Chapter 2

The sun was just rising from behind Vesuvius when one of those hideous
and awkward-looking cabs which infest the streets of Naples crawled
up to the park gates of a handsome villa on the road to Posilipo.
Carelessly tossing a five-lire note to the driver, a young man whose
travel-stained appearance showed traces of a long journey jumped to
the ground and violently rang the bell. Some minutes elapsed before
the porter was sufficiently aroused from his sleep to realize the fact
that a stranger was waiting for admittance, and when he finally issued
forth to unlock the gates, his face bore manifest evidence of the
intense disgust with which he regarded the premature disturbance of his
ordinarily peaceful slumbers.

“Is this the Count von Waldberg's villa?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes,” replied the porter in a gruff voice. “What of that?”

“I want to speak to him at once. Unlock the gate.”

“Indeed! You want to see his excellency?”

“At once!”

“At this hour? Per Bacco! Who has ever heard of such a thing? You will
have to come back later in the day, my young friend—very much later in
the day—if you wish to be granted the honor of an audience,” and with
that he turned away and was about to leave the stranger standing in the
road, when suddenly steps were heard approaching along the gravel path
which led up to the villa, and a tall, soldierly figure appeared in
view.

“Good morning, Beppo; what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour
of the morning? This is rather unusual, is it not?”

“It is, indeed, Sig. Franz. It is a young fellow outside there who
actually insists on seeing his excellency at once.”

On hearing this Franz, who was the general's confidential valet, took a
cursory glance at the stranger, and suddenly seizing the pompous porter
by the shoulder, caused him to wheel round with such violence as to
almost destroy his equilibrium.

“Open, you fool! It is the young count! What do you mean by keeping him
waiting out in the road? Are you bereft of your senses?”

Snatching the keys from the hands of the astonished Italian he brushed
past him, threw open the gates and admitted Frederick, for it was he.

“Herr Graf, Herr Graf, what an unexpected pleasure is this. How
delighted his excellency will be!”

“I don't know so much about that, Franz, but I want to speak to my
father at once. Let him know that I am here, and ask him to receive me
as soon as possible.”

After conducting Frederick to a room on the first floor of the villa
and attending to his wants the old servant left him to notify the
general of his son's arrival.

The young man had meanwhile dragged a low arm-chair to the open window,
and sat gazing with a tired and troubled expression at the magnificent
landscape stretched out before him.

Four days had elapsed since the exciting scene described in the last
chapter. The violence of the blow inflicted by Frederick had caused
the colonel to fall heavily against the brass corner of a ponderous
writing-table, cutting a deep gash across his forehead, and the blood
trickled freely from the wound as he lay unconscious on the ground.
The sight of the prostrate figure of his commanding officer recalled
the young lieutenant to his senses, and he realized in a moment the
terrible consequences of his act. Visions of court-martial, life-long
incarceration in a fortress, or even death, flashed like lightning
through his brain and, rushing from the room, he hastened to his
stables. Hastily saddling the fleetest of the three horses which he had
brought from Berlin, he galloped at break-neck speed to the nearest
point of the frontier, and within an hour after the incident was out of
German territory, and for the moment, at any rate, safe from pursuit.
Four hours after passing the border line he rode into the Austrian town
of Cracow, and alighted at the Hotel de Saxe. Having but little money
about him at the moment of his flight, he disposed of his horse to the
innkeeper, and with the proceeds of the sale purchased an outfit of
civilian clothes in lieu of his uniform, and a ticket to Naples, where
his father was spending the winter.

Before his departure for Cracow, Frederick posted a letter to Rose
instructing her to lose no time in leaving the neighbourhood of Biala
and to proceed to Berlin, where she was to remain until he wrote to her
from Naples.

His object in proceeding to the latter place was easy to understand.
He knew that the general was the only man who possessed sufficient
influence in the highest quarters to venture to intercede on his
behalf, and although he was acquainted with his father's strict ideas
on all questions pertaining to military discipline, yet he retained a
faint hope that parental affection would overpower the former and would
induce him to regard, with a certain amount of indulgence, his eldest
son's conduct. Moreover, Frederick was at the time in great financial
difficulties. The debts which he had contracted before leaving Berlin
were enormous. His appeal to the trustees of the fortune left to him
by his mother for an increase of his allowance, or, at any rate, for
an advance sufficient to stave off the most pressing claims, had been
met by a stern refusal, and the “cent per cent. gentry” of the capital
proved equally obdurate in declining to loan any further sums on the
strength of the inheritance due him at his majority. On the other
hand, it was perfectly clear to Frederick that he would be obliged to
remain absent from Germany for several years, until the incident with
his colonel had blown over. But he could not hope to do this without
money—especially now that he was married—and the only person from
whom there was the slightest prospect of his obtaining any financial
assistance was his father.

He was in no cheerful frame of mind as he thought of all this while
awaiting his father's summons. Had the latter already received news
of his son's conduct? That was hardly possible. It was too soon. How,
then, was he to explain the events of the last ten days to the general,
of whom he stood somewhat in awe?

His meditations were interrupted by Franz's return to tell him that
General von Waldberg was ready to receive him.

“His excellency would hardly believe me when I told him of the Herr
Graff's arrival,” said Franz, with a beaming smile, “but he is much
delighted, as I knew he would be.”

Frederick's heart sank as he pictured to himself the grief and anger
which the discovery of the true reason of his unexpected visit would
cause his father.

His hesitating knock at the general's door was answered by a cheery
“Come in;” and hardly had he entered the room when he found himself
clasped in his father's arms. General Count von Waldberg was still
at that time a remarkably handsome and young-looking man. Tall, and
straight as a dart, his appearance was extremely aristocratic; his
hair and mustache were tinged with gray, but his bright blue eyes were
undimmed by age.

After the first greetings had been exchanged, the general sat down on a
couch, and said, laughingly:

“Now, my dear boy, tell me by what trick you have managed to obtain
from your new colonel a leave of absence after such a short service in
his regiment. I know you of old. What fresh deviltry have you been up
to? Come, make a clean breast of it at once, and let us have it over.”

“My dear father,” murmured the young man, with downcast eyes, “I am
afraid that the confession which I have to make will pain you very
much. The fact is, I—I—took French leave.”

“Come, come, that is more serious than I thought,” exclaimed the
general, whose genial smile had suddenly given way to a very stern
expression. “Surely you are joking. You don't mean to tell me that you
are here without the permission of your superiors?”

Frederick bent his head, and did not reply.

“But are you aware that this is nothing less than an act of desertion?”
thundered the general, exasperated by his son's silence, and starting
to his feet. “You must be bereft of your senses, sir, to dare to tell
me that a Count von Waldberg has deserted from his regiment. Speak!
Explain. I command you!”

“I was provoked beyond all endurance by my colonel,” replied Frederick,
in short, broken sentences. “We quarrelled, and in a moment of blind
passion I struck him a blow in the face which felled him to the ground.
I was compelled to make my escape in order to avoid a court-martial.”

The general, now as pale as his son, advanced a step toward him, and,
laying his hand heavily on the young man's shoulder, said, in a tone of
voice which betrayed the most intense emotion:

“Do you mean to say that you actually struck your superior officer! and
that, after committing this unpardonable crime, you made matters worse
by deserting, like a coward, instead of at least displaying the courage
to remain and face the consequences, whatever they might be? Great God,
that I should live to see this day?”

Frederick, who by this time thoroughly realized that the only course to
adopt lay in throwing himself entirely on his father's mercy, muttered,
in a low voice:

“The colonel, who has always displayed the most marked dislike toward
me ever since I joined his regiment, summoned me five days ago, to
reprimand me concerning my relations with a lady who was staying at the
inn of our village—in fact, who had come there on my account.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the general, “I was sure of it. Another of those
insane scrapes into which you are always being led by some disreputable
_cocotte_.”

“Stay, father,” interrupted Frederick. “Not a word more, I entreat you.
It was just for such a remark that I struck my colonel. I will not hear
a word against the woman who is my wife.”

“Your wife! your wife! Do you want me to believe that you have
married without my consent—without the permission of the military
authorities—without the approval of your family and of your king? Who,
then, is the woman whom you were so ashamed to acknowledge?”

“A pure and noble-hearted girl, whose only sin is her humble birth,”
retorted Frederick.

“Enough, sir! Tell me her name, and how you came to know her.”

“Her name was Rose Hartmann, and she——Well, she was a shop-girl at
Louise's when I first made her acquaintance.”

The general had by this time become perfectly calm, but it was a calm
that boded far worse than his former anger.

“Look here, Frederick,” said he, very coldly, “I have full reason
to mistrust you now; and before I take any step in this unfortunate
matter, I must write to Berlin, and to your regiment, for the purpose
of discovering the full extent of your misconduct. You will be good
enough to consider yourself as under arrest here. I forbid you to leave
your room under any pretext whatever. I will tell your step-mother that
you are ill, and can see nobody, not even her, and I shall take good
care that all our friends are left in ignorance of your presence here.
And now leave me. I want to be alone. I will send for you when I want
you.”

Frederick, thoroughly cowed by his father's manner, murmured some words
of regret and explanation, but the general pointed toward the door, and
he left his presence with a heavy heart.

Returning to the rooms to which Franz had conducted him on his arrival,
he gave himself up to the gloomiest forebodings, and spent hours in
gazing abstractedly out of the windows. His meals were brought him by
Franz, whose feelings can more easily be imagined than described.

On the third day after his interview with his father, one of the
Italian servants knocked at the door, and handed him a letter, which
bore the Biala postmark, and which evidently had escaped the vigilance
of both the general and of Franz. It was from Rose, and its contents
agitated him beyond all measure. She wrote him that she had been
subjected to the greatest indignity after his flight—in fact, treated
like a mere common camp-follower—and had been turned out of the inn
and driven from the village by the orders of the colonel. She added
that, having but little money, she had not been able to proceed any
farther than Biala, where she was now awaiting his instructions and
remittances. She concluded by declaring that if after all she had
suffered for his sake, he did not at once send a sufficient sum to
enable her to leave the place and to return to Berlin, she would put
an end to her days, having no intention to continue to live as she was
doing now.

Frederick was nearly heart-broken. He had no funds, beyond a few lire
notes, and, in his present position, no means of obtaining any except
through his father. He therefore immediately wrote a few lines, which
he sent to the general by Franz, entreating him to let him have at once
a check for a couple of hundred thalers.

The general's reply was a decided refusal, and couched in such terms as
to leave no glimmer of hope that he would relent in the matter.

Driven to desperation, Frederick turned over in his mind a hundred
different schemes for raising the money he required, but he was forced
to acknowledge to himself that each was more hare-brained than the
other; and in the bitterness of his heart he ended by cursing the day
he was born.

That night, after all the inmates of the villa had retired to rest,
they were startled by several pistol-shots, and the sound of a
violent scuffle in the general's library, on the ground floor. The
general himself and several of the men-servants rushed to the spot
from which the noise proceeded, and discovered Frederick, who, in his
dressing-gown, stood near a shattered window, with a smoking revolver
in his hand.

As they entered the room Frederick fired another shot through the
window and shouting, “I have hit one of them, I am sure. I heard a
scream!” jumped into the garden and rushed across the lawn and through
the shrubbery, followed by the general and the more or less terrified
servants. All their endeavors to capture the midnight intruders proved,
however, fruitless, and whether wounded or not, the burglars had
evidently succeeded in making good their escape.

On returning to the library it was ascertained that the general's desk
had been forced open and that a considerable sum of money in gold and
notes, together with several valuable bonds and railway shares, had
been abstracted therefrom. Frederick related that he had been awakened
shortly after midnight by a strange grating sound proceeding from the
room immediately beneath his own. That, jumping out of bed, he had
quickly put on his dressing-gown, and seizing a loaded revolver, had
softly crept down stairs. Peeping through the keyhole he had seen two
men who, by the light of a small taper, were ransacking his father's
desk. His efforts in the dark to open the door must have evidently
disturbed them, for by the time he managed to enter they had reached
the window and were in the act of leaping into the gardens when he
fired several shots at them in rapid succession. It was at this
juncture that his father and the servants had appeared on the scene.

So gratified was the general by the courage and presence of mind
displayed by Frederick in attacking the burglars single-handed that
he forgot for the moment both the loss of his stolen property and the
grave offenses of which the young man had been guilty. Grasping his
son's hands he expressed his satisfaction to him in no measured terms,
and indeed was on the point of releasing him from any further arrest
or confinement to his room. On second thought, however, he decided
to await the replies to his letters from Berlin before doing so,
especially as he was extremely anxious that none of the visitors to the
villa should become aware of Frederick's presence at Naples.

Early next morning Gen. Von Waldberg drove into Naples to inform
the chief of police of the robbery committed at his residence and
to request him to offer a reward for the capture of the thieves and
the recovery of the stolen property. As he rode back to Posilipo he
reflected, with feelings of much gratification, on the pluck shown by
his son during the night, and determined to write at once an account
of the whole occurrence to the king, in the hope that it might induce
his majesty to regard with greater leniency the lad's misconduct. He
was just in the act of entering his library for this purpose when he
happened to catch sight of one of the Italian servants coming down
stairs from Frederick's room with a bulky envelope in his hand. On
perceiving the general the man attempted to conceal it, but the old
count was too quick, and, ordering him into the library, exacted the
surrender of the letter.

“Where are you going, and what is this?” demanded he of the frightened
Neapolitan. The latter's eyes lowered before his master's stern gaze,
and he confessed in faltering tones that the “young count” had told him
to go and post the letter immediately and without letting any one know
about it.

“You need not trouble yourself any further about the matter,” remarked
the general, “Franz will attend to it, and see here, if you breathe a
word about this either to Count Frederick or to any one else you will
be turned out of the house at an hour's notice. Do you understand?”

“Si eccellenza, si eccellenza,” murmured the badly scared Italian, as
with many low bows he backed out of the general's presence.

As soon as the door was closed the old count raised his glasses to
his eyes for the purpose of discovering the destination of his son's
letter. It was addressed to Rose Hartmann, at Biala, and judging by its
bulk certainly contained something besides ordinary note-paper.

Suddenly a terrible suspicion flashed through his mind. He remembered
Frederick's urgent appeal for money on the previous day. But no! The
idea was too horrible. It was impossible. The boy was certainly a
thorough scapegrace, but not that! No, not that! The unhappy father
dashed the letter down on the table and began pacing up and down the
room in an agony of incertitude and doubt. Could his son be guilty?
The solution of the mystery was contained in that envelope. Would he
be justified in opening it? The whole honor of the ancient house of
Waldberg was at stake. It was absolutely necessary that he, as its
chief, should know whether or not one of the principal members thereof
was a common thief. If so it was his duty to mercilessly lop off the
rotten branch of the family tree. After long hesitation he finally
seized the letter, and with one wrench tore open the envelope. As
he did so an exclamation of horror and disgust escaped his blanched
lips, for several Prussian bank-notes of considerable value, which he
immediately recognized as his property, fell at his feet on the carpet.

It is impossible to describe the intense misery of the wretched father
when he found that the thief who was being tracked by the Neapolitan
police was no other than his first-born. For several hours he sat at
his writing-table, his gray head bowed in grief and almost prostrated
by this awful discovery. For a long time he was totally unable to
decide what was to be done, and, indeed, had Frederick presented
himself before him at that time he would have been almost capable of
killing him with his own hand in his paroxysm of anger and shame.

Shortly after darkness had set in, Franz entered Frederick's room and
handed him a sealed letter addressed in his father's hand. Glancing at
its contents the young man uttered a cry of despair and terror, and
springing to his feet was rushing toward the door, when Franz quietly
placed himself with his back against it, saying:

“His excellency's orders are that the Herr Graf must not leave this
room under any pretext until the hour of departure. I have his
strict commands to remain with the Herr Graf and to prevent him from
communicating with anybody in the house.

The old soldier's lips quivered as he spoke, and his eyes were full of
tears. For it cut him to the very heart to see the suffering depicted
on the lad's face, and what between his loyalty and devotion to his
master and his affection for the young man whom he had carried about in
his arms as a child, he was in great distress.

Frederick groaned, and picking up his father's letter read it over once
more. It ran as follows:

“You have betrayed and robbed me! You are not only a deserter,
but also a thief. I intercepted your letter to the woman you call
your wife, and feeling myself justified under the circumstances to
open it I found therein the proofs of your crime. You will leave
my house to-night forever. The proceeds of your robbery will keep
you for some time from want. It will be all that you will have to
depend on, for having become an outlaw by your desertion, and your
attack on your colonel, the Prussian Government will never permit
you to enter into possession of your mother's fortune. You never
need hope to see me again, or to hold any further communication
with me or mine. You are no longer a child of mine. I solemnly
renounce you as my son. May God Almighty keep you from further
crime.

“COUNT H. VON WALDBERG.”

That night at 10 o'clock Frederick embarked at Naples on a
Marseilles-bound steamer, being escorted to the wharf by Franz.

He never saw his father again.