And for Count Vavel mistrust was a duty; for the reader must, ere this, have suspected that the count and the mysterious man of the Rue Mouffetard were identical, and that Marie was none other than the child he had rescued from her enemies. Here in this land, where order prevailed, but where there were no police, he was guarding the treasure intrusted to his care, and he would continue to guard her until relieved of the duty.
But when would the relief come?
One year after another passed, and the hour he dreamed of seemed still further away. When he had accepted the responsible mission he had said to himself: “In a year we shall gain our object, and I shall be released.”
But hope had deceived him; and as the years passed onward, he began to realize how vast, how enormous, was the task he had undertaken. It was within the possibilities that he, a young man in the flower of his youth, should be able to bury himself in an unknown corner of the world, to give up all his friends, to renounce everything that made life worth living, but that he should bury with himself in his silk-lined tomb a young girl to whom he had become everything, who yet might not even dream of becoming anything to him—that was beyond human might.
More and more he realized that his old friend’s prophetic words were approaching fulfilment: “The child will grow to be a lovely woman. Already she is fond of you; she will love you then. Then what?”
“I shall look upon myself as the inhabitant of a different planet,” he had replied; and he had kept his promise.
But the little maid had not promised anything; and if, perchance, she guessed the weighty secret of her destiny, whence could she have taken the strength of mind to battle against what threatened to drive even the strong man to madness?
Ludwig was thirty-one years old, the fourth year in this house of voluntary madmen. With extreme solicitude he saw the child grow to womanhood, blessed with all the magic charms of her sex. Gladly would he have kept her a child had it been in his power. He treated her as a child—gave her dolls and the toys of a child; but this could not go on forever. Deeply concerned, Ludwig observed that Marie’s countenance became more and more melancholy, and that now it rarely expressed childlike naïveté. A dreamy melancholy had settled upon it. And of what did she dream? Why was she so sad? Why did she start? Why did the blood rush to her cheeks when he came suddenly into her presence?
CHAPTER II
Count Vavel had made his fair neighbor at the manor the object of study. He had ample time for the task; he had nothing else to do. And, as he was debarred from making direct inquiries concerning her, or from hearing the current gossip of the neighborhood, he learned only that about her which his telescope revealed; and from this, with the aid of his imagination, he formed a conclusion—and an erroneous one, very probably.
His neighbor lived in strict seclusion, and was a man-hater. But, for all that, she was neither a nun nor an Amazon. She was a true woman, neither inconsolably melancholy nor wantonly merry. She proved herself an excellent housewife. She rose betimes mornings, sent her workmen about their various tasks, saw that everything was properly attended to. Very often she rode on horseback, or drove in a light wagon, to look about her estate. She had arranged an extensive dairy, and paid daily visits to her stables. She did not seem aware that an attentive observer constantly watched her with his telescope from the tower of the Nameless Castle. So, at least, it might be assumed; for the lady very often assisted in the labor of the garden, when, in transplanting tulip bulbs, she would so soil her pretty white hands to the wrists with black mold that it would be quite distressing to see them. Certainly this was sufficient proof that her labor was without design.
And, what was more to the purpose, she acted as if perfectly unaware of the fact that a lady lived in the Nameless Castle who possibly might be the wife of her tenant. Common courtesy and the conventional usages of society demanded that the lady who took up a residence anywhere should call on the ladies of the neighborhood—if only to leave a card with the servant at the door. The baroness had omitted this ceremony, which proved that she either did not know of Marie’s hiding-place, or that she possessed enough delicacy of feeling to understand that it would be inconvenient to the one concerned were she to take any notice of the circumstance. Either reason was satisfactory to Count Vavel.
But a woman without curiosity!
Meanwhile the count had learned something about her which might be of some use to Marie.
He had received, during the winter, a letter from the young law student with whom he had become acquainted on the occasion of the vice-palatine’s unpleasant visit to the castle. The young man wrote to say that he had passed his examination, and that when he should receive the necessary authority from the count he would be ready to proceed to the business they had talked about.
The count replied that a renewal of his lease was not necessary. The new owner of the castle having neglected to serve a notice to quit within the proper time, the old contracts were still valid. Therefore, it was only necessary to secure the naturalization documents, and to purchase a plot of ground on the shore of the lake. The young lawyer arranged these matters satisfactorily, and the count had nothing further to do than to appoint an absentium ablegatus to the Diet, and to take possession of his new purchase, which lay adjacent to the Nameless Castle.
The count at once had the plot of ground inclosed with a high fence of stout planks, engaged a gardener, and had it transformed into a beautiful flower-garden.
Then, when the first spring blossoms began to open, he said to Marie, one balmy, sunshiny afternoon: “Come, we will take a promenade.”
He conducted the veiled maiden through the park, along the freshly graveled path to the inclosed plot of ground.
“Here is your garden,” he said, opening the gate. “Now you, too, own a plot of ground.”
Count Vavel had expected to see the little maid clap her hands with delight, and hasten to pluck the flowers for a nosegay.
Instead, however, she clung to his arm and sighed heavily.
“Why do you sigh, Marie? Are you not pleased with your garden?”
“Yes; I think it beautiful.”
“Then why do you sigh?”
“Because I cannot thank you as I wish.”
“But you have already thanked me.”
“That was only with words. Tell me, can any one see us here?”
“No one; we are alone.”
At these words the little maid tore the veil from her face, and for the first time in many years God’s free sunlight illumined her lovely features. What those features expressed, what those eyes flashed through their tears, that was her gratitude.
When she had illumined the heart of her guardian with this expressive glance, she was about to draw the veil over her face again; but Ludwig laid a gently restraining hand on hers, and said: “Leave your face uncovered, Marie; no one can see it here; and every day for one hour you may walk thus here, without fear of being seen, for I shall send the gardener elsewhere during that time.”
When they were leaving the garden, Marie plucked two forget-me-nots, and gave one of them to Ludwig. From that day she had one more pleasure: the garden, a free sight of the sky, the warmth of the sunlight—enjoyments hitherto denied her; but, all the same, the childlike cheerfulness faded more and more from her countenance.
Ludwig, who was distressed to see this continued melancholy in the child’s face, searched among his pedagogic remedies for a cure for such moods. A sixteen-year-old girl might begin the study of history. At this age she would already become interested in descriptions of national customs, in archaeological study, in travels. He therefore collected for Marie’s edification quite a library, and became a zealous expounder of the various works.