“The ridiculous hero of romance!” exclaimed the Baron angrily.
“But, suppose now that he should,”—rejoined Clotilde who was near swooning away.
“Suppose! then the world would contain one fool the less.”
With these words, pronounced harshly enough, he left the room.
An hour afterwards Clotilde sought her husband in his study—“Here is a letter to me,” said she presenting one to him.
“How received?”—“Through his servant.”
Von Eschenburg opened the letter and read:
“Gracious Lady! I may have caused you uneasiness, therefore these lines. Whatever may become of me, no blame shall attach to you. You have rejected the verbal assurance of my constancy; therefore I now repeat, that I dedicate it to you for ever, and will rather part with life, than receive my happiness from any other female hand. Adieu! The horses which are to bear me away, are harnessed to my carriage. May happiness attend you!”
“A pleasant journey!” cried the Baron. “That resolution shows, however, that his love has not robbed him of all his reason. The rest is to be proved.”
Clotilde shook her head with a sigh.
Lady Von Eschenburg passed a sleepless night. In her dreams she beheld the Colonel committing in various ways the dreadful act of suicide. She roused herself, and every thing in the chamber that could rattle, as wardrobes, tables, and the like, gave the most decisive tokens of an approaching death. “Alas! he certainly died last night!” sighed she in the morning to the four desolate walls of her chamber. “And all for love of me.” No sooner was breakfast over than she threw on her mantle, and hurried to her friend Madame Selter.
The latter was rejoiced to hear what had happened.
“But my peace of mind,” cried Clotilde.
“That, my dear, could in no other way be preserved to you; for they alone have claim to it, who know how to respect the relations of civilized life.”
Upon that the Baroness related the story of her dreams, and the tokens of death.
“Tokens! Alas, child, how long have you been so superstitious?—Nay, you will become a ghost-seer presently.”
“Heaven forbid!”
“Heaven will forbid it; and heaven, as well as your own reason, forbids you to give the vein to your imagination, as you did last night, for otherwise it may come even to that; and truly it is bad enough to hear tables and chairs talk.”
Clotilde confessed that she had now not much faith in the tokens, and Madame Selter kindly undertook to make enquiries respecting the Colonel’s residence and mode of life, and conscientiously impart the result to her friend.
However, unfortunately all her endeavours proved entirely fruitless; not a soul knew which road he had taken after the first post. Clotilde was inconsolable; her husband tried every thing that was likely to dissipate her grief and anxiety; but without effect. Society produced as little change in her as solitude; although the latter sometimes, and particularly at night, brought with it new tokens and warnings, which she dared not communicate to any body in the house, for none but the most incredulous of Adam’s children had abode there.
The continued depression of the Lady of the house gradually cast a gloom over each member of the family. At length, however, the arrival of an old university friend of the Baron’s, who came unexpectedly to pay them a visit, produced another agreeable evening.
Clotilde confessed, when Von West was gone, that his wit and humour had very much contributed to dispel, for a time, the heavy clouds which darkened her spirit; and the Baron went early the following morning to repeat so pressingly his request that his friend would make his house his home, that he could no longer resist his entreaties.
The inexhaustible fund of entertainment which their new inmate possessed, quickly brought about a favourable change in the Baroness; he had so many anecdotes to relate, and had the art of giving an interest to the most trivial. “My whole family,” said he, one day when they were praising his constant flow of
