HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue X, 7 September 1895, Page 303

HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

Translated from the German of Nataly Vox Eschstruth. Author of ‘ A Priestess of Comedy,’ ’Countess Dynar,’ ‘a Princess of the Stage.

E -sr

ELISE L. LATHROP.

CHAPTER XVll.—(Continued.) Mignon blushed deeply as Count Cyprian bowed before her, and with the most gallant words, offered her his arm. She accepted it with an expression of solemn gravity, as it seemed to him, and none too willingly, for Mignon hated anything noticeable. Why had the count made such an unusual request ? Was it true, as they said, that he occasionally made a joke of taking young girls into dinner, and afterwards ridiculing their simplicity and lack of experience ?’ Two of her young friends had, in confidence, poured out their heaits about Count Cyprian to her, and, strangely enough, one told exactly the same story as the other. Mignon was no average girl. She remembered other strikingly similar conversations, and drew her own conclusions. Especially as, in secret, the memory of a handsome man, still young despite his grey hair, whose hand had held one of her braids, who had handed her a red rose with such a fascinating glance, was still fresh in her heart. Mignon was neither shy nor quiet, and would chat very animatedly ; but to-nignt as she sat beside the captain, she was silent, and only her large, brilliant eyes glanced at him occasionally, questioningly, a* though ready for the expected conflict. Aha, now he turns toward her ; now it will be decided. • Tell me. Miss Mignon, you are probably fond of skating ?' A change comes over the girl’s madonna like face, and her eyes flash. • Not at all I* say she, drvly. ‘I am far more enthusiastic over pretty, harmless anecdotes.’ The count listens in amazement. Strange ’ Is he deceived, or did the girl’s voice sound ironical ? Still he remains unsuspecting. ‘Anecdotes? Delightful? I have several fine ones. Which will you hear? The one about the much-tormented lieutenant or the stern boarding-house keeper? Of the everthirsty student—* Val eral suddenly pauses in surprise at the undefinable look on the rosy face. 4 If it suits you, Count Lankwitz, 1 would rather hear your opinion ot the pastor who confirmed me,’ says she, calmly : but her delicate nostrils quiver with suppressed laughter, and though she tries to make her voice sound ind-.flerent, t-veiy word is mocking. The scales suddenly fall from his eyes ; for a moment he is speechless, greatly embarrassed, for almost the first time in his life. Then he leans back in his chair and laughs, laughs more heartily than he has for years. Whether Mignon likes it or the reverse, he seizes her soft little hand and draws it to his lips. • I have not had such a snub in years/ he cries, delightedly, ‘ and I have never before bowed my head so remorsefully. The deuce ! That was a fine stroke, Miss Mignon. You have stretched me halffainting at your feet; now’ be a generous conquerer and tell me frankly who betrayed to you my plan of war by which usually I conquer.’ She shrugs her shoulders and joins in his laughter. ‘ Even among girls there is an “ Alliance chiffon (T enfant socialef says she, jokingly. ' A defensive and offensive alliance in accordance with the demands of modern women, and which exacts equal rights for its youngest as well as its oldest sister. In this case, sozial equality,’ ‘Good gracious !’ Cyprian leaned forward, his handsome face flushed with interest and amusement. ‘ Do you read the papers. Miss Mignon?’ • Of course.’ ‘ And you swear by the flag of those fair malcontents who, as long as the world exists, can rule the hearts of men, and thus the world, and yet are not satisfied with their power.’ ‘ This power is of too problematical a nature. In thia case woman is like the fetish of the Africans, before which the men bow and do homage until they think it well to thrash it for a change.’ Cyprian laughed. You refer to barbaric affairs. Cudgels are unknown in Germany, thank fortune.’ • Actual ones, yes ; but there are moral ones here as in every land.' ‘ Mention one.’ ‘The injustice and inconsistency with which women are treated.’

• How calmly you utter such long words. < an you illustrate your view with an example?’

‘Certainly.’ Mignon pushed back a golden curl from her temple, and smiled. She argued without becoming the lea*t excited or arbitrary. ‘What inconsistency toward women is displayed by placing them on an equal footing with men in one respect, when it is advantageous for the men—l mean in the matter of taxes—and yet denying them all other rights? Every poor working woman who supports her children by her own hand must pay taxes without hope of pity, for man generously admits a woman can work as industriously as a man. But when any matter affecting the welfare of the whole people is to be decided, she is denied any voice. That is inconsistent. If it is admitted that a woman is capable of supporting a family, and if she pays taxes like a man, she should have the same right that a man has to vote.’

‘ You forget, Miss Mignon, that we distinguish between very different kinds of work. A woman, may, perhaps, hoe potatoes, wash and iron and sew excellently, without having the slightest idea of social matters, politics and the burning topics of the day. A clever hand does not always necessitate brains.’

‘And is a peasant who has grown up in the same atmosphere as his wife cleverer and more enlightened than she ?’ ‘ln this case, yes. In every village there is a tavern, and in this tavern politics are discussed. Drivers, travellers, peddlers bring news from the outside world, and the peasant sits and hears them discussed, while his wife is home, cooking and looking after the children, within the narrow bounds that nature has determined for her for centuries.

‘Very well, I admit that. Besides, I am convinced that every true woman would prefer such activity to a fight with public opinion. But then one should leave woman to her quiet, unpretentious work, and not overburden her, or, if this must be, then decree: “ Whoever pays taxes is en titled to vote. Those who pay none are not.” That would he just.’ Cyprian smilingly shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Women pay taxes for the civil comforts the} ? enjoy, for protection, order and law. Whoever is a member of a community must pay his or her share. The bead of the family is the man.’ Involuntarily Mignon glanced at her im posing mother, behind whem Baron Ohly was completely eclipsed. • You are silent, Miss Mignon, but you look as thoughtful as though my words had not fully convinced you,’ said Cyprian, his eyes resting with ever increasing enoyment upon the bent head of bis neighbour, whose face at thia moment was as expressive as a song without words. She smilingly shook her head. ‘ No, I am not yet convinced.’ ‘ Then let us continue the discussion? ‘Not now.’ ‘ And why not ?’ She smiled mischievously. ‘ Because the present course, if it is to be enjoyed, must be eaten while it is hot.’ Again he laughed more animatedly than in a long time. How charmingly this little thing understood the art of remaining gay and neutral, despite the grave, forbidden theme. He ate the delicacies before him, but very absent mindedly At this moment he would have eaten birds’ nests without the slightest notice. ‘So, then, an “ Alliance chiffon d'enfant!”’ he laughed, returning to the beginning of their converse’ ion. • And this aims at the equality of girls with grown women. Delightful ! Decidedly the best fin de siecle arrangement I have met with. Pray explain it to me. What do the young ladies demand ? Eight hours a day of society ?’ How well that teasing manner became him. Mignon flushed again slightly. ‘ Eight hours of such work would probably become unendurable in a short time. No, we debutantes fight against a position in society which makes every gentleman think he has a right to ridicule us.’ ‘ You cannot possibly make such an assertion from experience?’ ‘ My own experiences begin to-day, with thia, my first appearance.’ • Indeed. Then you were regaled with fairy tales ?’ ‘ Ah ? rXre you fond of skating ? Do you like to hear anecdotes? Who confirmed you? Those are three questions which one is always perfectly justified in putting to a strange young lady. Tell me, truly, did you ask my mother them when you met her again at the court ball ?’ He laughed again. ‘No, Miss Mignon, these questions would

be insulting to a lady of your mother’s intellectual ability.’ • And not to me V ‘No, although now that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, I should not address them to you.’ ‘ And you would ask them of Miss von Thurn and Greta Lisbach, just as before ?’ • Without the slightest prick of my conscience.’ ‘ Ah ’ There is the scorn of our girlish existence.’ • Do you require me to entertain your friends with scientific and political topics ?’ ‘ Yes, did you not me? And is it much of a request that my sisters should enjoy the same recognition as others?’ ‘ We are coming back to the AZZtance social*.,' said Cyprian, smiling. • As in the great woman question of the time, only a few of the cleverest women are at the head of a grumbling crowd, so you. as an unusually gifted and intelligent young lady, have undertaken the leadership of your girl friends. Do you really believe that er*ry woman is capable of study, and occupying a position in the world ? A thousand times no. Nature has placed a barrier in woman’s delicate physique, which can never be removed. Thousands of women would ruin their health by study and the practice of a profession, and our poor, nervous, miserable generation would bo completely enfeebled. But the few women whose bodies can keep pace with their minds are so rare that an agitation for their sakes is not worth while. They will accomplish their purpose without it, even under present circumstances. And now we will draw a parallel. You just mentioned Miss von Thurn and Greta Lisbach. I will boldly assert that it would be impossible to hold an interesting conversation with these shy and superficial little things.’ ‘ Try it.’ ‘ No.’ ‘ And yet you make an assertion ?’ ‘Yes. And for the reason that it was not possible to talk with these ladies on the simplest one of my three topics.’ • Impossible. They were surely piqued by your manner, and punished you with silence.’ ‘ Certainly. And just by that proved their incapacity, and that they had no right to demand anything better. Arrogance is always a sign of foolishness. No one will carry on an intellectual conversation with those ladies, even if they live to become great-grandmothers. But when one is interesting and amusing, oven as a mere girl, she will be able to parry these insignificant questions cleverly ’ Cyprian raised his champagne glass, giving Mignon a very speaking glance. ‘ And win the respect of every man by her charming conversation. Here’s to the Alliance chiffon, Miss Mignon. You do not need it. for you have conquered even before war was declared.’ The glasses clinked, and Mignon’s cheeks crimson roses. CHAPTER XVIII. Princess Rafaela was dressing her littte son’s Christmas-tree herself. She stood on a stool under the spicy branches, and raised her slender, rounded arms to fasten on all the gilt and silver ornaments that Count Cyril presented to her on a tray. The slender figure was clad in black velvet, and on her curly hair rested a little widow’s cap of white crepe Her only ornament was a string of rare pearls around her white throat, which rose gracefully from the broad black gauze bertha. She turned her rosy face toward the young chamberlain. ‘ Does this angel look well here, or shall it hang higher, count?’ Cyril drew’ back a step and inspected it. ‘ Will your highness see for yourself ? In my opinion the pretty little thing is too much hidden by the green.’ ‘ Let me decide.’ Involuntarily she held out her hand to be helped down from the stool. Cyril stood at her side, her soft, little right hand rested in his, and for a second their eyes met, and each thought of the same moment — that unhappy moment when the loveliest of princesses, a bride, tore her court train from her cavalier’s hand. A deep flush rose to the young widow's cheeks, she glanced up hastily. ‘ Yes, the angel hangs too low, the wings are entirely hidden. Please try how it looks on the upper branch.’ And then she watched Cyril’s hands as

they executed her commands. Did they tremble or was it only the unusual work which made the count awkward? He had trouble in accomplishing his task. Rafaela stole a glance at his face. Each day she marvelled afresh at the change in it. She did not understand how she could ever have disliked him or thought him eccentric. The repellent, misanthropical look of the past bad given way to a pleasant gravity, and he seemed charmingly just to and considerate of his fellow men. It was even said that the count’s latest hobby was to make himse'f the zealous defendant of all whom society con demned.

How did it happen that her child had such a tender, passionate liking for this grave, quiet man? He is the only one of whom Rafaela is not jealous, and with whom she is willing to share Carl Henry’s love.

• It is well that we have so many little angels to adorn the tree,’ said Cyril, busy fastening the little winged dolls. ‘The prince is especially fond of them, and will be much pleased.’ ‘ You have made nim love the Christmas angel by your pretty stories, the angel and his mother in one person,’ replied the princess, gently, ‘and no one appreciate.* that better than I. Oh, Count Lankwitz,’ she continued, warmly, ‘ how much I have to thank you for. It is the first tree I have ever dressed for my child. Often it seems like a dream to mo that the little one really loves me so tenderly. Hear him now calling at the door: “Mamma, mamma !’* The little fellow is curious, and oh, it is so hard for me not to bring him in. But 1 must take him a few bonbons.' And happy as a child herself, the princess rushed out of the room, and on the other side of the door, Cyril heard her laughing and petting the little prince. He drew a deep breath. How indescribably sweet it would be to be a spectator of such happiness ! Rafaela returned. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone with happiness. ‘ Oh, he is so happy, count '.’ she cried. ‘ And he persists that mamma must he the Christmas angel to-night and bring him all his pretty things from the Christ-child.’ The young chamberlain drew a step nearer. • Your highness, I too. have a great Christmas wish on my heart.’ She listened delightedly. ‘Anything, anything ! Pray speak, my dear count.’ ‘ln the sense of the little prince, I would fain beg you to be this evening, in the child’s eyes, the bright form he looks for. Do not prove the tale I told him false. Wear a white gown to-night, and let him still imagine his mother is the angel which look* and words so often prove her.’ Rafaela had bowed her head. ‘ Leave ofl mourning for the first time. Wear a white gown for the first time,’ she whispered. • That is a surprising sugges tion, and yet—yet, you are right, count. For the child’s sake. He must not lose Lis belief in your kind words.’ She glanced at the tall figure almost hesitatingly, and continued still more softly : ‘ Henry is so fond of you. And nothing must shake his love. The child has so very much to atone for his mother, Forgive me for his sake,’ she added, holding out her hand. Cyril started, and for a moment his face was deadly pale. Rafaela did not see it. He stooped and kissed her hand. When he raised his head again his face wore a tortured look. ‘ Forgive ! What have 1 to forgive, your highness ?’hn g--i-;>ed. ‘ln all humility. 1 have to teg y»u • □ forgive whatever in my mad delusion ’ ‘ Count Cj ril, we wfre both foolish children. We obstinately clutched the thorns, and trod the roses under our feet.’ He shook his head in his old gloomy way. ‘ 1 was a poor weak creature, mentally and physically ill, blind and deaf, wandering on a false path. This is Christmas eve, a feast of kindness and charity, your highness. Do not let me go away emptyhanded, among all those who are bidden peace on earth. Let me be certain that you will forgive and forget all that I have ever done.’ Her large, astonished eyes rested anxiously upon his flushed, excited face. • Good heavens, how strangely you speak, count. \Vha‘ ( has happened ? What have you done to me that I have not done to vou ? We mutually vexed each other, and

made life hard. That is no crime, and I have lon u, lone ago forgiven you that.’ For a moment Cyril struggled with himfelt that this was the right moment to throw himself at her feet and confess all. There, beneath the Christmas-tree branches, surely she would forgive him. He opened his lips ; his hands pressed together in passionate conflict —when there was a knock at the door. Too late The princess turned tier head, and Cyril drew back with a sigh. A lady-in waiting appeared, followed by a lackey, who carried a large object, wrapped in white tissuepaper. • Pardon, your highness, if we venture into this mysterious Christmas room, despite your commands,' said Miss von Kiegnitz. • But here, the guilty cause is C ount Cyprian Lankwitz.’ Cyril raised his head suddenly, but the princess went toward the lackey in astonish* ment. * Captain Lankwitz? What about him 9 ’ Mies Lola laughingly waved both hands at the package. •He sent this veiled picture to Sopbienhof. and when we sent it buck to him, your highness, with the message that your highness had given strict orders that no presents be received in Sopbienhof, he sent it a second time, with the laconic note : 44 In accordance with her highness’s wish, which is a command to me.” *

4 Strange. It must be one of his charming jokes. Do you not suspect what it may be, Count Cyril ?’

The young chamberlain shrugged his shoulders. * I regret that I am not informed, your highness,’ said he, in a hoarse voice.

'Shall we open it, your highness?’ asked Miss von Riegnitz, excitedly as a child. ‘ There is nothing else to be done, if 1 wish to learn what my own wish and command is.’ Rafaela smilingly drew near, and the lackey and Miss Lola hastily re moved the wrapping. ‘Ah ! Choice flowers ! They form the frame. A picture—a beautiful pastel. Turn it toward the light, Jean. What a magnificent castle. W hat does it represent your highness ?’ The princess stared speechlessly at the flower-framed picture. 4 Here comes No. 2— the pendant. Almost more beautiful than the first. That is beautiful, but quite unfamiliar to me.’ 4 Yes, quite unfamiliar !’ Rafaela blushed to the roots of her curly hair. ‘Count Cyril, do you know these castles ? Are they Neudeck and Soldau ?’

Cyril slowly approached the little group. ‘ Yes, your highness, our old family possessions,’ said he, dully. And his eyes rested as though in frightened question upon her blushing, embarrassed-looking face. * How comes my father by ;-uch a strange idea ? Is it all a mistake ?’ Rafaela hastily shook her head.

* No, no — I remember now — I expressed a wish to see the castles—but—but—l did not fancy that your very charming father—’ In her embarrassment she stooped and touched a flower — spray of orangeblossoms caught in the lace of her sleeve. She loosened it and fastened it in her gown. • Put the pictures here, in these two chairs, Jean, so, and now 1 ask you to leave me alone. It is already growing dusk, and 1 wish to arrange the playthings for Henry quite alone.’ She had gone to the window and stared out, only giving a slight nod as Lola and Cyril left the room with u bow.

She was alone. Quickly she turned, glanced around the room, then went up to one of the pictures—Castle Soldau. Her cheeks were still deeply flushed, ana the flush deepened the longer her rested upon the pastel. How long she had wished to see his home. Cyril had grown up here ; behind these walls he had lived for years ; here he would take the wife of his choice some day to a life of secluded happiness, or so at least it was said he had told the duke, as rea-on for not desiring a career. Here. How happy one might be in this idyllic old castle. From this tower room there would surely be the moat beautiful view of the mountains. One could look far down into the valley, for ( astle Soldau lies on high ground. One could watch the foamy river rushing by, and the eye could wander for miles over the dark forest. Yes, here life would bo beautiful for two who loved each other. Whom would he choose some day ? Rafaela drew a deep breath, and passed her hand over her forehead, as though to banish foolish thoughts. ■ Alas they could ne’er come together. The waters were far too deep—’ Poor princess, how far removed from all happiness ; how solitary thou art. The shadows deepen in the room. It seems as though invisible bands drew a da- k veil over Castle Soldau. The princess still stands before it in deep thought. It was very charming in the captain to send her the pictures. Surely her most pleasant gift ; and yet—if only Cvril had not been at her side. He had

seen her confusion. He had gazed 00 pene tratingly at her face. Suppose ho should fathom her interest in his home, and conclude that her friendship for him was more deeply rooted than was apparent. Rafaela pressed her little hands to her throbbing temples and smiled mournfully. No, Count Cyril does not think of love—that feeling does not exist in his calm, cold-blooded heart. He will marry some day from a sense of duty, but he will never know a true passion—nothing could be further from his whole nature. No, Cyril does not suspect that Rafaela wished to see Castle Soldau for his sake. She bends down close to the flowery frame, then, with fairly feverish zeal, begins to arrange the playthings for Carl Henry under the spicy fir branches. Meanwhile Count Cyril stands in the next room, at the high window, and stares out into tho twilight of the park. He is absent-minded —so absentminded that even the little prince turned from him and followed his English governess out of the room. Miss Lola had turned curiously to Cyril when the princess dismissed them both. ‘Count Lankwitz, if this is the first Christmas surprise of her highness and your father, what will be the second ? said she with a meaning smile, humming a few bars of the wedding march from ‘ Lohengrin.’ The young chamberlain's eyes flashed so threateningly upon the indiscreet young lady that Lola paused in alarm. Ho silently shrugged his shoulders and turned his back upon her. Then, piqued, she turned on her heel, and drew Carl Henry’s governess down on a sola beside her, where they whisper and murmur over this last bib of news, until the governess is called from the room, when Miss Lola, with a malicious glance at the • schoolmaster in the chamberlain’s uniform,’ seats herself at the piano and begins to thump out one Christmas carol after another.

It seems to disturb him but little, for he stares out at tho winter landscape as calmly as though he were really as unsuspecting as he pretends. Lola cannot bear the count, since he ignores all her coquetries, and always frowns upon any scandal repeated to him. What business has he here, since her highness has returned to Sophienhof? They have persuaded the princess that Carl Henry cannot live without him, and so she summons him on all occasions. Perhaps the chi d is but the pretext, and rhe stern Hosanna must play the postilion <l' amour t until time and public opinion permit ‘Madam Potiphar ’ to bring home her * chaste Joseph.' Lola bangs the keys more and more fiercely, and when the electric lights are turned on and Cyril calmly picks up a book and seats himself at one end of the room, Miss von Riegnitz closes the piano and leaves. The lights burn on the Christmas tree, and Carl Henry, clinging in trembling excitement to Cyril’s hand, enters the room, staring with great, delighted eyes, at his young mother, who hurries to meet him. Behind a thick screen of evergreens, some choir boys sing Christmas carols, anil before the little prince stands a radiant form — Rafaela. * Yes—now you are really the angel !’ cries the child, with flushed cheeks, and throws his little arms around her. Soft folds of white silk envelop the princess’s form. A golden girdle confines them at her waist, and in her curly hair, she wears a little gold crown with a diamond star. • You dear lovely, Christmas angel!’ cried the child, smiling rapturously. Rafaela’s young face shines with happiness ; it is beautiful to see her as she leads her littie son to the tree. The Christmas carols are ended, and the room resounds with the little prince’s joyous cries. Rafaela hurries hither and thither, bringing all present up to her surpiise table. She also comes up to Cyril. He not look as happy as usual, there are dark shadows beneath his eyes. She gives him a bewitching smile. 4 Formerly, as a child, I bestowed an order upon a Lank witz,’says she, jestingly. ‘ To-day, I am too old for such acts of selfwill. I can only bestow decorations of thanks and friendship. Take this, count, and in after years remember the delightful stories which you used to tell my son nt his mother.’ She places a small case in his band, and waits for him to open it. With trembling fingers, Cyril does t*o, and a faint cry of delight comes from his very hearb. A picture in the form of a medallion, framed in sapphires and diamonds, representing the prince-** a« an ange‘, clad in white, with golden wings on her shoulders, and holding a twig of evergieen in her hand. ‘ Your highness,' he stammers, and again, * Your highness !’ She has never seen such a look in his eyes before. She holds out her hand confusedly. He presses it almost roughly to his burning lips.

• But now 1 seriously beg vou to keep your promise, Rafaela,' says the duke’s voice behind her. ‘You took a fancy that you would not hand me your list of wishes until this evening, and assured me that I could fulfil them on the spot. Now, then, where is the paper ?’ The princess smilingly handed him a little envelope, and while the duke opened it, Renee and Princess Hermine leaned over his shoulder with eager interest. All laugh heartily. ‘Good gracious, you are partly very modest, partly very pretentious, in your demands, little sister,* cries the duke, evidently pleased. • But you forget that 1 am not a despot, that I cannot dispose of the bodies and souls of my subjects. Here, my dear Lankwitz. This paper interests you. The princess begs Count Lankwitz as tutor for her son. You have something to say in connection with that, eh ?’ The young chamberlain grows dizzy. He does not know what answer he makes, he only knows that he kisses the princess’s hand again, raises the delighted prince in his arms, and buries his face in the child's soft, golden curls. Yea, it is Christmas, and a voice seems to murmur to his heart : * Peace on earth.’ But hark ! A shrill discord which cuts his heart like a two edged sword. * No, Rafaela, as yet I have not obtained the slightest information in regard to the pseudonym,’ says the duke, behind him. * Strangely enough, 1 was fully convinced that an estate like the Bahrenberg estate would buret even the most mysterious seven seals.’

‘So this hope is crushed again.* How harsh and bitter sounds Rafaela’s sweet voice.

‘Are you really so anxious to find out who the person is who so mortally insulted vou as the author of “Madam Potiphar!" I thought you had become quite calm.’ Cyril does not see the princess’s face. He only sees how passionately she clasps her hands.

* Ob, Henry, I would give halt my life to find it out I’

Lankwitz draws back into a window recess and buries his face in his hands with a groan.

- Oh, God, let this be enough punishment I’ his heart cries out. ‘ I have sinned but I have also atoned ! The angels promise me peace and happiness at Christmas time, and yet they drive me back again and again from the entrance of Paradise !’ He set his teeth in passionate agony. A few hours before the confession of his fault had trembled on his lips. He had wished frankly to confess all to Rafaela, and now! Her picture burns like fire upon his heart.

Shall he sacrifice all, give up all that makes him partially happy ? Now, now’ when she herself has called him to be near her, when he saw her eyes shine so strangely— No, a thousand times no. Rather die than lose her friendship now. He crnnot. He would break his heart if he must be torn from her. In this hour he knows that his lips must be sealed forever. And he will carry his secret to the grave with him. He can bear everything but her disfavour. Love which can make a hero of a man also makes him a coward and slave of his passion. CHAPTER XIX. Count Cyprian was a remarkably frequent guest in the Ohly house. At first he did not try to account for the charm that attracted him there, but soon he discovered that his thoughts were greatly occupied with Mignon’s unusual, fresh, young self, and all the more the more opportunity he had to become better acquainted with her. She was decidedly different from most girls of her age. Very reserved, without being stiff, grave and yet with occasional flashes of roguishness which were all the more charming in contrast with her usual gravity. Cyprian became deeply interested to discover whether he was still capable of making an impression upon this young girl's heart. He remembered with groat pleasure that young girls often have an especial liking for men considerably their seniors. His mirror told him that gossip was right in calling him the * ever young and handsome.’ His slightly grey hair made him, if possible, more interesting ; scarcely a wrinkle diefigured his handsome features, and many ladies, old and young raved over him. Why should Mignon Ohly alone prove an exception !

She did not betray by the slightest sign that his coming and going interested her more than that of any other. At first she had often bluehod, without especial cause, down to her white throat when he spoke to her or looked at her unexpectedly, but she seemed to have noticed that he often made use of this trick to watch her, and became more and more shy and reserved.

Besides this, the count still impatiently racked bis brains to think where be bad seen Mignon before, or whom sbe so strikingly resembled. It was a fleet ng recollection, but it annoyed him that ho could not place it, especially the beautiful golden hair. Yet all bis thinking was in vsin.

As the season had been very quiet on account of the court mourning, Baroness Ohly, at the wish of many friends, bad arranged a series of evenings for reading modern and classical plays. This evening they were to run over several one-act farces, and Cyprian remembered that some years before bo had once played the role of lover in one of these. He must still possess the copy of this role, and had promised to look for it among all the faded souvenirs of bis writing-desk. 80 he sat in the fading winter afternoon light at his desk and drew out one souvenir after another, amusing himself at sight of some long-forgotten ones. He smoked an excellent Havana and bummed to himself a merry tune : *lt is astonishing what a quantity of billets-doux and keepsakes one person can accumulate,’ he said to himself, knocking the ashes from his cigar, as he opened an elegant portfolio filled with papers. ‘What have we here? All the notes of what seems to have been an unusually gay season. Strange writing—a lady’s writing. The deuce I- Baroness Ohly ! What does this mean ?*

A flush rises to his face as he reads, and an exclamation as joyous as that of any boy escapee his lips; then he laughs with radiant eyes, as he has not laughed for a long time. A kiss, a pledged kiss from Mignon. This discovery is worth millions. And he had wholly forgotten this delightful pledge. Incomprehensible. The captain sprang up and paced the room excitedly. A kiss from Mignon. Shall he claim it? Yes, indeed, at any price. Valleral had kissed many women in his life, but never such lips as Mignon’s. He will be the first butterfly to sip the dew from this blossom, and no one shall deprive him of this privilege. The captain has not been so excited for years. It seems to him that his heart beats more rapidly than such an elderly heart should, at thought of Mignon’s kiss. Shall he ask permission? Nonsense I He will surprise her, and only after the deed is accomplished will he show hie important document. Then his friend Florence will laugh and call him a ‘dreadful man;’ but she will forgive him. And Mignon ? Sbe will blush like a rose : she will hang her head, and perhaps fly like a shy roe ; but she will not be really angry, for, so far, all women have been more than willing that Valleral should kiss them. She will dream of this kies, and as often as she sees her rosy lipa in the mirror, she will think of the first kiss imprinted upon them. Cyprian will see that she is not angry too long. Hastily he consults his watch. It is high time for him to drees. With nervous haste he throws the papers, dried flowers, handkerchiefs, gloves and other things back into the draw of his desk, and rings for his valet. • Hey, my Figaro,’ he cries to the man, •show what you can do now. Use your arte to make of the old captain a young lieutenant. It is very necessary to-day, Moulin.’ Moulin emiles, and flatters hie master with all the refinement of a Parisian valet. When the count drove up to the Ohly villa, the butler opened the poor in some surprise. • Well, am I too early ?' laughed Cyprian. ‘The ladies have not yet entered the drawing-room, count. It is just half-past seven.’ ‘ The devil! Are the rooms lighted ?’ ‘Of course count, everything is ready.’ ‘Good. Do not announce me. I will wait here patiently until the ladies appear.’ • Yes, sir.’ The man threw open the folding doors, and Cyprian entered the warm, perfumed, brightiy-lighted suite of rooms, quite willing to have an opportunity of examining at hie ease all the treasures which * Friend Florence ’ had collected during her travels. A thousand and one elegant trifles. A modern drawing-room has no style unless it is that of the frequent international exhibitions. Cyprian thoughtfully walks through the rooms. He knows them all, but here, here at the end, next the baroness’s boudoir, a door stands half open. *1 do not remember this room,’ thinks the captain, peeping cautiously through the portieres. There is no one there. A rose-shaded lamp casts a dreamy, soft light over the delightful little room, which is furnished in rococo style, with pink-flowered satin, filmy draperies, Meissen porcelain statuettes, palms and flowers, together with sketches and cheap little articles, evidently relics of boarding-school days. Aha, Mignon’s mysterious realm ! The inevitable writing desk, so loaded with ornaments that there is room for anything

but writing, stands near a window, and, good gracious, souvenirs! There must be some trait io human nature to explain why memory loves to cling to tangible objects. Bunches of artificial flowers, little glass slippers, new yeai’s cards, vases, and last, but not least numerous pictures of very young ladies. Oh sacred • alliance chiffon d' enjant!' you too, demand your rights of the world. ‘lt is delightful to be able to rummage undisturbed in such a treasure trove ; only, unfortunately, there is no diary in sight. I have no scruples or honour when a boarding-school diary is in question. Ah—matters become more poetic. A red rose, framed, with a date beneath— Good heavens, this is serious. “ September let, 18—I” This date seems familiar to me - Let me see. September Ist, the year of the princess’s marriage. The duce, yes, on the Ist of September I returned to the capital and saw the unhappy entrance of the young couple. And this red rose—’ Cyprian suddenly raised his head and stared at it. *ls it possible that it could have been Mignon. Of course, of course. Fool that I was, was I blind that I did not recognise her ? The braids which enslaved me—her lovely eyes. Mignon actually Mignon 1’ The captain excitedly sat down before the writing-desk and took the little frame in his hand. His rose. A sudden great joy overcame the man. * Delightful of the sweet girl. Really, that is fairly touching. Sbe keeps the rose here as a souvenir of me —of me ! And donkey that I am, 1 did not recognise her ! Infamous !’ Mechanically he turned the frame over. There was a verse written on the back :— • Once more gladly would I meet thee And into thy dear eyes Raze ; But whate’er my fate, always, Oh. dear heart. I’ll bless and greet thee! Cyprian became quite overcome with de light. This was a surprise. Won, won at sight. He really did not care to have it made so easy for him, and it was just Mignon’s reserve which had so attracted him. Still, it flattered hie vanity, and it is always pleasant to know that one is loved. Now he will certainly kiss her. Now he need fear absolutely nothing. Valleral puts the frame carefully back in its (dace, and hastily leaves the room, tor he thinks be hears Baroness Ohly’s laughing voice. Unfortunately, several of the members of the reading-circle have sent iegrets. There are but four other guests beside Count Cyprian. They chat for a while over their tea ; now they sit in their hostess’s boudoir and, after assigning roles, begin to read a comedy. Count Lankwitz is more hilarious than usual, and friend Florence frequently has to call him to order. ‘Why, count! What are you reading? That is not in the book !’ ‘ Ha, ha ! He is improving upon the classics !’ 'Famous! That joke was worth more than the whole play !’ This from the guests. * Hush ! Now he becomes lyric. He even sings.’ * Dreadful ! My dear baron, pray take the book from him.’ * Miss Mignon, I would be vexed if I were you. He sings that song to you.’ ‘ Pardon. He is supposed to be thinking of his “sweet Lilly,” of whom I am only the echo.’ Tho young girl laughs. She sits near the blazing wood fire, which throws a red light on her hair. ‘lf I only knew whether the beforementioned Lilly had such magnificent braids as the sweet Mignon,’ sighs Cyprian, with a speaking glance. • For the sake of such braids I would even be a modern Laocoon and let myself be hopelessly entangled in the bright serpents.’ Mignon blushed, and her mother rapped on the table with her fan. * Nonsense Lilly is white as snow and black as ebony. Now, go on reading. Finish your monologue, count. It becomes more and more sentimental. You see a lady approaching from a distance, you hear again the long-sought siren voice singing : “O press thy cheek against my cheek !” ’ *Go on, baroness. Sing so that you may aid my imagination : “ O press thy ear against my ear.” ’ ‘Good for nothing. I propose that we give it up for this evening. The captain is in such a mood that he alsolutely cannot enter into the spirit of his role.' Then there was a period of general amusement. * You wrong me, baroness. You shall see that I ain heart and soul in it. Now then, I rush forward—’ ‘Stop? For mercy's sake do not upset the table.’ ‘ I cry joyously : “ Mignon, sweet Mignon, have I found you at last? You, the mysterious singer, at whose fe< t, on the let of September, I threw the red rose—” ’ ‘Nonsense. Your charmer’s name Is Lilly. No improvisations, if you please.’

Baroness von Ohly said it laughingly, much amused at Cyprian’s gaiety, but Mignon suddenly seemed petrified, and stared at the speaker with great, wide opened eyes. Valleral’s eyes were fixed on her crimson face. He continued with passionate gesticulation : * I open my arms passionately—’ ‘That is crossed out; keep away.’ * I throw them around the startled girl—’ 4 For Heaven's sake, count, are you crazy ?’ A faint, horrified cry, which is drowned in the universal tumult. Cyprian had suited the action to the word ; he had sprung up, caught Mignon in his arms, and kissed her trembling lips. Half fainting from fright, the young girl sinks back into her chair, but Florence stands drawn up to her full height, incapable of a word, an are all the others. ‘Count Lankwitz—that—that was infamous !’ comes finally from the baroness’s lips. She looks highly insulted and indignant. The captain turns to her with a beaming face, and humbly folds his hands. 4 Not infamous, dear lady, it was simply my right. 1 ‘Your right.’ Florence’s voice is very sharp. Instead ot replying, Cyprian draws a folded paper from his pocket and hands it to her, with eyes dancing with mirth. The baroness glances at it, Bushes and bites her lips. Then she laughs, at first faintly and embarrassedly, then more loudly, and evidently is conciliated. * I certainly never suspected such a trickand, in spite of my indignation, must declare myself powerless. Horrible, count ! Such a good memory and redemption of a pledge are notgent'emanly.’ 4 But intoxicatingly sweet and agreeable,’ declared the captain, seizing the speaker’s two hands and drawing them to his lips. His face is deeply flushed. ‘ You will forgive me, will you not ?’ he pleads softly. ‘ Unfortunately I have no right to be angry,’ laughs Florence, hastily freeing her hands, and holding out the paper to the astonished spectators. * Here, friends, look, listen.’ She reads aloud the bold words, which years before, at supper at a court ball, had been written on this paper. Stormy applause is paid this trick of Valleral. and the captain, doubly encouraged, turns to Mignon and tries to draw her hands to his lips, giving her a most meaning glance. But she draws them violently away. She has risen, and stands beside her chair, her lovely face so colourless that Cyprian gazes at her in alarm. Then their eyes meet. Never has the count gazed into such a pair of beautiful, flashing, furious eyes before. AU her deeply wounded pride, indignation and shame, lie reflected in them, and they fill with tears. She tries to speak, her lips quiver in vain. Then she turns her back upon the offender and has left the room before anyone can detain her. * Good heavens, count, what have you done?’ cries Florence, anxiously. * Mignon is not the person to play such jokes upon Sho is mortally insulted, and possibly will tell her poor, sick father strange tales of what is going on down here in the drawingroom.’ Cyprian stands motionless, his eyes still fixed upon the door behind which the young girl had disappeared. His handsome face wears an expression never seen there before. 4 “ With her thorns did prick the rose,” ’ said he, smiling and drawing a deep breath. 4 “ Vain were all his cries and woes, for ho then must bear it.” ’ And once more bowing over the baroness's hand with somewhat excited gaiety, ho assured herj: 4 Do not w’orry, my lady, it shall be my task to appease your charming little one, that no shadow may rest upon this hour. Early to morrow. I beg your protection and help in the necessary peace preliminaries. Now I will leave the field before Miss Mignon calls up a storm of indignation around my head. .<«. rerotr,' he bent his radiant face quite near and whispered : • Dearest mamma in-law.’ CHAPTER XX. Count Cyprian had not waited for his carriage, but hurried home on foot. The valet evidently had not expected his master before midnight, for he was away, and the captain entered his smoking room, which was lighted only by the reflection of the street lamp opposite. This dim light was to his taste. He removed his overcoat and threw himself upon a divan. His head burned, his pulses seemed on fire. He pressed his face against the sofa pillow like a love-sick boy, and laughed : 4 Valleral, crazy fellow, what have you done ?’ Cyprian bad kissed so many women in his life, but now all kisses are forgotten for those innocent, pure lips. How proudly

her eyes bad Hashed. It seemed to the man that he had suddenly left behind him the noi-e and dost of the streets, and entered a church upon whose altar stood the stainless lilies of innocence. An indescribable longing fills his heart, a longing for the paradise ot pure love. Is he justified in asking that of fate ? Can and dare he, a man at the turningpoint ot life, stretch out his arms for young spring. Unlike 1 Mignon, the budding blossom ; he, the tree in autumn, through whose branches so many storms have howled. Unlike, they are too unlike, and yet: 'Only in love can unlike mate with unlike.' Yes, the sharpest contrasts can be blended by the enchantress love. The captain rises and presses the electric button which turns on the lights, sits down, and in nervous haste writes a letter to Mignon’s parents, asking for the hand of their daughter. They will be an unlike couple. Dame Gossip will wring her hands, but the captain will defy her and ask : ‘Have you forgotten the bright arch that connects heaven and earth ? Love is its name.’ What a state of feverish excitement the count was in all that night and the next day. He paced his rooms restlessly as a caged lion. Every ring at the door bell made him start; no day had ever seemed so long. At last 1 Late in the evening the valet brings a letter to his master, The man's black eyes are fixed upon the count’s flushed face, for he suspects that this letter contains important news. Cyprian’s hands tremble with excitement as he opens the elegant envelope. He had never thought it possible he could feel thus. He reads. At first the letters dance before hie eyes, then suddenly they grow distinct, and he reads. Impossible 1 Unheard of. He, Count Cyprian Lankwitz has been rejected 1 Slowly he einks down into an armchair and stares at the graceful writing in which Florence communicates to him the hopeless fact that, unfortunately, her silly, obstinate little girl could not be induced to say yes. Neither representations nor coaxing could shake her in her resolution. No reason was given for Mignon’s refusal. Only at the close the baroness re marked that it was very necessary that the count consider such a step carefully, as an old proverb truly said : ■Raee. lands and years in equal share. Will ever make the happiest pair.' For a moment Cyprian felt as though his hopes had been shipwrecked, and as though the waves were dashing over his head. But only for a moment; then he sprang up and threw his head back proudly. Now Mignon is a thousand times dear to him than before, and if he had only felt before that he loved her, now he longed for her with all his passionate heart. Resistance is just what he bad never encountered before, and it spurs him on to fresh ventures. He rings the bell violently and orders his overcoat nnd hat. He will learn for himself why Mignon spurns him He is not oflended or angry ; no, he whistles to himself, with a smile on his face, and as he walks hastily through the mild, damp air, he even notices how suddenly the weather has changed. Why should it not? Has not one night sufficed to change his whole heart ? Where yesterday, with cool calculation and worldly wisdom, the hand of a princess was his sole aim, the capricious god of love has to-day enthroned in his heart a young girl, who has overthrown all other idols. Cyprian rings the bell of the Ohly villa violently. The baroness had not wished to receive any more visitors that evening, but the count’s plea of urgent business obliged the butler to announce him. Florence, in an elegant silk house gown, rises from her chair near the tire, tosses aside a book, and comes to meet the captain with outstretched hands. • Pnuvre diable!’ says she, laughing in her careless way. •Do you come to weep with me over the ruins of Carthage ?’ He kisses her hand. • Heaven forbid !’ says he, jestingly. • The Carthage of my hopes is not yet in ruins. On the contrary, the commander advances to take the hostile territory bv storm.' • Oh, you credulous innocent I’ ‘ This painful sigh which doubts my success assures me that the mother-in law is already won.’ • But if she is your sole booty, you are in a double sense defeated,’ laughed Florence. Cyprian leasingly shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Why dwell upon this mo«t terrible of possibilities? My circumstances would never permit me such extravagance.’ • This is the loading up to your pecuniary affairs,'cried she. amused, and leaning forward, added in u sepulchral whisper : • Have you debts ?' Ho nodded with droll gloominess, and wrung his hands.j ‘Unhappy man, how many?'

He fairly cringed at thought ot the sum he was about to name. • One dollar and thirty-five cente to my barber for cologne,’ he murmured dully. • Spendthrift!’ With a crushing glance the baroness took out her pocket book. ‘ There, pay your debts, and appear before my husband with head erect, and see if you can win him.' She rose and was about to ring, but Cyprian seized her hands and drew them to his lips. • Oh, you angel—’ ‘ Do not prevaricate so." • There are bad angels.’ 'Oh, truly. Pardon. Well what do you want?’ ‘ Let me not see your husband first. It will bo better for Mignon and me to ask is blessing together.’ ‘ You wish to declare your love personally to my little girl?’ ‘ I should like to try and correct the poor taste she has shown in not accepting me.’ • Very well. I will let matters take their own course!’ cried Florence, and ringing the bell, she said to the butler : ‘Ask Baroness Mignon to come here, but do not say that a guest is present.’ The door opened, and Mignon hastily entered. She wore a plain, blue cloth gown, and glanced first at the lounge. Seeing this unoccupied, she looked around the room in surprise. The lights were heavily shaded, and it was an instant before she caught sight of Cyprian’s handsome smiling face. The young girl started elightly, then threw her head back proudly, while her lovely Madonna face wore a more scornful, repellent look than Lankwitz would have thought possib'e. ‘Good evening, my dear Miss Mignon.' His gay tone seemed almost ironical, and she flushed hotly, bowed slightly, and started to leavo the room. ‘ A moment, Miss Mignon.’ More quick than she, he stood at her side, barring her exit. ‘You owe me an answer which I am justified in asking.* She freed her fingers energetically. ‘An answer?’ said she, with flashing eyes. • Has not my mother given it to you ?’ He drew up a chair. • Let us sit down. The discussion promisee to be lengthy,’ said be with a smile but she.remained standing, her whole face expressing opposition. •An answer is quickly given. lamin a hurry.’ •So much the better. Tell me very quickly that your mother’s letter was a great mistake, and that you love me as hugely as I love you, Mignon.’ He went up to her with outstretched hands, although she drew back angrily. ‘ Did mamma call me here to expose me once more to your insults. Count Lankwitz ? I forbid your jests, which you should not permit yourself to make to a school girl, far less to me. ’ ‘“Jests? 1 ” He frowned slightly. ‘I stand before you in all earnestness, and wish to prove this to you.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘So much the worse if you can compromise a lady in all earnestness. As you mention my mother’s letter, 1 know 'that you have received my answer, and think further conversation unnecessary.’ Again she turned to the door, but she paused involuntarily when Cyprian called her name shortly, almost imperatively. He came to her side. The smile had left his face, hie eyes flashed threateningly, they were so changed that Mignon gazed at him in surprise. ‘The answer which I desiro you have not yet given me. When a man asks for a girl’s hand, when he gives her hie whole heart and life and love, he is justified in demanding confidence in return. To refuse an offer of marriage is no child’s play, and a suitor may at least ask a reason for his rejection. You refused me wiihout giving a reason, and I am here to learn this reason.’ He had spoken loudly and violently, and during the words Mignon had stood proudly erect. Excitement diove the blood to her che< ks ; she could scarcely control her passionate irritation sufficiently to give the desired information. • When a man gives a girl his whole heart and life and lore I’ cried she bitterly. • Yee, then he may expect a dilierent answer. But I think the manner of such a man would be different from yours, count. You ask a reason for my refusal ? Good, you shall hear it. If I ever engage myself to a man ’ —she flushed still more deeply—* I expect first of all of him that he woo me properly, with chivalric honour and the necessary respect. Ido not wish to be my husband's plaything, his baby and pastime. I insist that, above all things, he treat me with respect, and not as a foolish child to whom one owes neither respect nor devotion.*

*ls this a complaint against me? Have I possibly not treated you in the right manner .?'

‘You? Me ?’ came like a horrified cry from her lips. • No, I am convinced that you would never have permitted yourself to take such liberties with a lady whom you

respected. In a mood, which reminds one of a champagne intoxication, you join our circle, jesting and parodying in a manner which certainly would not lead one to think you seriously in love. When a man recites verses as you did, and then suddenly clasps his neighbour in his arms and kisses her, no deep emotion is the cause ; on the contrary, he has mocked her moet flippantly, because — because my youth did not seem worth your respect. Your offer of marriage was to atone for the liberty you had taken with a girl when under the influence of wine, and the girl sent you the only possible answer. So we are quite. Now you know the reason of my refusal, and I h"pe will annoy me no longer.*

She had spoken with increasing violence. Cyprian’s eyes had rested delightedly upon her proud face. He had flushed at her words, and bit his lips in sudden confusion, but his face had brightened more and more, and now Valleral’s old humour shone in the eyes so grave a moment before.

•I thank you for your frankness, Miss Mignon, and thank you for the sweet confession which, unconsciously, you have just made. Man cannot fight against his nature, and the love which makes other people sentimental, perhaps, or pathetic and mournful, with me bubbles up like the beet champagne. And Hove you, Mignon. I love you with all my heart, and I will prove this to you, because you love me too. She had turned her face away ; now she gazed at him with her old defiance. ‘ I do not love you. Who dares say that ?’

He bent forward with such a fascinating glance that she hastily averted her eyes. • You, yourself, Mignon.’ said he, gently. ‘ The reason you give for refusing me comes from your pride. You are still too distrustful and revolutionary a member of the “ Alliance chiffon d' enfant. 11 Your heart had nothing whatever to do with the refusal you sent me, for instead of the long story that your offended pride told me, your heart would simply have bid you tell me : “ I will not marry you because I do not love you ” But you did not say that, Mignon, because you could not lie, and because the red rose on your writing-desk would at once have contradicted you.' She started so violently that her hand grasped the silken portiere*. ‘That rose?’ she stammered. ‘ What has that rose to do with you ?’ ‘ I gave it to you, and you kept it as a souvenir of me, Mignon. How near he bent down toward her, how tightly he clasped her hand. A sudden fear overcame her. She does not surrender so easily. With a sudden movement she freed her hand. ‘ As a souvenir of you ?’ What a false idea 1’ she cried violently. Whoever told you this tale of the rose on try writing-desk was taking advantage of you You certainly gave me the flower, but I kept it as a souvenir of the home-coming of-Princess Rafaela, whom I honour and love with all my heart. The rose was a souvenir of my princess, my lovely princess alone : but I shall now give it up since it has been so falsiy interpreted by you. You cannot fight against your nature. Very good. I cannot tight against mine, and a love which foams like champagne and dies away as quickly as this foam will always be a mystery and unsympathetic to me.’ And with a brief nod the angry little goddess disappeared, and Valleral stood motionless and looked after her. Had he made a false play? Had he really lost her forever? He tossed his head back with his old gay laugh. He is madly in love with this sweet, defiant, sharp-tborned little rose, who shall learn to like champagne foam - coute qui coute. Baroness Ohly once more stands beside him. ‘Well, can my husband give his blessing?’ she asks, with good-natured mockery. He laughs with her. ‘ Not to-day and not to-morrow, bub somewhat later.* CHAPTER XXL The thaw, which had lasted only three days, had melted the snow on the park lake, and when, during the night a sharp frost had occurred, the surface was such a smooth glare of ice that the duchess gave orders to prepare the lake for a cour t skating party. 1 he park, usually so quiet, now presented an unusually gay scene. The regimental band played, and carriages rolled hither and thither. Count Cyril Lankwitz, who had already entered his somewhat premature office of tutor to the little prince, waited with Princess Rafaela’s retinue for her highness to appear. As he had been detained over some work of Princess Hermine s, Cyril had made use of the little side corridor which connected Princess Rafaela’s private apartments with the ground floor by means of a winding staircase. Thin corridor, usually so dark, was quite light. The young princess seemed to have left her dressing-room already, for the door

■tood open, and involuntarily in passing Cyril had glanced in. He started slightly. At the foot of the divan upon which the princess loved to recline, stood an easel, and upon that, the light falling full upon it, stood the picture of Castle Soldau, his father s gift. It seemed .0 be guarded with especial care. A charming arrangement of blooming plants surrounded it, and- a sharp pain shot through the count’s heart—on the broad rococo frame a photograph was fastened. A man’s head, it seemed, and who could it be but his father? Cyril rushed on as though pursued. So, then, she does love him, althcugh in her first passionate excitement over * M adam Potiphar ’ she had denied it to the duke. Almost at the same time two ladies inwaiting returned to the dressing-room from the boudoir.

‘ Ha, ha ! In her haste she has left the photograph out to-day,’ said one iu a loud voice. ‘Well, was I not right? It is Count Lankwitz. I told you so.’ With feverish haste Cyril rushed on. It seemed to him as though he must put his hands to his ears that he need hear nothing more—be knew enough. When he entered the hall, the folding doors of the orangery were at that moment thrown open, and Rafaela, followed by a court lady, harried toward the waiting retinue.

She wore a costume of dark-green velvet and sable, and a toque of the same rested upon her graceful head. A bunch of magnificient roses was fastened to her little muff.

It- was the first time that the princess had officially appeared in colours. She looked very gay and animated, her dark eyes flashed, and her delicately oval face was rosy beneath her fine gauze veil. She turned and smiled at Count Cyril, but a shadow clouded her face almost immediately.

‘Do you not feel well, count ? You look so—so strange. The chamberlain bowed. ' c . a ? t '°™P la '9 of no physical ailment, you highness,’ said he, attempting to jest. You work too hard. I must command you to join our skating party more frequently. The flush on her cheeks deepened. She quickly turned to the door and entered one carriage, while Cyril and Miss von Riegnitz followed in another. Cyril glanced at the first smaller lake, which was crowded with skaters. The larger one was reserved for the court.

Count Cyprian stood among a group of officers and gazed at the approaching carriages with evident impatience. All the men hurried to intercept the footmen and open the carriage door for the princess, bub the rest drew back as a matter of course before the captain, allowing him to assist her highness alone. So, then, the conviction ot society that every day may bring the announcement of the engagement of this much discussed couple, is deeply rooted. Who are so well suited to each other as Madam Potiphar and Valleral?

* Dear me, count, why do you sigh so dolefully? said Miss Lola’s clear, mocking voice at his side. • Does the sivht of so many gay children of the world till you with horror ?’

‘The sight of a single one is sufficient,* said he, with a touch of tris-old sharpness. Then he opens the carriage door and springs out. B

Rafaela seems to have thanked Count Cyprian very briefly. She already advances toward the group of court ladies. ‘Good day, father.’ ‘ Good day, my boy.’ The captain slaps his son somewhat absently on the shoulder. The princess’s shortness must have vexed him, for there is a strange frown between his brows Cyril knows that hie father’s vanity is his vulnerable spot. Has he not said himself : • A lady’s graciousness cools me. Coolness attracts me.’ He stares moodily along the park road. • Are you not skating to day ?’ Cyprian shrugs his shoulders. ‘ I suppose I must. The duchess looks upon it, as well as dancing, as an affair of service.’ ‘ Will you accompany me?' ‘Go on ahead. I will come after you. ‘ Farewell !’ • Au revotr boy !’ Yes, he seems out of temper and unusually excited. A tormenting unrest overcomes Cyril, a despairing passion which flashes in his gloomy eyes. He turns and goes. Cyprian still gazes along the road. The carriages are returning. • Unheard of. Are they not coming ?’ Cyprian g es up to a couple of ladies and greeting them in hie usual affable manner, asks, as though it were an afterthought: ‘ Where is Baroness Ohly?' ‘Ohly!’ The ladies are electrified, and the younger ‘Only think what foolishness. Count Lankwitz. Florence must be ill or insane Now, in the depth of winter, the whole

amily depart for Cattle Bahrenberg. I* that permissible?* Cyprian's handsome face is the picture of the utmost amazement, but he quickly recovers himself and says laughingly : * To Bahrenberg ? Are they going to dream away a winter idyl, or is it business connected with an inheritance that makes their presence there necessary ?’ ‘lnheritance? No author of “Madam Potiphar " has presented himself yet, and —who knows ? Perhaps at a certain time the will becomes invalid. I await a letter of explanation from Florence, for such a French leave is unpardonable.’ Cyprian draws back as some others join the ladies. He stands aside and backs at the ice with his skate. His brow is clouded; no one has ever seen Valleral so out of sorts as he is to day. The news that villa Ohly is suddenly deserted passes from mouth to mouth, and some one tells Cyril with much positiveness, that, by a clause of the will, the inheritance falls to Florence in case the author of * Madame Potiphar ’ does not announce himself within a certain time. He hears it with the utmost indiflerence. Just then his father comes upto him and whispers excidedly : * Rafaela avoids me very ostentatiously ; I implore you, my dear boy, arrange that she command me to skate with her. I must speak to her. I must, Cyril, do you hear !’ and he glides noiselessly away. It seems to the young tutor that hie heart will cease beating. There is no doubt that his father wishes to bring the matter to a decision to-day. Cyril's heart cries out in pain and torment. Hie father. Why his own father, whom he cannot bitterly oppose ? And yet in thought he does so ; he feels that suddenly a gulf opens between them which all the reverence of his childhood, all his obedience, cannot bridge. They are as unlike as fire and water, yet their love has been mutually deep until today. Princess Rafaela stands beside her brother and lays her hand on his arm to rest a moment.' The duke glances tenderly at her rosy face, which has never seemed so fresh and lovely to him as to day. And as he watches her more closely he sees what a happy change has taken place in her expression. The bold, childish obstinacy has disappeared, and in its place

has come a mild gentleness. She looks happy. Is it because she has won the love of her child ?

That also ; but there is something else in the radiance of her expiession. Can that sweet, all-powerful love, which she denied a short time before, have come to her ? The duke's eyes follow the captain’s handsome figure anxiously as the latter skates rapidly and proudly past. A feeling of uneasiness overcomes him. Count Cyprian is no suitable husband for Rafaela. Not because he was not born to the purple, but because he lacks all that could make a character such as his sister happy for long. Fortunately the princess has taken but little notice of him to day, although this mav be only a sweet shrinking from displaying to the public as yet, this, her heart’s deepest emotion. Rafae'a’s voice rouses him from his thoughts. • Henry, I would like to ask you something.’ He glances down at her in surprise. ‘ Well, man has leave to ask one question of fate,’ says he, jokingly. The young princess glances at the opposite side of the park. There a broad canal connects the lake with the distant river. • See how fascinating it seems over there in the snowy forest. I should so like to flee from this noisy crowd and explore the canal. It looks so romantic, the ice is like glass, and they say more than three feet thick, so there could be no danger in such an extra turn. Henry, could I skate on the canal without making myself conspicuous ?’ ‘Certainly, my darling. These are no hot springs, nor do robbers lurk in the woods. With a suitable escort the way is open to you. Whom did you think of summoning to your side ?’ She gazed attentively at her skate. ‘ I thought of Count Lankwitz—’ ‘Cyprian ?’ asked the duke, anxiously. She shook her head violently. ‘ Oh, no. Cyril, as Henry’s tutor, stands nearer to me.’ The duke drew a deep breath. •Very true. I tell jou frankly that Count Cyril is probably the only one of our courtiers with whom you could absent yourself without exciting talk.’ • Why ?' said she, looking up suddenly. ‘ Because he is, thank Heaven, the exact

opposite of his father. The captain is a thorough gentleman, but there is a certain something about his nature and reputation which scarcely makes him suited to act as chaperon to a lady. Cyril, on the other hand, will never compromise a lady. His reputation is faultless, his manner so strictly reliable that scandal would never venture to attack him. At his side you are safe. At his father's you are exposed to calumny.’ Rafaela raised the roses on her muff to her lips. Her face was crimson. ‘ Oh, Henry,’ she cried, excitedly, ‘ how fine it is when a man’s reputation and honour are so unimpeachable. Why was not Cyril always my guardian spirit? So much, much trouble would have been spared me.’ Thk duke himself summoned Count Cyril and communicated the princess's wish to him in a low tone. Cyril bowed in evident surprise. His face wore a strange look of secret misery. Rafaela hastily whispered something to her lady-in-waiting, and the latter’s cavalier, a command which did not seem to delight Mist Lola. It was so gay and amusing here. She only skated for the sake of the men. V\ hat did she care for the lonely, tiresome canal ? With a pout she held out her hand to her escort and followed the princess. Rafaela had turned to Cyril. • Are you willing to inspect the park, count?’ she asked, without looking at him. • Your highness's wish is always a command to me,’ he replied hastily, and then his hands clasp hers. His face is very pale, the pressure of his fingers convulsive. He holds her close to his side, and they glide away as though in a dream. She has never been so near to him before. He feels h >w her cool little hands grow warm in hie. A crack in the ice, a little unevenness, sends her slender figure even nearer to him. Is it the perfume of the roses that makes hie head whirl ? Why, why this torment? Why may he not clasp her once in hie arms, although in a short time he must relinquish her to another ? Why is the world so narrow and small? Why can he not rush on with her thus forever? His heart burns. All the torment of hopeless passion glows in his dark eyes. There is a faint cry behind them. Both start and pause. Baroness Lola is on her

knees : her escort tries in alarm to raise her. • For heaven's sake, dearest, have you hurt yourself ?' cries the princess. The court lady rises with many sighs of pain : ‘Ob, my foot? Your highness, I fear 1 have injured it,’ says ehe. ‘ How unfortunate. And we are so f» r

from the lake. Go and order a sleigh, Mr von Laden. We will stay with the poor patient.' ' A thousand thanks, your highness !’ says Lola, with a mournful smile. • I think I can move, slowly though, very slowly. It your highness would only psrmit me to return.’ A shadow crosses Rafaela’s face. • What a pity ! Just now, when it is so lovely here.' •Good gracious! Your highness can go on, of course.’ •Alone?’ says the princess, hesitatingly. An ironical smile crosses the baroness’s suffering countenance. • Count Lankwitz, the knight without fear and without reproach, bears, as the angel of innocence, a flaming sword beside you, your highness. What could happen ?’ The princess compresses her lips. • You are right, baroness. Thank fortune. Count Cyril, even alone, is protection enough for me. Mr von Laden, take the patient back.’ ' Pardon, your highness, a thousand pardons.’ Rafaela has turned away. She looks at Cyril, and smilingly holds out her hands again. • Come, count,’ says she softly, and they glide on over the smooth ice. ‘ Your highness,’ he says, * what a proud, delightful testimony you gave me.’ She turns her head and looks at him with shining eyes. ‘ It is my conviction,’ says she. simply. He tries to speak. The blood rushes to his head and robs him of his breath. Suddenly he raises her hand and presses it to his lips. All is silence. Around them is the deep, solemn peace of a snowy forest. The glittering branches often bend so low over the ice that the count must raise them over the princess’s head. How the branches shine when an occasional sunbeam pierces the forest, and snowflakes fly through the air when a frightened crow starts up with a hoarse caw. The world seems so far away, and the two human beings fancy they have wings and can fly on, hand in hand, each with no thoughts save for the other. They ate far from the lake : how far they do not know. Suddenly a faltering, a start. Almost unconsciously Cyril throws his arm around the slender figure to support it, and for a second Rafaela rests on his breast. All is deathly still ; only the two hearts beat wildly. Then she draws back with crimson cheeks. ‘ My skate I’ says she, softly. Already he has knelt before her, and she lays her hand on his shoulder to steady het self, * The clamp,’ he murmurs in alarm. • The clamp is broken.’ She kicks away the skate. * What now I’ saye she, drawing a deep breath. * Now the return will be much slower - than our coming, your highness. We must walk. ’ ‘ Please take off my other skate.’ He does it, but his fingers are very awkward when he holds her little foot in his hand, and it is a slow process. * It will be best for you to remove your skates, too, count, or else we will be too unequal walkers.’ * Yes, your highness.’ They chat as before, but their voices seem breathless, embarrassed. * Well, then, now to return, proud Cid,’ laughs she. She glides a few steps on the smooth ice, then gives a faint cry, and clings, tottering to his arm. •It is fearfully slippery ; you must hold me up, count.' He draws ter hand through his arm. but he has the greatest difficulty in keep ng his own foo'ing, and they can only advance very slowly. * This will not do,’ cries Rafaela, anxiously. ‘See how dark it is growing ; we will not get home before nightfall. Can we not walk better on the bank ?’ ’The snow is very deep, and there is no sign of a path close to the bank. And your highness would not venture to pierce the thicket and go to the road, I suppose?’ * If you are with me I can try,’ she said, with a laugh, it was meant to sound unconstrained, but her voice trembles. Again his brow flushes, but he, too, laughs. ‘ Let me break through, your highness,’ saye he. and hastily turns to the bank. He breaks the branches apart, and then cries: * Come close behind me. I will be your shield.’ No, it is impossible to get through. They sink up to their knees in the snow, the bushes are closely grown together and frozen. Panting and flushed with the exertion, they take a few stops, then the princess leans exhausted against a tree. * I cannot go on, count.’ she whispers with pale cheeks, ’and it is growing dark, so very, very quickly.’ For a moment Cyril pauses and stares at her. She looks exhausted.

‘No, we cannot go on thus. We must return.’

He hesitates a moment, then asks : • May I carry you, your highness?* She nods and stretches out her arms like a tired, helpless child. He raises her, she trembles, he feels it and compresses his lips as though he feared to betray himself with a word, and hastily he fights his way back to the canal.

* I will put on my skates again and carry you, then we will get home soonest,’ said he.

She only nods. Her little head sinks on his shoulder, and the snow falling from the trees covers it for a moment as with a bridal veil.

When they reach the canal, twilight is already far advanced. Gray shadows rest on the silent forest, and where the branches hang down over the ice it is dark. In a few minutes Cyril has on his skates,

but Rafaela has sunk down on a fallen tree, and closed her eyee at though in a dream. ‘Are you anxious, your highness?’ he asks, gently, bending down close to her. Then she looks up at him and smiles, such a strange, sweet smile, that the questioner’s heart almost ceases to beat.

‘ No,’ says she. 1 1 am only tired, and your strong, faithful arms will take pity on my fatigue.’ He silently holds out hie arms to raise her slight figure once more, and again his face wears the look of inward torture, and Rafaela notices it.

• Why do you suddenly look so gloomy ?’ He avoids her eyes. •You call my arms strong and faithful, princess, and you trust them. What greater happiness could I know ! And what greater misery could there be than the fear that you might lose this happy belief in my fidelity !’

* What a strange idea ! Such a time will never come.’

His brows contracted gloomily, fairly threateningly. * No, it shall not come, and yet if he does come—my eyee shad not see it.’

She leaned her head back eo that he must look in her smiling face. * Yuur eyes must not gaze at such gloomy, fantastical future scenes, but at the bright, lovely present There behind the trees the moon is rising, and the quiet world around us is mysteriously beautiful. To be sure, the ghostly charger is lacking, upon which Salger, the Norse hern, once bore a sleeping princess in hie arms, but instead you have steel wings, so that you may bear me home as quickly as he. Courage, my brave knight, let the saga of young Salger prove true.’ In truth, he seems to have wings. Like a dream, the uncanny, dark forest glides past them, the first pale, silvery moonbeams lie on the ice, and from the distant city comes the chime of bells.

Cyril’s head is feverish; quickly, ever more quickly he glides on, and yet he knows that each step brings him nearer his goal : that each step robs him of his happiness and tears bis love, who now rests on his breast, pitilessly from hie arms. How long will it be before the bells are hushed, and the happiest hour of his life is over. But as yet she is his. No, the time shall never come when Rafaela will doubt him. Never ! Why should he worry ? The unhappy secret of • Madam Putiphar ’ lies safely buried in a secret drawer of hie writing desk ; to day the leaves of the manuscript shall fall in ashes, and then the secret will be safe forever.

Hark I There are voices, and lights flash along the canal. They are looking for them. Involuntarily Cyril starts. Now it is over

‘ Lackeys with torches,’ ho murmurs, and he leans hie head back and gazes into her eyes as though he was taking leave of her forever. Then he lets the princess slide gently down to the ground. She clasps both hie hands once more.

•I thank you. I thank you with all my heart,’ says she, softly. He kisses her hand, then offers his arm respectfully. Slowly, step by step, they advance to meet those looking for them. Young Salger kissed his princess and took her as his own for a reward of hie fidelity ; but Count Cyril’s steel wings will never carry him over the abyss which separates him from his princess. Duke Henry’s voice rang out from the distance, and it seemed to Cyril that a faint sigh from Rafaela’s lips answered it. [To be Continued.}