THE COUSINS

On an evening in summer before the late siege of Paris, three ladies—one a matron of mature years, the other two both young and handsome girls, a brunette and a blonde—were seated in one of the lofty windows of a stately room on the first étage of the Grand Hotel Royal, which immediately overlooks the Rhine at Cologne.

The senior of these—Adelaide, Countess of Frankenburg, a woman grey-haired now, and with features somewhat of the heavy German type—had just received a letter, and was intent upon it, while her daughter Ernestine, and her orphan niece Herminia, watched her face with interest, and forgot the little Tauchnitz editions over which they had been idling.

'What does my brother Heinrich say?' asked Ernestine.

'That he has got extended leave of absence from Potsdam, and next week will arrive at Frankenburg, to spend some time with us. He brings with him a young English friend, Carl Pierrepont, an officer of his regiment. I trust, Herminia, you will receive my dear boy with all the affection he so justly merits.'

But Herminia made no reply, so the Countess repeated what she had said, and fixed her eyes steadily and inquiringly upon her. She only sighed, opened, and then tossed aside her Tauchnitz edition of an English novel. The Countess's ideas of propriety would not permit her to allow her girls to peruse any other light literature; but having an idea that a married woman might read works of a higher-flavoured nature, she sometimes read the works of MM. Dumas and De Kock, to 'keep up her French,' as she phrased it

The cousins—known as 'the Belles of Frankenburg'—were alike in stature and delicacy, but very dissimilar in style of beauty and in complexion. Herminia was dazzlingly fair, of a pure Saxon type, with hair of that lovely brown tint which seems shot with gold in the sunshine, and soft eyes of violet-blue, that seemed almost black at night, and though brown her tresses, and wondrously fair her skin, her eyelashes and eyebrows were dark, almost black; but her pretty little nose bordered rather on the retroussé.

Ernestine was a dark beauty, with black hair and clear, but thoughtful and dreamy hazel eyes, which she inherited with the blood of some Hungarian ancestor; her whole style was more classic than that of her cousin. Her nose was slightly aquiline, with dark straight eyebrows that nearly met over it, imparting a great degree of character to her face, which was suggestive of decision of mind and firmness of purpose—a little self-willed and opinionated, perhaps; for Ernestine was not without her faults. She was fond of admiration; but what pretty girl is not? She liked dress and gaiety, and would dance all night if her partners pleased her.

The Countess carefully folded her son's letter, and fixing her keen grey eyes on Herminia, said, somewhat sententiously:

'Though an old man now, the father of my Heinrich was as brave a soldier as ever trod the soil of Germany, and his name is yet venerated among the Uhlans of the Archduke; and I am proud to say, Herminia, that his son is worthy of such a father.'

'Were my cousin the Archduke himself,' said Herminia, wearily, for she was pretty well used to hear these encomiums, 'he would be totally indifferent to me.'

'Herminia!'

'Totally, I repeat. Pardon me, dear Aunt Adelaide; but he has no particular claim on my regard.'

'He is your cousin, your own blood relation—near almost as a brother!' said the Countess, impatiently.

'But still, mamma, as I have said a hundred times before, he can have no claim upon her hand,' urged Ernestine, who had not yet spoken on the subject.

'Do you, Grafine, wish to abet Herminia in her strange contumacy?' asked the Countess, severely.

'I speak but my thoughts, dearest mamma.'

'Her father, the Staats Rath, gave her away to him as a child; but you, as well as I do, know the arrangement made by our family; they were betrothed when she was in her cradle, and he a schoolboy at Bonn; and now he comes to claim her hand, in virtue of that betrothal,' added the Countess, who, though a German, had considerable nobility and dignity in her bearing and aspect.

'Such foolish arrangements may have been made long ago, Aunt Adelaide, when robber-barons lived in those ruined castles which look down from every rock upon the Rhine; but such would be absurd in these days of ours, when its waters are ploughed up by steamers, and the lurlies and elves have all been put to flight.'

'Herminia,' said the Countess, with increasing severity, 'do you revere the memory of the Baron and Privy Councillor your father?'

'I do, indeed, Aunt Adelaide; my father's memory is very dear to me, even as that of my dead mother, whom I never saw,' replied the girl, with her eyes growing moist; 'but I decline to admit the right of either to give me, while yet a helpless child, away to anyone in marriage. The idea is eccentric; it is more, it is odious and preposterous!'

'You use somewhat strong language, Grafine.'

'Surely not stronger than the situation merits?' replied Herminia, her soft voice trembling with agitation and annoyance. 'If my cousin Heinrich is unmanly enough to insist upon the fulfilment of this most absurd family compact, I shall ever deem him most unworthy of my regard, or, indeed, that of any woman!' added Herminia, whose tears now began to fall.

'Then it is your resolution to violate, to trample upon, to utterly disregard the affectionate contract made by your parents and by his?'

'But I have never seen this—this most tiresome cousin, Aunt Adelaide!'

'That has been a misfortune caused by your being educated in England, while he was at the university, and then with the army.'

'Hence he is to me a stranger, and must be greeted and received as such.'

'I think my brother Heinrich is acting foolishly in bringing the English friend (of whom he writes so frequently) to Frankenburg,' said Ernestine.

'Why?' asked the Countess.

'Because Herminia, in the very spirit of opposition, may fall in love with him.'

'My father could not have taken a surer way to make me shun and loathe my cousin, and even do something more dreadful still, than by forming this arrangement.'

'Something more dreadful still!' repeated the Countess, raising her voice, and surveying her niece through her gold eyeglass. 'In Heaven's name, what do you mean, Herminia?'

'By compelling me to marry a man I don't love; for what happiness could follow a union with a total stranger? Besides, I don't want to marry.'

'Your own cousin a stranger?' persisted the Countess. 'But though we have discussed this subject a thousand times before, there is one feature in it to which I have never referred, and which, consequently, will be new to you.'

'I am glad to hear that,' replied the contumacious little beauty, shrugging her pretty shoulders and almost yawning.

'I mean a clause in your father's will, by which, if you do not marry our Heinrich, your fortune will be divided between him and your cousin Ernestine,—leaving you, in fact, without a silver groschen.'

'I would not have a kreutzer of it—neither, I am sure, would Heinrich!' exclaimed Ernestine, emphatically.

'Neither of you would be consulted in the matter. But now, Herminia, will you brave the prospect of poverty—a life of utter dependence—go back to England as a governess, perhaps?'

'Yes,' said the girl proudly; 'I would brave anything.'

'You love some one else!' exclaimed her aunt.

'I have never said so,' replied Herminia, with a perceptible tremor in her sweet voice; 'but no doubt it is this fortune of which you speak that Heinrich wants.'

'Did he want it when you were in your cradle, and he was carrying his satchel at Bonn?'

'I should think not; but he may want it now, after some years spent in the army.'

'Shame! you forget yourself, Herminia—forget that you speak of your own cousin—of my son. It is much more likely that some adventurous friend, some acquaintance, whom you have picked up here is thinking of your fortune, than my dear Heinrich.'

The old lady's eyes were actually filled with tears, and after a pause she said:

'I regret, Herminia, that I ever sent you to England.'

'Why, dearest aunt?'

'Because those English girls, your school companions there, have indoctrinated you with preposterous ideas of female independence—right of choice, and so forth; and now that I think of it, who is that gentleman with whom you waltz so frequently?'

'Waltz, aunt?' said the girl, in a low voice.

'And who gave you, last night, that rose which you now wear in your breast?'

'Last night, aunt?' faltered Herminia, now blushing deeply, while Ernestine laughed mischievously.

'Don't repeat my words, please. Yes, last night, when the band of the Uhlans was playing in the garden of the Prinz Carl?'

'Herr Ludwig Mansfeld.'

'And how came you to know him?' asked the Countess, severely, adding, 'I hope he is not an officer from the barracks?'

(Such dreadful fellows 'those officers from the barracks' seem to be all the world over, from Canterbury to Cabul!)

'I met him first at a ball in the Kaiserlicher Hof, where the Master of the Ceremonies introduced him to me when you were playing cards in the ante-room. We dance frequently; and the introduction was unnecessary, according to our German ideas.'

'In—deed!'

'Is there any harm in all that when he dances so delightfully?

'And oh, how handsome he is!' exclaimed Ernestine.

'I fear some harm has been done already; and I do not think that any gentleman should dance with a young lady before he has obtained the permission of her chaperone.'

There was now a pause, after which the Countess said:

'The Count urges our return before Heinrich arrives; so we shall take the train to Aix-la-Chapelle to-morrow.'

'So very soon, aunt?' said Herminia, growing pale.

'My dear, I am sorry to spoil your pleasure here; but to-morrow morning we go,' said the Countess, rising haughtily; 'come with me, Ernestine. I need your assistance with my correspondence.'

The mother and daughter swept out of the room, their dresses—the rustling moiré of the Countess and the maize-coloured silk of Ernestine—gliding noiselessly over the varnished floor, and Herminia was left to her own sad reflections.

'Ich bin sehr böse!' (I am very angry) she heard the Countess exclaim, as the door closed, and then she heard her cousin make some laughing response.

'How can Ernestine be so heartless?' thought the girl; 'but, alas! she knows not what love is! To-morrow,' she exclaimed aloud—'to-morrow, I shall lose him, and perhaps for ever, my dear, dear Ludwig!'

Her handsome eyes were now welling over with hot, salt tears. She had her arms above her head, with her white slender fingers interlaced amid the coils of her beautiful brown hair; her eyes were cast mournfully upward; then she tore her fairy fingers asunder with a sob in her throat and let her hands drop by her side as she sank back in her chair.

'Would to Heaven that I had never known him—that we had never, never come to Cologne,' she exclaimed.

She felt that she must see Ludwig once again; but this dreadful cousin, how was he to be avoided?

These two ideas filled her whole soul as she sat, silent and motionless, looking out on the view that lay before the hotel windows: the broad waters of the famous Rhine, shining redly in the light of the setting sun, covered with sailing vessels and steamers shooting to and fro, its great pontoon bridge, through which the current surged, the wilderness of roofs that formed the city—that Rome of the north which Petrarch apostrophized to Colonna—stretching far away, with the great masses of the unfinished cathedral, the dome of St. Gereon, with its three galleries, and the stately tower of St. Cunibert rising high in the air and casting mighty shadows eastward. But Herminia surveyed them all as one who was in a dream, and kept repeating to herself, as she drew the rose from her breast and pressed it to her trembling lips with all a young girl's fervour:

'Yes—yes—I must see him once again, and then all will be over—over for ever!'

She glanced at her watch, took her hat and gloves from a console table close by, and hastily and noiselessly quitted the room. Descending the great staircase of the hotel, she issued into the beautiful garden attached to it, and proceeded at once to a certain fountain, near which a gentleman was lingering. He hurried towards her, and took both her tremulous little hands within his own. He gazed tenderly into her eyes, and then scanned the windows of the hotel. Alas! too many overlooked them, so the longed-for kiss was neither given nor taken; and neither knew that at this very time, they were both seen by the Countess and the laughing Ernestine.

Though in plain clothes, attired as a civilian, the soldier-like air of Ludwig Mansfeld would not conceal. He was dark-complexioned, especially for a German, with straight handsome features. He was closely shaven, all save a thick moustache, and he had tender brown eyes—tender, at least, when they looked into those of Herminia, who was now weeping freely.

'Tears?' said he, inquiringly.

'Yes, Ludwig, tears; I have much reason for them.'

'How, darling?

'We leave Cologne to-morrow.'

'Ah! why so soon?'

'It is the resolve of my aunt.'

'And for where, darling?'

'Aix-la-Chapelle.'

Her lover's features brightened as she said this.

'Well, my own one, I shall be there in a few days,' he whispered cheerfully; 'and if we are prudent, and watch well our opportunities, it will indeed be a very remarkable thing if we don't meet as often as we may desire.'

'But my cousin—this most odious fiancé—Heinrich von Frankenburg, joins us in a week from Potsdam, where, I understand, his regiment is stationed.'

'I have seen Frankenburg, and know that he has the reputation of being dangerously handsome; but I thought he was on leave of absence?'

'So he has been. As for Aunt Adelaide, she is a tyrant, and I do believe would keep me in pinafores, if she could!' said Herminia bitterly.

'Herminia, dearest,' said the young man, while gazing at her lovingly, earnestly, and very keenly, 'you have never seen this wondrous cousin, to whom your family wish to assign you like a bale of goods?'

'Oh, never even once, Ludwig; and to me he is an object of abhorrence!' she exclaimed passionately.

'Excuse me, my love,' said Ludwig sadly; 'but I have a strange foreboding—a presentiment which comes to me unbidden, and seems to say that when you do see him, your present abhorrence may pass away, and—and a tender emotion take its place. The propinquity and charms given to a cousin are perilous for a secret lover like me.'

Herminia now wept bitterly.

'Ludwig, I could quarrel with you for such a cruel suspicion,' she sobbed out, 'but that we are, I fear me, now speaking together for the—the—the last time,' and, heedless of who might see the action, in the abandonment of her great grief, her head sank on his shoulder, and she nestled her sweet face in his neck.

'Your tears, my own darling,' said he, 'are a rebuke, and more than a sufficient rebuke, for my suspicion; and bitter, indeed, would this parting-time have been to me, but for the knowledge—the sure conviction—that, even if a thousand cousins came, still we shall meet at Aix.'

Herminia shook her head mournfully, and said, 'I pray to Heaven that it may be so, and with the hope these words inspire, I must now, dear, dear Ludwig, say—farewell!'

And so they parted, with hearts that doubtless were aching sorely, for their future seemed dark and dubious. Yet he seemed more hopeful than her. He kissed her very tenderly, and, though his naturally brown cheek looked pale, she thought he smiled at their temporary separation—if temporary it was to be—more than she could account for.

But doubtless, lover-like, he had some bold plan in view.

'Yet it was a sad, sad smile my darling gave me,' thought the girl, as, with her veil closely drawn, she slowly and wearily ascended the great oak staircase to the étage off which her bed-room opened; 'but no doubt he only thought of cheering me.'

Next morning the Countess's carriage took the trio to the Eisenbahnhof for Aix-la-Chapelle; and as Herminia from the swift-speeding train looked back to the sinking spires of Cologne, a curtain seemed to have fallen between her past and present existence.

And oh! how weary was the night that followed, when tossing restlessly, defiantly, and petulantly on her laced pillow, she lay in broken slumber, with tears matting her long and lovely eyelashes.