"They are radicals who wish to expose institutions like Benzheim."
"Ah," said the old Baron; "nihilists. Poor Marie Fedo-rovna going to dances with them, not that she can of course. What a very odd life she must be leading these days. And Jean letting them come here and getting it all wrong. I don't know what to do with the boy, que le diable l'emporte."
"That is what we have come to talk about," said Count Bernin. "May we go into the library?"
Luncheon at Sigmundshofen an hour later was perfunctory. The men from Berlin had their boxes open beside them on the table and were scribbling.
"Bernin was wonderful," said Captain Montclair. "You should have seen him."
Clara signed the butler not to hand the cutlets again.
Captain Montclair helped himself to Moselle. "Those newspaper fellows were a bit of a break, weren't they? Well, it's an ill wind—"
The young ADC pushed aside his papers. "That's the lot. If you would really be so good, Count?"
"Certainly. My man will take them. The horse is ready."
"Thank you."
"Bernin—may I congratulate you on a not inconsiderable diplomatic victory?" said Captain Montclair.
"I have the station-master at Singen warned to flag the Basle-Cologne Express," said Count Bernin.
"Thank you."
"The man is reliable?"
"Entirely."
Captain Montclair pulled out his watch. "While you are all discussing this excellent brandy, I'd better be on my way. I must not keep my pupil waiting. . . ."
"Clara, would you touch the bell," said Count Bernin.
Nobody looked at Montclair as he left the dining room.
"You expect him to have trouble?"
"No," said Count Bernin. "He is a fool, but he's tough."
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I."
"Neither do I," said Count Bernin.
"It doesn't seem—well, I suppose—straight."
"I suppose there was nothing else—?"
"Unfortunately not."
"I'm afraid you must be right. Well . . . And you do advise the night train from Karlsruhe for us?"
"Definitely."
"We've put you to a great deal of trouble, Count."
"Not at all."
But when the Express was stopped at Singen that night, there were no passengers, nor did the gentlemen return to Berlin, for Johannes on hearing his fate had swallowed the heads of several boxfuls of sulphur matches.
Doctors replaced reporters at Landen. The old Baron never could stand them. He believed they brought bad luck. He loathed all illness when it was not connected with animals or could not be laid by a glass of wine and a beef steak, and in his family looked on it as a deliberate disgrace. And he was afraid of death. To have courted it at Landen appeared to him the crumbling of the last brick of sense and sanity. He kept to the library, tossed between terror and fury, admitting no one except Count Bernin and Montclair, certain that the reign of chaos had come down on him.
"Worse than the Great Revolution," he said. "Worse."
Gustavus's entrances were tolerated as he carried messages.
Johannes had been having a kind of convulsion and been very sick. This had taken place in a barn, but the dogs had become alarmed and managed to attract Gabriel's attention. Johannes was given soap-and-water and later had his stomach pumped, and this unnerving experience had left him shocked, sore and weak. Now, he was still in pain, quite out of danger, and lay, drawn in a tight ball, shivering in his bed, banked by hot-water crocks, a prey to Clara's ministrations. Zoro lay motionless stretched flat on the floor, heaving from time to time a deep groan. Clara was trying to talk to Johannes of his great sin. A loud clock was ticking in the room.
Johannes had his face turned against the wall.
Outside, Gabriel was walking about the house, weeping.
"You must never despair," Clara said. "If you allow despair to fill you, you will be alone. You will have shut out
God. Offer your suffering to God and He will be with you.
"There is no cause to despair. You must accept your sufferings, you must will them in your heart, moment by moment, as His Will. If you can do this, you will no longer be alone, you will never be afraid. . . .
"I will pray for you. Pray that you may understand God's Will. So that you shall be comforted and no longer alone. . . ."
But Johannes's mind, clamped in stony misery, darkened by closing waves of noncomprehension, could not hear. And when Julius walked in, fresh from the station with Gabriel clutching at his coat, he found the curtains undrawn, Clara on her knees and Johannes still turned against the bedroom wall.
Clara did not rise, and Johannes did not turn, but Zoro sprang upon him in elastic ecstasy.
"Down Zoro. Dear Zoro. Down!"
At the sound of his brother's voice, Johannes unwound himself.
"Jean, mon pauvre Jean?" Julius said, trying to embrace him. "What in God's name—?" And at last Johannes turned his face.
"Kitchen matches, you know the kind that make that smell, he ate them," said Gabriel. "He chopped all the tops off with a knife and put them in a bowl of cider because Papa is sending him back to Benzheim. He read it in Le Petit Jules Verne Pratique. Zoro and Ursus came to fetch me. They saved his life. He's had a rubber pipe as thick as that put down his throat. Oh please, please, Jules, tell Papa."
"Jean, you idiot, what is all this?"
"Papa says I must go back to Benzheim. Papa wants me to go back to Benzheim.
"What nonsense, Jeannot. Not Papa."
"Papa says I must go back to Benzheim."
"Oh Jean, do speak in a normal voice. Papa knows what it was like. He wouldn't want you to go there again."
"Papa wants me to go back to Benzheim." "I am afraid it's true," said Clara.
The old Baron rather brightened when he saw Julius.
"You are not going to keep on this coat?" he said.
But when Julius began to speak about Johannes, he was ordered out of the room; and when he persisted, he was ordered back to Bonn. Julius stood his ground. His father turned on him with such violence that he fled, not so much in fear as in bewilderment.
He found Clara. "What is going on here?"
"We have all made a very grave mistake," she said. "I do not think your brother should be allowed to be sent back. The strain has broken his will. He is too young; it would be more than he was meant to bear. If we let him go, he may no longer be able to find his way out of his rebellion and we may condemn him."
"Oh for God's sake, Clara."
"Yes, for God's sake, Julius."
"I can't get anywhere with Papa. What has come over him? I don't think he understands."
"I understand," said Clara.
"What can we do?"
"I will speak to Father Martin. No, not Father Martin. He doesn't get on with my father. We must send for Father Hauser. // we can find him."
"Won't he be at the Seminary?"
"That was closed when they were expelled."
"Were they?"
"Oh Jules. We must try Schaffhausen. I'll give you a note. You must go at once and bring him back tomorrow morning if you can."
"Why Father Hauser? My father doesn't like priests."
"Do as I tell you."
"You're not going to have the horses out again tonight, Jules?" said Gustavus.
"I suppose they have had rather a day."
"Not all of them," said Clara. "Yours is quite fresh, Gustavus."
"I'll take him then," said Julius, "if I may, and the new mare. I hear she's not been out either."
"I really don't see—"
"Yes, of course, Jules," said Clara, "do take Gustavus's horse."
"Clara! are you out of your mind?" said Gustavus.
"Animals were created the servants of men."
"Really, Clara. Don't you ever think of what your father said to us?"
"How could I not? But dearest—my dearest, we must not be wilful."
"Of course not," said Gustavus, "of course not. But it's all very well for you . . ."
"Well?"
"No, no, I mean—I didn't mean—"
"Give me your hand, Gustavus. Oh Gustavus. You—I— We have this. We shall always have had this. We shall always trust one another. Gustavus!"
"Now Clara, don't cry," said Gustavus.
Father Hauser S.J. sat with Johannes for some time. He patted the dog; he smoked; he talked a little, mostly to himself.
As he was leaving, Johannes looked up and said, "Does Papa really want me to go back to Benzheim?"
Outside the bedroom, Father Hauser said to Julius, "I remembered him well. He hasn't altered much. Neither have you. I remember you all. Not that you were with us long—you stayed such a very short while, six weeks was it? to cure you of Newton. Funny now, I should have thought he was rather up your father's street; but you never can tell. It's so much harder for people who follow their own line, one mustn't wonder if they're a little inconsistent at times. Your brother here—he'll probably never make much of a Catholic, but he's all right, he's at one with the brute creation, as we call it. You have something of that, too, but with you it isn't, one might say, fused; it's instead . . . If you don't watch it'll only make you more closed. But of course you don't know how to watch. You will never know much about yourself. Still, remember, it is much to be able to love without expecting return. When you were sent to us, you brought your owl."
"She died three winters ago."
"Haven't you got another one?"
"I have a raven now. Jacques. He came."
"They always will, Julius."
"You are fond of owls, Father?"
"Not really, you know. Not really."
"It isn't true when people say they carry lice."
"I didn't know they said that. So you see. And I'm glad you came for me. It was a long way. He in there, you know: Jean," and Father Hauser used the word the old Baron had used not so long ago, "c'est un brave cceur. And he is very ill."
"The poisoning?"
"No. Not the poisoning. And now I will speak to your father."
Gustavus politely ran down the stairs before them. He was the first in the library. "Papa, there is a Jesuit who wants to talk to you about Jean."
"Prussians, Nihilists, Jesuits—" said the old Baron.
"My father is very sorry—he cannot see you, Father," said Gustavus.
"Will you see mine?" said Clara. "Oh," said Father Hauser. "I must speak to you first."
"No, Clara. Don't do that, my child. I will do my own asking."
Augustans ji
"Father Hauser!" said Count Bernin.
"Conrad Bernin," said Father Hauser.
"Is it safe for you to be here?'*
"Quite safe."
"I'm glad. No, they wouldn't want to arrest you; that wouldn't suit their book at all. Still, you had better be careful. There's always some blundering gendarme."
"So you've worked it all out, Conrad? Still at it. Does it ever come out right? Now you know, on your own showing, a blundering gendarme ought to suit your book."
"Hauser. How can you?"
"Oh I know you'd mind having me in prison. I didn't say you'd call him in. I am one of your inconsistencies, Conrad. But admit I'd serve?"
"There would be the most salutary uproar!" said Count Bernin.
"Accusations . . . counter charges . . . public lies . . . judicial half truths—"
"A man of your reputation and character."
"Never known to have taken part in politics."
"It could mean a turn in the Kulturkampf."
"It might lengthen it!"
"It might lead to a revision of the Edict of Expulsion."
"And a well-built deal."
"You would return!"
"We would return."
"What are you driving at, Hauser?"
"At what you refuse to see, Conrad."
"Don't you want to come back?"
"I? Very much. I can't stand the Belgian climate. And I've allowed himself to become attached to a certain view from our East wing; I like to look on the Vosges. Though, as you see, I am here a good deal. Still ... I should be able, for instance, to go to see my old friends at Sigmundshofen without having to wear this borrowed tweed jacket."
"And your penitents? Your pupils?"
"Our penitents, in spite of many excellent priests available, have taken to analysing their spiritual states by letter. It is true that this has greatly added to our work. And we are being sent rather more pupils from German parents than before."
"Yet the expulsion was a wrong?"
"Wrongs can only be redressed by the free consent of all concerned. The Creation is not a chessboard."
"You are not becoming a Quietist, Hauser?"
"Not a Quietist. But sufficient unto the day, Conrad."
"Such have not always been the views of your Order."
"Members of my Order are subject to error."
"And their products?"
"And their products, Conrad."
"And you?"
"And I."
"You may be in error now."
"Certain things are knowable," said Father Hauser.
"How?"
Father Hauser did not speak.
"How?"
"That," Father Hauser said, "is a strange question from a man of Faith."
Count Bernin lifted his head. "There are certain ends," he said, "certain ends . . ."
Father Hauser put away his pipe. "Conrad von Bernin" he said, "what have you been up to?'*
Count Bernin spoke; Father Hauser listened. Then Father Hauser spoke and Count Bernin listened. To every word he had to say. It was a great deal.
"And yet I cannot agree with you," he said at the end. "I cannot."
Presently, Count Bernin said, "There is too much involved."
And presently, "I can't help it that old Felden hasn't got his wits about him."
"Besides it's too late."
"You are not my spiritual adviser, you know."
"I did not start it. I never liked it."
"You know, if anybody does, I am not building for myself. Nor for my time . . "
"Oh those men. They're still in the house. They are nothing. Automata. Cut off. With their Nation and their duty to the State. They are blind men who must be led."
"Yes, if you like, used. On occasions used."
"Pride? My pride?"
"But I can see the future. I am not interested in the present."
"Nothing has ever been achieved without some cost . . ."
"No, no—there are such things as larger questions."
"No. I suppose I never have believed in anybody's happiness."
"Then my service? My life —. ? "
And later again, he said, "Can that place really be so bad?"
Presently Father Hauser said, "Well, good night, Conrad. It's getting late. I shall be back with you tomorrow." "Where are you going to sleep, Hauser?"
"Oh I'll find myself a place."
"What folly. If you are going to stay, you had better stay here."
"Thank you, Conrad. As you ask me, I will."
Next day, Count Bernin said, "And the Bishop of Bamberg?"
"Kramer is a good man, a very good man, but I doubt that God would let a single soul come to harm because Bismarck will not have Archdeacon Kramer appointed to the Episcopal See of Bamberg."
"He happens to be the one person who is able to get on with His Holiness and the Cardinal of Berlin. Now don't you go and tell that to those Government chaps."
"They wouldn't listen," said Father Hauser; "they all but cross themselves when they see me."
Later on that day, Count Bernin said, "Perhaps I haven't done so well by Clara either. Strange girl. Always at Landen these days, with her young man hanging about here. I thought I knew her. You are making everything seem very complicated, Hauser."
Father Hauser stayed four days. When he knew that he could ge
t no further, he left.
Count Bernin himself drove him across the Swiss Border. The two men embraced. "Good-bye, Conrad. Pray for me."
"Good-bye, Father. Shall I see you again?"
"Clara will know my whereabouts. Give her my love."
Count Bernin returned and faced the men who were uneasily lingering over their mission at Sigmundshofen.
It had become known at Landen that Captain Montclair was to take Johannes away with him as soon as he was strong enough to travel. Captain Montclair, kit and all, was staying at the house now. The old Baron, anxious to see an end of it, had left arrangements to him. Every morning Julius forced himself into his father's presence and tried to speak. The old Baron did what he had never done before, he put his hand to his heart and in a quavering voice threatened immediate stroke. Every day Julius fled.
Gabriel said to Julius, "Jean and I were going to run away together. To America. It is easy. First one hides in a ship, then we are going to hire ourselves out to herd buffaloes in the prairies. Jean would like that. But he won't come. He doesn't listen. He only says Papa wants him to go back to Benzheim. I don't love Papa any more. Do you? Must we still love Papa? I can peel potatoes on the ship and scrub the deck, then Jean wouldn't have to hide all the way and the Captain would give him a hammock and let him have some food. Ships biscuits is what you get, and pork from the salt-barrel. That's called working one's passage. But he won't come and I can't take him by myself, I'm too young. It would frighten him to go just with me. So you must come too. I thought it all out. You are grown-up and you have money, we could go on trains and it wouldn't be like running away at all. Jean wouldn't have to walk like the last time and have nothing to eat, and nobody could stop you. When we are in America we will write to Papa and he will forgive us."
"You are a child, Gabriel," said Julius.
In the evening, Gabriel said, "Perhaps it was stupid about America. It's too far, and we don't know where the ships are. But you know better. You would know where to take him. And if you think I'm too much I won't come. You'll know best. Perhaps you can take him to your teacher at Bonn, or you could hide him in the house of the lady at Namur Papa says you always go to stay with. Namur isn't Germany, is it? I think if Jean were somewhere where he knew nobody could come for him from Benzheim, he would get well. Oh Jules do take him, do. When? Tonight?"
A legacy; a novel Page 7