A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

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 picnicing 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 he 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

the lid to Caspar, “here she is!”

And sure enough, there she was on the inside of the lid, apparently

reading to the gouty old colonel, as he sat in his easy chair in the petit

salon of Beau-Sejour.

One evening, the old gentleman delighted Caspar, by telling him that he

had authority from Colonel de Werner, to bring a guest to a ball at

Beau-Séjour, and by begging Caspar to be his shade—to use our

Continental expression—on the occasion.

Caspar von Hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their

singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless

unguarded moment.

Hazenfeldt was introduced to Caroline in due form, and engaged her for the

first dance.

Before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his

compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair.

“Caspar!” continued he, “when your dance is over, give me a few minutes in

the next room. We will chat together,