University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Claude now rose to leave the table. It was eight
o'clock, and he had resolved to go this evening, for the
last time, into society in Berlin. After all that had
occurred, he did not wish to leave town clandestinely,
but to take this occasion to bid farewell to such of his

friends as were not alienated by the slanders of his
enemy, and to steal one more look at her who filled
his soul with tender anguish. He had not seen Carolan
for some time, nor the countess, nor Ida. He
knew that the challenge from Elkington, which he had
refused, had already become the topic of conversation.
The fierce little general, disappointed in his intention
of proceeding in the duel, or of taking summary vengeance
upon Claude for the result of his mission, and
the little respect with which the messenger had been
received, found some vent for his fury in spreading
everywhere the news of his enemy's cowardice and
disgrace. As gentlemen may be very ready to fight
duels and blow other gentlemen's brains out, and yet
be capable of wide deviations from veracity, we must
not be surprised to find that the doughty general garnished
his recital with embellishments; and he was a
great talker and knower to everybody. According to
his account, “Mr. Wyndham had insulted his friend
Lord Elkington, by calumniating him to Count Carolan,
with the view of breaking off his approaching
marriage with Ida; that he had, accordingly, borne a
message from Elkington, upon receiving which Mr.
Wyndham had become exceedingly pale and alarmed;
and that, after having refused to fight, although urged
to it by provocations which no gentleman could endure,
and still refusing, he, the general, took his, Mr. Wyndham's,
nose between his, the general's, fore and middle
fingers, and pulled the same; and that the operation
had been performed with so little resistance on the
part of the operatee, that he should have repeated it at
short intervals, when not otherwise engaged, wherever
the said Wyndham presumed to show the said nose in
society, only he, the said Wyndham” (and in this part
of the account the general gave such huge twists with
his body, and such ghastly contortions of his wounded
cheek, as to render the description extremely lively and
impressive), “had had the meanness—the cowardice
—the—” (and here he used to make a pause, in consequence
of there not being any word in either the
French or German language exactly strong enough
to convey the full extent of his contempt for such conduct)
“to go to the police and complain of a threatened
assault; thus meanly and basely, and in a most
ungentlemanly manner, preventing his being shot, or,
at least, horsewhipped in the street the next morning,
as, but for this, would have been the case.”

The world at large are not unlike a flock of sheep
in respect to the facility with which they may be induced
to follow any one who undertakes to lead, especially
in some unjust act or foolish opinion; and the
general, by his earnest manner of censuring Claude for
not permitting himself to be shot, induced most of his
hearers to conclude that the act had been totally unwarrantable,
and unworthy of a gentleman. This accusation,
combined with the charges already in circulation
against our hero, had completed his disgrace;
and he was now almost universally set down as a person
of no character, who had impudently thrust himself
into society; in short, a mere “chevalier d'industrie.”
Several expressions of Count Carolan sanctioned
these opinions. That gentleman, on discovering
that Claude had dared to lift his thoughts to his
daughter, fancied himself the object of as deep an insult
as one man could offer to another; and, once admitting
into his bosom the feeling of revenge, it mastered
his weak mind, and became his predominant desire.
If he could have crushed him into the dust, he
would have done so. The letter sent him by Claude,
containing that of Denham's, he returned unopened,
and Claude received it as he was dressing to go to
Count N—'s. He felt the insult, but he had made
up his mind as to the course he should pursue, and he
hoped in a week to turn his back upon Berlin for ever.

“Come what, come may,” thought he, “I will meet
these gay crowds once more. I will steal one more look
at that fair—fair face, which I am never to see again,
and then—hail! the future, and the past—adieu!”

While dressing, his servant brought him a newspaper,
sent up by Denham. He unfolded it, glanced his
eye across its pages, and was flinging it aside, when
the name of the Earl of Beverly caught his eye, and
he read the following:

“Death of the Earl of Beverly.—We regret to be
obliged to announce the death of the Earl of Beverly,
at his princely residence at L—, on Monday morning.
The earl, who had been previously improving in
health, on rising in the morning at his usual hour, fell
suddenly to the floor in a fit, and expired before any
assistance could reach him. An express was instantly
sent off to the Continent to acquaint Lord Elkington
and Lady Beverly, who are at Berlin.

“The late earl was born in 17—. In March, 17—,
when only the Hon. Mr. Lawton, he married a Miss Carentz,
a beautiful young orphan of Vienna. The match
was one of inclination, but terminated unfortunately. A
short time after their union, the bride, to whom he was
attached with a fervour corresponding to his high powers
of mind and peculiar ardour of character, quitted
him, allured by the attractions of an ancient lover; and,
after having afforded but too glaring evidences of a
character singularly light, and a total disregard of her
own honour and the peace of her husband, she carried
with her a child not many months old, but neither the
unfortunate infant nor its mother long survived; both
having been lost at sea on a voyage to the West Indies.
Having succeeded to the titles and estates of
his father, the late —, he was subsequently created
Earl of Beverly by his late majesty. After which he
immediately married Miss Seymour, daughter of the
distinguished General Seymour. Lord Elkington,
now Earl of Beverly, the only son, is twenty-two years
of age. He is daily expected with his mother from
the Continent.”

Claude read this paragraph with a singular interest.
He felt almost as if Providence were unjust to raise

the profligate duellist to opulence and honour, and to
depress him, who had shown himself so ready to sacrifice
even his reputation in the cause of right. How
brilliant was now Elkington's prospect! The Earl of
Beverly courted by all—his rank and wealth would
gloss over the defects of his character. His gambling
debts would be paid, and his misdemeanours hushed up.
If Count Carolan before had been anxious for a union
with him, he would now be much more so, and he
would be little likely to listen to charges concerning
him from one with whom he was already obviously
offended. Ida would become the Countess Beverly.
Blessed with everything to elate his spirits, and to
swell his bold, bad heart with joy and triumph, he
could go on for the future; perhaps, having no temptation
to evil, he would endanger his reputation by no
farther open acts of profligacy; while he himself, having
openly branded him, would be regarded as a mean
calumniator and a defeated rival.

As these reveries passed through his mind, he found
himself at the house of Count N—, the — minister.
It was blazing with light and very crowded.
It seemed all the world was there. Claude entered
with a secret tremble at his heart, which belied his
outward tranquillity. There are, perhaps, to a proud
and noble mind, few ordeals more painful than that to
which he had now voluntarily subjected himself; stranger
as he was in Berlin, he had more of the support
obtained by a long residence, and the consciousness
that, whatever slanders might be circulated against
him, enough of his real character must be known to
create friends and defenders. The whisper—the doubt,
is enough to shade the name of the stranger; and
the open charges rung against him by Elkington, Le
Beau, Lady Beverly, Thompson (for he had turned
one of his bitterest detractors without the slightest apparent
cause), and several others, almost entirely destroyed
his standing. Few have the prudence or the
benevolence to doubt a slander, or, at least, to omit to

circulate it until it is clearly proved, and Claude saw,
the moment he entered the door, that he was a proscribed
man. The Count and Countess N—, however,
greeted him with affability. He was in their
house on their invitation, and they were, moreover, people
of refinement and kindness. They had heard the
accusations against him, but they also had formed a
friendship with himself more intimate than the ordinary
acquaintanceships of the saloons, and they perceived
and respected in him a man of obviously superior
mind and elegant deportment. They knew also Madame
Wharton's opinion of him; and with the power
of appreciating character possessed by so few, they
esteemed her as she merited. They perfectly understood,
too, that Carolan was a man of the feeblest possible
understanding, and a heart entirely given up to
vanity; that Le Beau was an unprincipled rascal, who
presumed to be very important on the score of having
fought duels, and that Elkington was a desperate libertine.
People of sense and observation find these
things out by a thousand various trifles, and Claude
therefore, with them, stood as before. They respected
and admired him, and were too intelligent to be led
away by a vulgar love of scandal to believe evil at the
whisper of those who were themselves far from pure.
Claude even found both the count and his lady more
affable than usual. By a kind of generosity so rarely
discovered, they seemed resolved to support the weaker
party; to mark distinctly and publicly their dissent
from the general opinion, of which they were not ignorant,
and to sooth the wounds which they rightly
judged were to be inflicted upon the heart of their
young friend on this evening. Keen was the appreciation
of this conduct, and deep the gratitude felt by
Claude; and it enabled him to regain his full self-command,
and, perhaps, materially supported him
through the principal incident to which he was subsequently
subjected. It is thus often with us in our daily
actions which have consequences we cannot foresee.
When we do wrong, we cannot know what evil may
follow; and when we do right, we little imagine the
pleasure and blessing which it often proves afterward.

It was with a cold heart that Claude left the side of
his amiable hosts to stroll around the rooms. The
same near-sightedness which had amused him so much
when applied to poor Digby, he felt was by no means
so entertaining when he experienced it himself. Many
an eye was suddenly averted as it met his. Many a
step turned away from his path. Some pretended not
to see him; some coolly perceived his face without
seeming to know him; a few seemed embarrassed by
his presence, and as unwilling to hurt his feelings by
an open slight, as to seem to sanction his equivocal
standing and character by any greeting. One or two
young ladies, who thought a man who could shrink
from fighting a duel must be a perfect monster of vulgarity
and cowardice, tossed their heads with unconcealed
contempt as he passed near them; and one
youthful male aspirant after the honours of the beau
monde, finding that he might be impertinent without
danger, took occasion to half recognise him, and then
draw back and retire in a marked manner on his discovery
of some sign of a salutation, boasting afterward
that he had “cut him dead.” We are sorry to record
that Mr. Thomson was among the shyest of those who
thought it necessary to forget him entirely.

For some time Claude wandered around the rooms,
every one appearing to avoid addressing him. The
effect of this upon him was visible in an increased
paleness. Where was Lavalle? where was General
St. Hillaire? Some accident had detained them. He
felt that he would have given worlds to see the face
of one friend — to have any one to talk to, that he
might break the general coldness and silence which he
appeared to bring with him wherever he went. He
wandered on like a man in a dreadful dream. He
could scarcely believe that, by the acts and villany of
a single person, he had been so entirely ruined in the

estimation of so many people. His isolation was more
complete from the fact that, perceiving how much he
was the object of odium, he did not like to subject to
the attaintment of associating with him the few who,
perhaps, had he addressed them as usual, would have
replied with civility. Thus marked, as it were, by the
proscription of the whole brilliant assembly, and by his
pale countenance and haughty air a conspicuous person
amid the laughing and pleasure-seeking crowds,
he thought himself suffering the worst effects of his
honest adherence to principle and the slander of his enemies,
when Carolan and his family entered the room.
Amid the many persons whom they saluted, the omission
of him was conspicuous and generally remarked.
The count looked at him a moment with disdain, and
turned his back. The countess carefully avoided meeting
his glance; and even Ida—upon whose beautiful
countenance, now as pale as his own, he could not
avoid fixing his eyes, in which all his pride and haughty
indignation had not been able to prevent a moisture
—even Ida turned silently away, and was led by a gentleman
to a distant part of the room, without a word
or a look.

There are moments when the more we suffer the
better able we are to endure, and this, for Claude, was
one of them. He felt that to remain longer in a society,
after so open an exposure of the estimation in which
he was held, would be neither necessary nor delicate.
He resolved, therefore, to retire; but, before doing so,
to seek with Count Carolan a few moments' conversation.
He therefore approached that gentleman, and
with an air so calm and yet so evidently agitated that
Carolan started at his sudden address.

“Count Carolan, a word with you.”

“Certainly,” said the count.

“There is, I believe, no one in Madame de N—'s
boudoir; may I beg your company there for a few
moments?”

The count turned rather pompously and followed.

When they reached that remote room, they found it
deserted.

“What is your pleasure, sir?” said Carolan, haughtily.

“To ask you what I have done to merit a condemnation
without a hearing. I perceive, with indignation
and surprise, that my reputation has been destroyed by
calumny. I could drag the slanderer to light, and make
him pay with his life the penalty of his falsehood; but
that would punish the falsehood, and not disprove it.
Neither is Lord Elkington one who would hear with
candour what I have to say. To you, sir, I appeal,
from a sense of duty, as having been my first friend in
Berlin; and I beg to know of what I am accused and
what suspected; and I offer, publicly or privately, to
submit my life, actions, and character to any scrutiny
you may desire. I do not ask your friendship; but I
desire you will, by your words and conduct, refute intimations
against my character, which I offer you the
means of knowing to be above reproach.”

“I had hoped Mr. Wyndham had discovered a more
manly mode of righting his injured fame. Gentlemen
settle these things in a shorter, and, you will excuse
me for adding, in a more honourable way,” said Carolan.

“Pray spare me your insinuations, sir,” said Claude,
mildly. “I am not here to quarrel, but to explain to
you your injustice towards me. If this injustice is
wilful, I shall not resent it; but if it is an error, I am
willing to explain the calumnies of Elkington.”

“Stop, sir! stop, sir! I shall hear nothing against
my friend. I deem it proper to admit him into my
family; and I presume I am the best judge of my own
companions and my own affairs.”

“Indeed,” said Claude, remembering that he was
addressing the father of Ida, and thus, in some degree,
repressing the disgust which the pompous, arrogant
manner and unreasonable remarks of his companion
excited; “indeed, sir, in offering my defence of myself,

I am obliged to place in your hands once more a
letter concerning Elkington, which—”

“Stop, sir—stop! I will hear nothing upon that
subject. I presume, sir, you are aware that my daughter
has chosen him as her husband; and, though you
have been unprincipled enough—”

“Count Carolan!”

“To attempt to win her affections, and to allure her
from her father's house—”

“I? I do most solemnly protest—”

“Stop, sir! I am acquainted with the whole; and
I deem it proper, since you have sought this interview,
to state, sir, that, when I took you up—a friendless,
nameless person—too hastily, as it seems—I thought
I discovered in you something worth my encouragement.
You are nothing, sir! It was by my stamping
you that you have alone been received into society;
and, having been mistaken in you, I must—from
a high and imperative sense of duty—I must drop you
in the most marked manner; any application from you,
sir, will be entirely useless.”

There was an insufferable conceit in the manner in
which this was said, which made Claude's blood boil
in his veins. It was a thousand times more difficult to
endure patiently than the straightforward injuries of
Elkington, or the capricious near-sightedness of Lady
Beverly. He could not help wishing in his heart that
he could call out to the field, and plant, at twelve paces
from the muzzle of a good pistol, an insolence and
pomposity so inexpressibly provoking. But the father
of Ida would have been safe from an angry reply, even
had he been influenced by no loftier consideration in
governing his passions. He therefore replied,

“If Count Carolan supposes my present suit as an
application for his aid in enjoying the pleasures of the
Berlin society, he mistakes me greatly. I complain
that, by a sudden withdrawal of the respect which,
from whatever motive, you have been pleased to honour
me with, people are left to form erroneous opinions

respecting me. I offer you proof that such opinions
are false; and I appeal to your generosity and sense
of honour not to inflict upon me the injury which you
have now the power to do, at least without satisfying
yourself that you have cause.”

“I presume, sir, that I know how to take care of
my own honour without your advice; and as to generosity,
that which I have already shown towards you
has been so ill returned, that I must reserve it hereafter
for a more worthy object, and one free from the
charges currently believed against you, sir.”

“Will you tell me what are the charges reported
against me?”

“Ask nothing of me, sir. I presume I shall be
ready to render an account of my actions to those who
have a right to call on me.”

“If, then, sir,” said Claude, his patience giving way
before the insufferable pomposity and insolence which
appeared in every word and gesture of his former patron,
“your opinion is formed without cause, and adhered
to against proof, I can only conclude that, in
seeking to change it, I have placed upon it more than
its real value.”

“Do you mean to insult me?” said Carolan, turning
very pale.

“I protest,” said Claude, after a moment's reflection,
“I am wrong to forget that you have rendered
me kindness which should ever seal my lips. I cannot
but think, in refusing me the opportunity to lay
my character before you, you do me wrong; but I did
not mean to fail in my respect towards you; and,” for
the image of Ida floated through his mind, “Count
Carolan, before we part, I beg your pardon.”

“No, sir. You intend to insult me.”

“I assure you—”

“No, sir—stop! You cannot deceive me. I see it
is your intention to insult me. I am justly served, sir,
for my imprudence in taking up persons without examining
who and what they are! I shall hereafter,

sir, be more on my guard. And I shall deem it a high
duty to look with suspicion upon all strangers ere I
give them my countenance in society.”

Tired of contending against these characteristic remarks—disgusted
beyond measure, even more with
the manner than the matter—and unwilling, from various
considerations, to resent, Claude remained silent,
inwardly hoping that a fool might thus be best dealt
with; but even silence was no refuge against the displeasure
of Count Carolan.

“Go, sir!” said that gentleman. “I recommend
you to abandon a class of society for which you are
fitted neither by your education nor your fortune; but,
before you go, you will be so good, sir, as not to forget
that a bill for £50 has been cashed by my banker
at your request.”

Astonished at this extraordinary speech, Claude,
with an indignant heart, and the strongest possible desire
to horsewhip him, turned in silence, and, with a
burning spot in his cheek, withdrew, with the determination
to retire instantly to his house, and leave Carolan,
wife and daughter, without another word. He
had done all that good sense demanded to re-establish
his character; and all, through the malice of Elkington,
and the stupid pomposity and conceit of Carolan,
had been in vain.

Accordingly, he turned his back upon Carolan, who
had never appeared to him so ridiculous and disgusting,
and approached the door which led to that of
egress. He had reached the last antechamber, lost
in thoughts of no tender nature, when he was astonished,
not to say startled, to behold Elkington planted
directly in the doorway through which alone he could
pass to the street; and, on the appearance of Claude,
a low laugh announced a fiendish delight, which announced
no good. Claude stopped and gazed a moment
with surprise upon the features, attitude, and
dress of his enemy. He was not in the ordinary habiliments
of a ballroom, but wore a surtout and boots.

His cravat was loosely tied—his wristbands unfastened—his
vest but partly buttoned, and his hair dishevelled.
His attitude was motionless as that of a snake
before he springs. On a nearer glance at his features,
he perceived that his face was much flushed, and his
lips stained with wine. There was a certain air of
swagger very different from his usual elegant quietness
of manners; and his eyes were fixed on Claude
with a fury which probably neither wine nor passion
could have produced separately, but which was the
combined effect of both. Behind him stood little
General Le Beau. The peculiarities in the dress and
manner of Elkington, however singular, were less so
than his appearance at all, at this time, in such a scene;
the news of his father's illness having but so recently
arrived, and some of the journals having even formally
announced his death.

Claude saw that a premediatated attack awaited him
if he advanced, and, had it been possible, despite the
sneers which such a course might have excited, he
would have returned to the drawing-rooms rather than
engage in a scuffle which, from the desperate character
of his foe, might be a fatal one; but he saw that
it was the intention of Elkington to pursue him if he
retreated, as certainly as to assault him should he
proceed. He therefore paused, not knowing for a moment
what to do.

“So, sir,” said Elkington, “I have sought you at
your hotel—I have sought you through the streets—I
have sought you here—and here you are! I learn
you are about to quit Berlin. You have deeply wounded
my honour—you have slandered and insulted me.
I have demanded of you the satisfaction of a gentleman,
which you have refused. Sir, take this—and may
it burn on your forehead for ever!”

He stepped deliberately forward, and with his
clinched fist struck him a violent blow in the face.
For a moment Claude was stunned. He did not think
of returning it. He started back and covered his face

with his hands. He seemed blasted with thunder.
He heard several voices exclaim, “Ha! a blow!” in
tones of surprise and horror. His heart stood still.
His reason left him. His principle against taking human
life flashed upon him as a mockery. He stirred.
It was to sacrifice, and tear to pieces the being who
had brought this spell upon him. He found some one
had grasped his arms and held him back. Fire fell
from his eyes. He thought their glance alone could
kill, and he turned them, that they might do so on his
victim. He beheld him standing there—very pale, but
smiling; a sneer—as a devil—on his face; and his extended
finger pointing at him. A sense of agony—of
ruin—of utter, interminable, irretrievable shame and
despair filled all his being. Never had he known the
fearful energies of his nature. Never before had he
dreamed what it was to receive a blow! Some moments
elapsed, he knew not how long. He was deprived
of the power of motion. Invisible hands held
him. He could not tell how—nor who—nor how long
—nor by what tremendous power, his strong impulse
to leap forward was withheld. He wanted motion—
a weapon—a pistol—anything which would destroy—
crush—strike dead.

He was first somewhat recalled to reason by the low
laugh of Elkington, who advanced and said,

“My card, sir! You know where I am. I shall
be happy to hear from you at your earliest leisure.”

“To-night—to-night,” said Claude.

“When you please, sir.”

“Lord Elkington, you are an infamous scoundrel,”
cried a voice from the side of Claude. It sounded like
Denham's, but he scarcely attended to it. He was
still as one in a dream.

“How! who is that?” demanded Elkington.

“It is I, insolent ruffian!” said Denham, stepping
up. “You know my friend is no duellist, and the
blow you have struck, may it recoil upon your own
forehead and sink into your own heart. How dare

you, sir—your hands stained with dishonesty—your
name—”

Elkington now, in his turn, showed signs of trepidation;
but he said,

“I did not expect to see you here; but I have an
account to settle with you also, unless you are as
whining a coward as your friend.”

“I will meet you when your hands are clean from—”

“If you are a man,” muttered Elkington, desperate
with fury, “you will meet me at once!”

He lifted his hand and hurled a blow upon the forehead
of Denham. The object of this unexpected attack
sprung upon him, but Le Beau rushed between.

“Elkington,” said Denham, his face livid with passion,
“you have succeeded. You shall hear from me,”
and left the room.

This scene was very rapid in its occurrence. A
general interference now took place. Elkington retired.
Claude was released. The crowd had rushed
from the inner apartments at the noise of the brawl;
Claude was surrounded by them. They opened to
give him room as he passed out. He found himself
in the open air; alone, burning like an evil spirit just
out of its abode of fire.