rences of the past night are too memorable, and if it were only an illusion that represented his death to me, yet I am firmly persuaded that it was one of those illusions which are called death-tokens, and that a marriage would be the last thing to follow it.
The Baroness had no sooner risen and joined her husband in the breakfast room, than West came in laughing with the news of the elucidation of the ghost story, which had first imbued Clotilde’s mind with these presentiments; an elucidation, however, which was not particularly agreeable to her credulous caprice. The whole proved to be a deception carried on by the two lovers, for there was no more foundation for the report of the man’s death, than for that of his persecuting the lady in the shape of a ghost, and the women who watched by her were bribed to their interest.—“That is quite a new piece of news,” added West, “but now for an old one, which I have also received this morning.” With that he drew an open letter from his pocket. “Half an hour ago this billet was sent to me, after having lain for a fortnight enclosed in a letter to a lady resident here, but who has been absent on a journey. It is from my sister, who at length acquaints me with the name of her bridegroom. The man has a residence in this city, and she writes me that he has already confessed to a great many juvenile indiscretions; but nevertheless, she is willing to undertake the task of his reform. What will a maiden in love not venture on? Apropos! he is an acquaintance of yours, and has visited you very recently. I should be delighted if you would acquaint me with the particulars of a few of his pranks, that I may put them into verse, and send it to him. But you don’t imagine, I dare say, that it is Colonel Von Wartenstein whom my sister is to marry, or doubtless has married by this time.”
“Then you, my dear West, are also a party in the scheme of counteracting my too well-grounded apprehensions. Well, I am only at a loss to imagine why there is such a want of consistency in your preconcerted reports.”
“Bless me, Madam, I have lost all power of comprehension!” cried West. I know not whether my ears still possess the faculty of distinguishing sounds. A scheme to counteract your apprehensions!”
“Aye, a scheme full of inconsistencies. According to your account your sister is Wartenstein’s bride, while the latest journals give her quite a different name.”
“What! do the papers already make mention of the name?”
“Yes, but according to that authority, as you will see, the Colonel has married a Fraulein von Landau,” said the Baron.
“Well, well! I thought you were aware that she is my half-sister, the daughter of my mother’s second husband.”
West handed the letter to Clotilde, who instantly becoming convinced of the truth, at last grew instantly tranquil, and explained to him the meaning of her mysterious assertion. It led to a thousand jokes, sometimes touching the death-tokens, sometimes the early occasionsof of Wartenstein’s familiarity with the family. “Well, it is a fortunate conclusion after all,” said Clotilde, when alone with her husband. “From this moment, Eschenburg, I will never take up a novel in your presence.”
“Or, if you should, and the volume should fall upon the floor, I will instantly pick it up for you.”
“If you had not been so gallant to the lovely Countess on the following evening!”
“True, my love, I was to blame.”
“But who will not forget all in the happy conclusion?”
W. S.
