, more
than her station in life might seem to warrant.
Of course, the young Pole had been concealed in the closet, and heard
Leichtberg's sallies. Love and jealousy effected the rest.
We never caught her, although we had all the Vienna police at our beck;
and accurate descriptions of her person were forwarded to the frontiers.
We were not quite certain as to her fate, but we rather suppose her to
have escaped by a back garden; in which case she must have made a most
dangerous leap; and then to have passed as a courier, riding as such
into Livonia.
Where she obtained the money or means to effect this, God knows. She must
have been a heroine in her way, for this dog is not easily overpowered,
and yet--look here! these scars were given him by that young girl.
The student whistled to a dog at his feet, which came and licked his hand,
while he showed the wounds in his throat.
"I call him Hartmann," continued he, "after my old friend. His father sent
him to me just after the funeral, and Leichtberg has got his meershaum."
* * * * *
The students listened attentively to the story, refilling their pipes
during its progress, with becoming gravity. Carl turned towards his right
hand neighbour. "Wilhelm! I call on you!"
The student, whom he addressed, passed his hand through his long heard,
and thus commenced.
The Second Story.
My father's brother married at Lausanne, in the Canton de Vaud, and
resided there. He died early, and left one son; who, as you may suppose,
was half a Frenchman. In spite of that, I thought Caspar von Hazenfeldt a
very handsome fellow. His chestnut hair knotted in curls over his
shoulders. His eyes, the veins of his temples, and I would almost say, his
very teeth, had a blueish tint, that I have noticed in few men; and which
must, I think, be the peculiar characteristic of his complexion. When
engaged in pleasure parties, either pic-nicing at the signal, or
promenading in the evening on Mont Benon, or sitting tête-à-tête at
Languedoc, he had no eyes or ears but for Caroline de Werner.
He waltzed with her--he talked with her--and he walked with her--until he
had fairly talked, walked, and waltzed himself into love.
She was the daughter of a rich old colonel of the Empire:--he was the
poor son of a poorer widow. What could he do? Caspar von Hazenfeldt could
gaze on the house of the old soldier; but the avenue of elms, the waving
corn-fields, and the luxuriant gardens, told him that the heiress of
Beau-Séjour could never be his.
He was one evening sitting on a stone, in a little ruined chapel, near the
house of his beloved; ruminating as usual on his ill fate, and considering
which would be the better plan, to mend his fortunes by travel, or mar
them by suicide;--when an elderly gentleman, dressed in a plain suit of
black, appeared hat in hand before him.
After the usual compliments, they entered into conversation, and at last,
having walked for some distance, towards Hazenfeldt's house, agreed to
meet again at the chapel on the next evening.
Suffice it to say that they often met, and as often parted, on the margin
of the little stream, that ran before the door of Caspar's mother's
house:--that they became great friends;--and that the young man confided
the tale of his love, hopes, and miseries, to the sympathising senior.
At last _the old gentleman_, for such he really was, told Caspar that he
would help him in a trice, through all his difficulties.
"There is one condition, Caspar!" said he, "but that is a mere trifle. You
are young, and would be quite happy, were it not for this love affair of
yours:--you sleep soundly, you seek and quit your bed early, and you care
not for night-roving. Henceforth, lend me your body from ten at night,
until two in the morning, and I promise that Caroline de Werner shall be
yours. Here she is!" continued he, as he opened his snuff box, and showed