“The pleasure you derive, Count, from having rendered them; for a sensitive soul, there is none greater.”
“To purchase such a pleasure at the cost of the sacrifice you require is to pay it very dearly, Ernestine. Do you think there are many souls capable of such an effort?”
“The greater the effort, the more deserving I shall find you.”
“Ah! how cold the epithet ‘deserving’ is, and how poorly it describes the sentiments I have for you!”
“But if ’tis the most you can expect to obtain from me, should it not satisfy you?”
“Never. . . never!” the Count then said, casting a furious look at poor Ernestine. . . . And, immediately rising to take his leave: “You do not know the soul that you are flouting, Ernestine . . . you are blind, too blind. . . . No, you do not know that soul, you do not know to what lengths your contempt and disdain can drive it.”
It is easy to imagine that these last words left Ernestine in a state of alarm. She wasted no time recounting them to the Colonel who, still completely convinced of the Senator’s integrity, failed to see in them the meaning that Ernestine had sensed. The credulous Sanders, wrapped up in his ambitions, upon occasion reverted to the theme of his preferring the Count to Herman as a son-in-law. But at these times his daughter reminded him of his word, to which the frank and honest Colonel was a thrall. He yielded to Ernestine’s tears and vowed to keep on reminding the Senator of the promises he had made to them both, adding that if he thought he detected the least sign of insincerity on the part of Oxtiern, he would request that the Count take her back to Norrköping.
’Twas about this same time that these two worthy souls, who were being too cruelly deceived, received some letters from Madame Scholtz, with whom they had parted on the best of terms. These letters begged them to excuse Herman for his silence, and added that he was in the best of health. But, overwhelmed with the many problems attendant upon a settling of accounts—accounts which were proving somewhat difficult to balance, doubtless attributable to the grief wherewith Herman was afflicted at being separated from the person he loved—he was obliged to borrow the hand of his benefactress in order to send news of himself to his best friends. He besought them not to be worried, and reassured them that within a week Madame Scholtz herself would bring him to Stockholm, where he would prostrate himself at the feet of his beloved Ernestine.
These missives succeeded in somewhat allaying her anxiety, but failed to reassure her completely. . . .
“It takes but a few minutes to write a letter,” she said. “Why did Herman not take the trouble to write himself? He must have recognized that I would have placed greater faith in a single word from his own hand than in twenty epistles written by a woman whom we have every reason to distrust.”
Sanders tried to set his daughter’s mind at ease; Ernestine, who was a trusting soul, yielded momentarily to the efforts her father was making to soothe her, only to feel the grave pangs of anxiety return immediately to sear her troubled soul.
Meanwhile, the judicial inquiry into Herman’s alleged crime was proceeding apace. The Senator, however, who had been in contact with the examining magistrates, had recommended that the case be treated with all possible discretion. He had demonstrated to them that if it became publicly known that the case were being investigated, Herman’s accomplices—those who were in possession of the money—would cross the border into a foreign country, if indeed they had not already done so, and because of the security measures they would have taken, ’twould be impossible ever to recover the missing sum. This specious reasoning resulted in the magistrates conducting their inquiry with complete secrecy. Thus the entire proceeding took place in the very city where Ernestine and her father were living without either the one or the other ever realizing it, and without it ever being possible that any news of it was brought to their attention.
Such was more or less the state of affairs when the Colonel, for the first time in his life, found himself invited to dinner at the Minister of War’s. Oxtiern was unable to escort him there personally; he had, he said, some twenty people himself that evening, but he gave Sanders to understand that he was responsible for that favor and, when he implied as much, urged the Colonel not to turn down the invitation. The Colonel had not the slightest desire to be remiss, although there was a question in his mind as to whether this perfidious dinner would really contribute to his happiness. He dressed as impeccably as he knew how, commended his daughter to the care of Madame Plorman, and set off for the Minister’s mansion.
He had not been gone an hour when Ernestine saw Madame Scholtz appear in her quarters. The greetings were brief.
“Let us waste not a minute,” the merchant said to her, “but hasten together to Count Oxtiern’s. I have just brought Herman thither, and have come here as quickly as I could to inform you that your protector and your lover both await you with equal impatience.”
“Herman?”
“None other.”
“Why did he not accompany you here?”
“He had some initial business with the Count, no doubt some obligation he felt compelled to pay him. The Senator, who loves you, is sacrificing himself for this young man; does Herman not owe him his eternal gratitude? . . . And would he not be remiss if he failed to express it? . . . But you see how both of them have sent me flying to fetch you. . . . ’Tis the day when sacrifices are to be offered, Mademoiselle,” Madame Scholtz pursued, casting a hypocritical glance at Ernestine. “Come and see them consummated!”
That miserable girl, torn between the urgent desire to fly to where they told her Herman was waiting and the fear of acting rashly in consenting to go to the Count’s while her father was away, could not make up her mind what to do. And as Madame Scholtz was still urging her to come, Ernestine thought it prudent in such a situation to ask Madame Plorman for her advice, and to request that she be accompanied either by the widow herself or by her cousin Sindersen. But Sindersen was not at home, and when she consulted Madame Plorman the widow replied by saying that the Senator’s house enjoyed too high a reputation for a girl to have the slightest fear about going there alone. She added that her niece must be familiar with the house, since she had been there several times with her father and, what was more, the moment Ernestine went there accompanied by a lady of the age and high station of Madame Scholtz, there was certainly no danger. She said further that she would be only too happy to join them were it not for the fact that for the past ten years painful infirmities of a most horrible nature had restricted her to the confines of her own home, from which it had been impossible to venture forth into public.
“But you are running no risk at all, my dear niece,” Madame Plorman went on. “Go where you wish without feeling the slightest qualm. I shall inform the Colonel the moment he returns, so that he may come and fetch you straightway.”
Ernestine, delighted to hear advice which agreed so completely with her own views, wasted no time climbing into Madame Scholtz’s carriage, and they soon arrived at the Senator’s house, to find him awaiting their arrival at the door of his mansion.
“Come hither, my charming Ernestine,” he said, offering her his hand, “come and revel in your triumph, enjoy my sacrifice and that of Madame Scholtz, come and prove to yourself that in the souls of sensitive creatures the virtue of generosity perforce must prevail over any other sentiment. . . .”
Ernestine could no longer control herself; her heart was pounding with impatience, and if the anticipation of happiness made her more beautiful, then she was doubtless at this moment more worthy than ever to receive the homage of the entire universe. . . . And yet there were certain things that alarmed her and acted as a damper upon the sweet emotion wherewith she was consumed. Although it was still broad daylight, not a single valet was to be seen anywhere in the house, wherein a lugubrious silence reigned. Not a word was to be heard, and as she moved from room to room the doors closed carefully behind her. The deeper they penetrated into the house, the darker it grew, and the
se precautionary measures so terrified Ernestine that she was on the verge of fainting by the time they reached the room wherein she was to be received. She at length arrived in this chamber, a rather spacious salon which overlooked the public square. But the windows which looked upon the square were tightly closed; only one of the rear windows of the room was slightly ajar, through which a few rays of sunlight filtered through the lowered blinds, and when Ernestine entered the room it was completely empty. The poor girl was scarcely breathing: realizing none the less that her safety depended upon her courage, she maintained her sang-froid and said:
“Monsieur, what is the meaning of this solitude, and of this dreadful silence? . . . The doors which are carefully closed behind us, these windows closely shuttered so that scarcely a ray of light can get through them: all these measures have been taken with the express purpose of frightening me: where is Herman?”
“Sit down, Ernestine,” said the Senator, taking a seat between her and Madame Scholtz. “Remain calm and listen to what I have to say. A great many things have happened, my dear girl, since you left Norrköping. The man to whom you have given your heart has unfortunately proven that he is unworthy of your gift.”
“O Merciful Heaven! You frighten me!”
“Your Herman is a scoundrel, Ernestine. What remains to be determined is whether you are in any way involved in the theft of a considerable sum of money which he stole from Madame Scholtz. You are under suspicion.”
“Count,” said Ernestine, getting to her feet with as much nobility as steadfastness of purpose, “your artifice is discovered. I can see that I have acted rashly . . . I am as good as lost . . . I have fallen into the hands of my two worst enemies . . . I am completely at the mercy of those who have plotted my destruction. . . .” And, falling to her knees: “Almighty God,” she cried out, “I have now no longer anyone but Thee as my protector; do not, I beseech Thee, abandon innocence to the dangerous hands of crime and cunning!”
“Ernestine,” said Madame Scholtz, raising her from her kneeling position and forcing her in spite of herself into the same chair in which she had been sitting,” ’tis not a question of praying here to God, ’tis a question of replying. The Senator is in no wise misrepresenting the matter to you. Your Herman has stolen a hundred thousand ducats from me, and he was within an ace of coming to fetch you away when, fortunately, the entire affair was brought to light. Herman was arrested, but the money has still not been found, and he steadfastly denies having misappropriated the funds. ’Tis this which has led us to believe that the money is already in your hands. Meanwhile the whole affair is shaping up badly: there are several witnesses who have testified against him; several citizens of Norrköping have admitted having seen him leave my house under cover of night carrying some sacks beneath his coat. The crime has been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt, and your lover is now in the hands of justice.”
Ernestine—Herman guilty! Herman suspected of having committed a crime! And you believed it, Monsieur? . . . You allowed yourself to believe it?
The Count—Ernestine, we have neither the time to discuss this matter nor the time to think of anything save remedying the situation as quickly as possible. Rather than mention it to you to no purpose or grieve you senselessly, I wished to have the entire story before resorting to the scheme wherein you see me involved today. At present you are merely under the cloud of suspicion, ’tis for this reason I wished to spare you the humiliations of imprisonment. I owed it to your father, and to you, and I have fulfilled that obligation. But as for Herman, he is guilty. . . . No, my dear girl, ’tis even worse than that, and I tell you this with fear and trembling: he has been sentenced. . . .
Ernestine (blanching)—Sentenced! . . . Herman sentenced! . . . The very paragon of innocence I . . . O Merciful Heaven!
“The whole affair can be put right, Ernestine,” the Senator hastened to resume, supporting her in his arms, “the whole affair can be put right, I say. . . . All I ask is that you resist my passion no longer; grant me, here and now, the favors I demand of you, and I shall hasten directly to the magistrates. . . . They are within a stone’s throw of here,” he said, pointing to the public square, “they are assembled to conclude this cruel affair. . . . I shall fly out there to them . . . I shall take them the hundred thousand ducats and testify that the error was mine, whilst Madame Scholtz will withdraw all complaints against him and at the same time swear that ’twas but an error in the bookkeeping due to the reconciliation of accounts between Herman and herself, wherein the missing sum was posted twice. In one word, I shall save your lover . . . and that is not all: I shall furthermore keep the promise I made you, and within a week I shall see to it that you become his wife. . . . Make up your mind, Ernestine, and above all waste not a moment, for time is precious. . . . Bear in mind the sum I shall be sacrificing . . . the crime whereof you may stand accused . . . the dreadful situation of Herman . . . the happiness which at last will be yours, if only you consent to satisfy my desire.”
Ernestine—I, you would have me consent to such infamies! You would have me redeem, at such a price, a crime whereof neither Herman nor I were ever guilty!
The Count—Ernestine, you are in my power; the thing you fear can come to pass without your surrender. I am therefore doing more for you than I should by rendering to you him whom you love, upon condition you grant me a favor I can obtain without that clause. . . . Time is of the essence. In one hour ’twill be too late . . . in one hour Herman will be dead, and you will not be the less dishonored. . . . Reflect well upon this: your refusal will result in your lover’s death, without having saved your modesty, whilst the sacrifice of that selfsame modesty—the high regard in which ’tis held is imaginary—will result in the reprieve of him you hold so dear—what am I saying?—will straightway restore him to your waiting arms. . . . Credulous and falsely virtuous girl . . . if you hesitate between two such choices, you were guilty of a reprehensible weakness, nay, worse yet, of a most certain crime. By granting what I ask, you will lose naught but an illusory asset. . . . By refusing, you will be guilty of sending a man to his death, and that man whom you will have sacrificed is the one you love most in the world. . . . Make up your mind, Ernestine, make up your mind; I shall give you no more than five minutes.
Ernestine—I have already made up my mind, Monsieur. ’Tis out of the question to commit one crime in order to prevent another. I know my betrothed well enough to be certain he would prefer his own death to my dishonor, all the more so because he would not marry me after I had been debased. Were I to consent to your demands, therefore, I would render myself guilty without making him any happier, and my guilt would not have saved him, since he assuredly would not survive such an excess of horror and calumny. Therefore let me leave, Monsieur, and refrain from making yourself more criminal than I suspect you already to be. . . . I shall go and die beside my lover; I shall share his dreadful fate, but at least I shall die worthy of him, and I prefer to die virtuous than to live in ignominy. . . .
Then the Count became furious. . . .
“You expect to leave this house!” he said, fuming with rage and love, “you expect to escape me before I have satisfied my desire! ’Tis an empty hope; do not delude yourself, you wild creature. . . . Thunderbolts will strike the earth and wipe it out before I shall ever set you free, before you have quenched the flame wherewith I am devoured,” he said, taking the poor girl in his arms. . . .
Ernestine tried to defend herself . . . but in vain. . . . Oxtiern was a madman, whose wild schemes make one’s blood run cold. . . .
“Wait!” said Madame Scholtz, “wait one moment. Perhaps her reluctance stems from her doubts.”
“Perhaps it does,” said the Senator, “we must convince her.”
And taking Ernestine by the hand, he dragged her toward the windows which looked out onto the public square, and hurriedly opened the blinds.
“There, treacherous creature,” he said to her, “see your Herman and his gallows.”
&n
bsp; And indeed, there on the square stood the bloody theater, and poor Herman, on the threshold of losing his life thereon, appeared with a confessor at the foot of the scaffold. Ernestine recognized him . . . she attempted to cry out. . . tried to throw herself out the window . . . she felt her entire body growing weak . . . all her senses began to fail her, and she collapsed.
At this point Oxtiern rushed to accomplish his perfidious designs. . . . He seized the poor unconscious creature and, without being the least bit frightened by the condition she was in, he dared to consummate his crime, he dared utilize, to satisfy his uncontrollable rage, that respectable creature whom Heaven had abandoned and unjustly allowed to be subjected to the most horrible frenzy of his passion. Ernestine was dishonored without ever recovering consciousness; at the same moment, Oxtiern’s unfortunate rival submitted to the blade of justice: Herman was no more.
After they had ministered to her, Ernestine at length opened her eyes. The first word she uttered was Herman; her first wish was for a dagger. . . . She rose to her feet, went back to that terrible window which was still partly open, and tried to cast herself out of it, but they restrained her bodily. She asked for her lover, was told that he was alive no longer and that she alone was responsible for his death. . . . She shuddered . . . her mind became unhinged . . . disjointed phrases tumbled from her lips . . . sobs punctuated the words . . . ’twas only the tears which refused to flow. . . . Only after all this did she perceive that she had just been made Oxtiern’s victim . . . she cast a furious look at him.
“So ’tis you, scoundrel,” she said, “ ’tis you who in one fell swoop have ravished my honor and deprived me of my lover!”
“Ernestine, there is no wrong that cannot be made right,” said the Count.
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 82