Isabel Anderson

IT was a fine night in the year 54 B.C., the sky clear, the air calm, when a boat—a sort of raft of basket work covered with ox hides—was slowly following the ebb of the Scheldt. A voice was heard from the boat, a woman’s voice, soft and gentle.

“Yes, Atuix, for thee have I passed the threshold of my father’s dwelling. I have quitted the deep forests of Gaul, my native country; for thee have I left all, because of my love for thee, Atuix, and thy beautiful harp which sleeps silently by thy side.”

Another voice was heard: “Oh, Frega, since the day that thine eyes looked into mine, my harp has forgotten its sounds and my soul no longer knows any of the songs whispered by Ogmius, whom I worshiped in the forests—the god of the bards, he who is always surrounded by men bound by their ears to chains of gold and amber which issue from his mouth.”

The boat continued to descend with the tide. Suddenly the waves were troubled and foaming as if some water monster was rising to their surface. A breathing, a stifled murmuring, was heard, like unto the autumn wind rushing through the branches of an old, decayed forest; the bubbling of the waters came nearer, and the breathing grew stronger. Then by the pale rays of the moon’s light, rising above the silvery clouds, Atuix and Frega beheld with terror, approaching them and swelling the waves in his rapid course, a colossal Giant.

The waters of the river reached up to his broad chest, and formed around him a white and sparkling belt of foam. From his formidable face flowed a thick beard, and his head was covered with hair like that of a horse, rough and black. He looked like those isolated peaks which are sometimes seen on the borders of the ocean, with their frowning crests from which the long, trailing grass hangs dripping in the waves. The boat suddenly stopped, and cracked under the hand of the giant. A terrible roaring burst from his hollow chest, and these words were uttered in a voice of thunder:—

“Ah! ah! my passengers of the night!—you think that the eyes of Antigon are closed to allow you to pass in the dark! Where are my three oxen to satisfy my hunger this evening?”

Frega clung trembling to Atuix who silently drew forth his long blade.

The giant continued, “If you wish to speak to me, then swell out your feeble voices, my dwarfs.”

“Mercy upon us, if thou art the god of this river,” replied Atuix, “and if thou art not a god, then let a poor bard of Ogmius pass unmolested.”

“O terrible giant, let us pass in the name of the great Hesus of Teutates, and of all the gods.”

“Oh, thou dost jest, I think,” said the giant in a ferocious tone. “I laugh at Hesus, seest thou? and at all thy gods!—and if thou hast seen them, is their stature no higher than yours, fine race of weaklings, of whom I could trample a whole army under my feet? Ah! thy gods, I should long ere this have taken them from their heaven for my evening’s amusement on the lonely shore, or to make a repast of, if they were anything more than vain smoke!”

“Who, then, art thou,” said Atuix, “thou who laughest at the gods?”

“Who am I?—Where is Antigon? Ah! thou wouldst dissemble with Antigon!—Yes, thou forgettest the tribute of oxen thou owest me for passing on my river—thou didst think, favoured by the darkness, to deceive me, and now thou wouldst use thy childish tricks! Ah! Ah!” And the giant covered Atuix with his powerful hand before he could move a limb.

Frega, who had remained motionless with terror, threw herself on her knees in the boat. “Mercy, mercy upon Atuix,” she exclaimed. “Oh! mercy! what harm can our passing this river do to thee, we feeble and without any evil intention, he loving me and I loving him? Mercy! Ah, heavens! is there, then, no pity in thy soul?”

The giant interrupted with a terrible sneer: “Oh! my soul, sayst thou! My soul! Where hast thou learnt that I have a soul? Who has ever seen a soul? Oh, I tell thee truly that there are neither souls nor gods, neither mind, nor anything but the body, and hunger!”

As he ended the giant pressed the hand of Atuix between his two iron fingers, the hand fell into the boat with the glaive it grasped. A terrible cry was heard accompanied by a ferocious laugh. The giant picked up the bloody hand and threw it into the river. Then, just as he was about to seize Frega, who had dropped senseless, Atuix freed from the frightful claws which pressed him, with the hand which was left him, picked up the fallen sword and plunged it to the hilt in the giant’s arm. A howl of pain was repeated by the surrounding echoes.

The moon was just rising brilliant and pure from her bed of clouds, and her rays played on the waves, which were scarcely ruffled by the light breeze. The boat no longer detained floated adrift. A violent shock aroused Frega! She rose painfully on her knees and saw at some distance from her a horrible sight. The furious giant was crushing the body of Atuix between his hands. Frega dragged herself to the edge of the boat, her eyes fixed, her face ashy pale, she with difficulty stretched out her neck, tried to advance farther, as if under some invisible attraction; an instant she gazed, leaned forward, her eyes tearless, not a sigh from her bosom; then she loosened her hold and rolled over into the river.

A year after this night CÆsar had put an end to Gaulish liberty. The strength, the courage and the heroic resistance of this great people whose ancestors had in one of their daring wanderings over Europe encamped on the ruins of Rome, was now crushed under the fortune and genius of the conqueror. By the glare of vast conflagrations, Belgium, the perpetual focus of revolt against oppression, was traversed by three Roman armies, and bridges thrown over the Scheldt opened the passage to the country of the Menapians. One day a detached company of the legion of the vanguard followed the banks of the river, guided, it is said, by a mysterious being. Twice the sun had sunk to rest without their returning. German horsemen sent on their track towards the middle of the night were stopped at the sight of a strange spectacle. Raging flames agitated by the wind were devouring the foundations of a tower which had protected a castle of colossal proportions. The ground was lit by the glare of the fire and strewn with the dead bodies of the Roman soldiers. In the midst of them, on a mound of the dead, was stretched motionless, covered with wounds, pierced all over by darts, the enormous body of a giant. From one of his huge arms, from which the hand was severed, ran on the ground a rivulet of black blood. Over his head bent a warrior. After some moments of suspense the eyes of the giant opened. The warrior instantly raised himself, parting his long, flowing hair from off his pale and beautiful face. Then his eyes suddenly flashed with extraordinary brightness—he approached near to the monster’s ear, shouting out these words:—

“Antigon! Antigon! I must call loudly, is it not true?—so that thine ear may catch the sound? Well, now listen to me, Antigon! Oh! thou art not quite dead, thou canst yet understand and remember! A year has elapsed since—truly, truly, thy wounds are ghastly and bleeding and sweet to look upon!—Yes, it was on a summer night, two lovers floated together on the river. Oh! thy den was not as bright as this night—Two lovers thou knowest!—two lovers who only spoke of love, their hearts filled with gentle thoughts. Look, look, how well one sees one’s shadow here in thy blood.—One of the two lovers was a bard. Oh! oh! thy dying eyes flash! Thou didst kill him, and the other—But where are thy terrible hands, Antigon? The other, that feeble woman—Thou hearest me? She lives to avenge him!”

A shudder ran through the giant’s body, a frightful rattle burst from his chest; his teeth chattered like the clashing of swords, his eyes rolled once more in their bloody orbits, and then closed forever. He was dead. Frega knelt on the ground and prayed. Upon that spot rose Antwerp. Now Antwerp is the Antwerpen of the ancient Flemish language, which still preserves its original strength and richness in its Saxon garb—Antwerpen, in which word the chroniclers find Hand and Werpen, to throw, in remembrance of the giant Antigon and the hands which he threw into the Scheldt.

II
Yvon Bruggermans: A Legend of the Antwerp Cathedral

When you approach the old Flemish city, built upon the banks of the Scheldt, in one of the finest situations of Europe, the first object which attracts the attention of the traveler is the great spire of the Cathedral. This “Heaven-directed” spire is one of the loftiest and finest in the world. It is a masterpiece of pyramidal construction, delighting the vision not more by its vast height than by its exquisite proportions. It is surmounted by a cross of a size corresponding with the edifice itself. The Antwerpians are justly proud of their antique cathedral, which occupies the first rank among the monuments of Europe; if time and space permitted I would give you a sketch of its beauties, but many others before me have described its elegant marble statuary, chapels, confessionals, altars, choirs, and above all the chef-d’oeuvre of the immortal Rubens. Before the grand entrance, which so plainly shows the imprint of time, observe this blue marble stone, inlaid with several small pieces of brass, scattered promiscuously and seeming to form a mysterious design, which irresistibly excites one’s curiosity. This monument marks the historical and fatal spot where the event occurred which I am about to relate.

SPIRE OF THE CATHEDRAL, ANTWERP.

The 22d of October, 1520, was a day of fÊtes and rejoicing in all the cities of Flanders, for on that day a Fleming, Charles V, was crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle. The rich and powerful city of Antwerp, whose merchants were opulent as princes, displayed all its luxury and splendour to honour its new CÆsar. The day commenced with prayers in all the churches and finished with national games of every description upon the public squares, and processions of artisans preceded by the banners of their several professions. The streets resounded with songs and repeated cries of “Vive l’Empereur Charles!” and as the night approached the night became more dense and noisy, for before the HÔtel de Ville immense casks were placed, which poured forth floods of wine and beer that helped to increase the enthusiasm of the citizens of the good city of Antwerp. But above all sounded the glorious peals of the silver chimes from the old cathedral, as if it wished to add its voice in a hymn of praise to the young Emperor whose reign commenced under such auspicious circumstances.

There were nevertheless in the city many sad hearts, as upon all such occasions there are many who cannot participate. At the window of one of the largest but poorest lodging houses of the Kamerstraet, known by the sign of a large Red Lion, stood a young man whose desponding and sorrowful air contrasted strongly with the joyful bands that passed under his window. It was evident that he took no part in the general rejoicing. The room in which he was, although showing that scrupulous Flemish neatness, presented an appearance of extreme poverty. A miserable pine bedstead, curtains of blue linen, four old chairs, and an old oak table comprised the furniture of the room. The whitewashed walls were devoid of ornament, except the image of the Virgin, before which burned a small wax candle. Upon the bed reclined a woman whose pale, wan face, deep-sunk eyes, livid lips, and forehead covered with premature wrinkles (she being still young) wore the marks of serious physical and mental suffering. The silence which reigned in the room was broken by the invalid.

“Yvon, my son,” said she, “come to me; but what do I see, tears?”

“Alas, Mother, how can I keep them back? I cannot help you; the fever has so weakened me that I am unable to work. Hardly can I lift a hammer. I could not bear the heat of the forge. I am as weak as a child.”

“My poor child, the fever has paralyzed your strength as well as mine, but the will of God be done.”

“Amen,” responded the son. “It is hard nevertheless to struggle against sickness and poverty. If tomorrow we do not satisfy the demands of the landlord we shall be turned into the street. If I were the only one to suffer!”

“My son, I have seen your father and your three brothers die with this merciless fever, and with them perished all my happiness. But in the midst of my suffering I have always said, God has given them to us and taken them from us. Blessed be his name. And in this submission to his will I have found my only consolation.”

The young man sighed but made no reply. At this moment a tumultuous noise of steps arose from the street. It was a procession. The corporations of tanners and joiners were passing.

“Now come the painters with the image of St. Luc, and now, oh! I see the blacksmiths and lockmakers carrying the banner of St. Eloi.”

Poor Yvon looked sorrowfully upon his former companions, happy in their strength and health, when suddenly he drew back from the window and rapidly closed it as if he would shut out a fatal vision.

“What is it?” exclaimed his mother, alarmed at his sudden pallor.

“Marie has just passed with her father and Master Verachter, the rich jeweler of Ziereckstraet.”

The poor mother tenderly caressed him, without speaking. She seemed to fear to encourage by the least word this sorrow she knew to be without hope.

Yvon sat a long time at the bedside, his face hidden in his hands. He recalled his early days, joyous and without care, his affectionate father and brothers, the winning voice of his mother, who instructed them in their early duties, and the young Marie, the constant companion of his youthful plays, whom one day he hoped to call his wife. He had nearly served his apprenticeship at the forge with his father when this fatal epidemic broke out, to which his father and brothers fell victims, and he himself and his mother barely survived. But the blacksmiths of the city refused to accord him the right to continue his father’s business, as he had not fully worked out the required time. That very morning he had heard a neighbour, who came to visit his mother, say that the hand of Marie, which had been the secret of all his efforts and thoughts, had been promised by her father to the rich jeweler of Ziereckstraet. He had not believed it, but the sight he saw from the window confirmed all his fears, and he remained in deep reverie for a long time.

He was startled from it by the sounds of a violent tempest which had suddenly broken upon the city. The merciless blast from the North Sea swept over it, spreading destruction in its course. Everywhere was heard the falling of tiles, the crashing of glass from the broken windows, the uprooting of trees, and the distant noise from the river, whose swollen waters were overflowing its banks. Yvon approached the window; darkness reigned everywhere, the rain fell in torrents, and had extinguished all the torches and lights of the streets.

During all this long October night the storm raged with unabated fury; towards morning it subsided, and when day broke it had passed, leaving all the country inundated. As the disasters of the city were insignificant compared with those of the country the inhabitants consoled themselves with the reflection that others had been more unfortunate than they. It is often thus that we console ourselves. Those who passed in the vicinity of the cathedral saw with regret that the great cross which surmounted the spire had been struck by the lightning, and was so bent that at any instant it might fall. This cross had cost so much work and care to place it so high! The news spread rapidly, and soon the Grande Place before the cathedral was crowded.

In those times, when the love of art reigned supreme, each Flemish city possessed its monument. Ghent boasted its gigantic belfry, surmounted by its Byzantine dragon brought from the crusades; Louvain, its Gothic HÔtel de Ville; Bruges, its old parks and public buildings; while Antwerp glorified itself justly in its cathedral, of which no one dared to contest the superiority as a work of art and architecture. All the citizens viewed this sight with consternation, and asked each other anxiously who would be the individual bold enough to attempt such a perilous enterprise. The sound of a trumpet was heard and two heralds on horseback appeared on the Place. Silence being established, one of them read with a slow and loud voice the following proclamation:—

“To the good citizens of Antwerp!—We, the Burgomaster and Aldermen of the city, make known that we have resolved to give five hundred golden crowns to the person who will reËstablish the iron cross in its ancient position on the cathedral tower. Five hundred golden crowns! Citizens! Whoever desires to obtain this munificent reward will present himself immediately before the Council now assembled at the HÔtel de Ville.”

There was a moment of silence. Each one waited to see who would accept, but no one advanced. The heralds were about to retire, to read elsewhere their proclamation, when the crowd suddenly opened and gave passage to a young man, who precipitated himself resolutely towards the HÔtel de Ville. Every eye was turned towards him with curiosity. He was of extreme beauty, although emaciated, but from his eyes shone forth manly resolution and courage. The crowd anxiously waited the result. A few minutes only had passed when the heralds reappeared to read a second proclamation:—

“To the good citizens of Antwerp!—We, the Burgomaster and Aldermen, make known that Yvon Bruggermans, blacksmith and free citizen, has engaged before us this 23d day of October, 1520, to reËstablish our iron cross in its position upon the tower of the cathedral tomorrow with the aid of God. Consequently, we order all who may be present to refrain from distracting the attention of the said Yvon Bruggermans, by cries, charms, or malicious interventions, but on the contrary to give him all the assistance which he may need for the accomplishment of his work in the name of God and the Holy Virgin.”

When the time arrived, Yvon, clothed in his holiday suit, approached his mother’s bed and with an animation which she had not seen in him for several months, embraced her and asked her blessing.

“Where are you going, my son? You are dressed in your holiday suit, and the fÊtes are over.”

“I go to look for work, dear Mother,” answered he, trying to hide his agitation. “I feel my strength return, and I can no longer bear the misery of our situation. Take courage, Mother, I feel the certainty that a better future is before us.”

“My child, take care to do nothing beyond thy strength. Think that all the riches of the world will be nothing to me if I lose thee.”

“And you, my Mother, are you not for me the entire world? I would give my life willingly to insure your happiness. But time passes; bless me, dear Mother.”

“May the benediction of God be on thee and on thy designs, now and forever. Amen,” said his mother gravely with her eyes raised to heaven, and with her right hand upon the head of her kneeling son.

After a last embrace, he left with a firm and resolute step. The most trying proof was past, and he felt his courage and hope revive. He soon arrived at the Grande Place, where an immense crowd was assembled. All eyes were turned upon him with an expression of pity and regret, and voices murmured in his ear words of encouragement, sympathy and hope. But Yvon, avoiding as much as possible every species of emotion, advanced without answering, traversed the crowd, and entered the cathedral. He approached the altar, which was decorated as if for a fÊte, and kneeling, recited with fervour this prayer:

“Lord of Heaven, I risk my life not to gain a miserable sum of money, but to save my mother; preserve me, then, for the love of her, or if it must be that I die, permit me to accomplish the work I have undertaken. Father all-powerful, I place my soul in thy hands.”

He then rose and proceeded with a firm step towards the door of the spiral steps which lead to the summit of the tower. As he ascended he saw through the loopholes the crowd increasing, until all the neighbouring roofs, windows and balconies were filled; everywhere a sea of heads. He arrived at last at the end of the steps. After having thrown a glance of admiration over the country, he turned his gaze toward the city. At his feet he distinguished the sign of the Red Lion. He thought of his mother, then turned toward the dwelling of Marie. The remembrance of her animated his courage, for on his success depended the only chance he had of obtaining her hand, and he prepared himself to finish the most perilous part of his undertaking. Before him rose this long, perpendicular spire, the summit of which he must reach without any other means of ascent than the crevices between the stones. He attached to a strong rope the brazier and tools which he had brought to work with, fastened this firmly around his waist, and after crossing himself devoutly commenced his perilous ascent.

The crowd watched him as he slowly mounted. Deep emotion filled every breast. Not a sound was heard until he arrived at the summit and stood immobile at the foot of the cross. Then burst forth a universal cry of admiration. He lighted his brazier and actively commenced his work, attaching firmly to the cross one end of the rope, of which the other encircled his body. The multitude saw the great cross rise slowly and by degrees under the repeated blows of the hammer, and with every stroke his strength appeared to increase.

Fifteen minutes had hardly passed when cries of enthusiasm saluted the cross completely restored. His first thought was an aspiration of gratitude to heaven, the second was for his mother. Then he thought with an emotion of indescribable joy of Marie, who would be his, for her father certainly could not refuse, when he should have the five hundred golden crowns obtained in such an heroic manner. His happiness was at its height, and fearing that his emotion might prove fatal, he crossed himself and prepared to descend, but before doing so he threw a last glance over the crowd. He saw them separate to give passage to a wedding cortÉge, which advanced towards the cathedral. Attracted in spite of himself, he regarded attentively all the members. He noticed a young girl dressed in white as a bride leaning on the arm of an old man. He supported himself at the foot of the cross and leaned as far as possible to assure himself of the reality of his fears—his eyes distended, his face livid, and his whole body trembling with emotion. They glanced upwards to see the young workman who had raised the cross—Yvon gave a cry of agony, for this bride was Marie, and at her side the old jeweler Verachter of Ziereckstraet! The shock was too violent for his spirit exhausted by so many struggles. He fainted—his hands dropped the support which held him, he remained an instant immovable—then fell. But the rope which was around him remained fixed to the foot of the cross, and he was for some minutes suspended in space. The crowd who had seen his fall with terror believed him saved, but the rope had touched the lighted brazier, and soon the body of the unfortunate Yvon fell a disfigured and bleeding mass in the midst of this brilliant wedding cortege, at the feet of the bride.

The next day a deputation of magistrates of the city went to carry to his mother the five hundred golden crowns, the price of the blood of her son. But the chamber was empty. A coffin was placed in the middle of the room. Death had spared the poor mother this great affliction. Yvon was buried on the spot where he fell, and the blue stone, with the brass encrusted in the marble, alone indicates the place where lies the body of the young blacksmith.

III
FrÜgger the Miser

I

One evening in the year 1552, the bells of the numerous hurches and chapels of the pious city of Antwerp were heard calling the faithful to divine service, to pray for the repose of the souls of their deceased relatives and friends. The heavens were obscured by black and angry clouds; the wind blew in strong gusts, accompanied by a drizzling rain. A profound silence reigned in the obscure streets. As the greater part of the population were in the churches, one could easily have traversed half the city without meeting a living soul, except, perhaps, some tardy worshiper, hastening to regain lost time and to arrive at the Salut, before the Tantum Ergo.

Notwithstanding the importance of the religious solemnities which were being performed in all the houses of God, and the detestable weather which drove every one from the streets, a man stood motionless before a house in the rue des Tailleurs de Pierres, enveloped in a dark cloak. He remained motionless, feeling neither the wind nor the rain, his eyes fixed on the windows, trying vainly to distinguish the least ray of light. He was young, with effeminate features, and his upper lip was shaded by a light moustache; although he endeavoured to conquer the emotions which agitated him, it was not difficult to discover by the contraction of his brows, that bitter thoughts filled him with despair. The house before which he stood was that of a rich banker named FrÜgger. After having stood there some time, he lost hope of seeing in this dwelling the wished-for object, and with that, the courage to remain longer exposed to the inclemency of the storm, so he walked slowly away in the direction of the Scheldt. While he was in the neighbourhood of the mansion of FrÜgger he stopped from time to time and regarded it still with the same ardent anxiety which for more than an hour had characterized his contemplation. When at last the distance and the obscurity prevented him from seeing it, the expression of his countenance became still more sorrowful.

Letting his head droop upon his chest, he sighed, “Katharina, thou lovest me no more! Thou hast forgotten me! Thou hast abandoned me! It is foolish for me to doubt it! Oh! now it is finished! I wish no longer to live! Existence becomes a burden to me.”

At the moment he pronounced these words, expressed with such profound despair, he arrived at the Canal St. Jean, not far from the river. At that time, there stood at this place a water mill. Suddenly the noise of the water pouring over the wheel attracted his attention, and drew him from his somber reverie. He raised his head, his eyes sparkled, the expression of his features became nearly radiant, his steps were firmer, and with a species of cruel joy he directed himself towards the canal. It could not be doubted that the unfortunate young man wished to put an end to his sufferings, which he believed would terminate only with his life. He was already on the banks of the Scheldt. One step farther and he would have disappeared in the waves, when suddenly the bells of the city recommenced their funeral knell.

These lugubrious sounds had a singular effect upon his spirit. He recoiled with fright, his thoughts suddenly changed. He was astonished to think he had contemplated committing a crime to put an end to his troubles. He turned away and was soon far from the place where he had so nearly put into execution his fatal project. A quarter of an hour after, he was near the church of St. AndrÉ, calmer, but still despairing.

“Ungrateful,” he said to himself, “to commit a crime that would have brought affliction upon the last days, and covered with shame the white hairs of the worthy old man, your father, who loves you so tenderly, and has only yourself in the world. God knows if he would have survived your suicide, if sorrow would not have brought him to the grave. And why? For a woman that you have loved, that you still love more than words can express! How do you know she merits your love? And has she ever loved you? Foolish to doubt! She still loves you—Oh, no! she has lost all interest in you and treats you as if there never existed the least sympathetic sentiment between you.”

Saying this, he turned, stopped, and appeared to consider anew whether he should return to the canal. It was the last attempt of the spirit of evil upon his heart enfeebled by suffering. Happily his good angel watched over him and gave him strength to resist.

After a moment of hesitation he continued his route, murmuring, “But no, that cannot be; she cannot have forgotten me, she must love me yet—Katharina, this angel with looks so pure, voice so sweet, expression so celestial, thoughts so candid, she could never deceive me. For her I would give my life. She cannot abandon me thus; but why does she not let me hear from her? She must realize that her silence and this uncertainty make me suffer torments.”

Thus reasoning, by turns filled with hope and despair, he gradually approached the principal entrance of the church. Divine service had long since commenced. The majestic tones of the organ rang through the vaulted roof, floating over the heads of the kneeling faithful. He entered more through curiosity and to distract his grief, than through piety, or to pray for the souls of the dead, as he felt that in his distracted state of mind it would be impossible for him to elevate his thoughts above the earth, and to invoke God with any other intention than that of seeing his well beloved.

The church of St. AndrÉ at this period was a remarkable edifice, built in the Gothic style, and of an imposing appearance. Its origin was as follows: In 1519 the Augustinian monks possessed on this spot a magnificent cloister from which the street takes its name. Several of these friars, being suspected of heresy, and of following the example of their colleague, the famous monk of WÜrttemberg, were expelled from the city. The cloister was demolished and sold, with the exception of the church that the order was building, which was finished with the authorization of Pope Adrian VI, under the invocation of St. AndrÉ. The spectacle which the interior of the church presented at this moment was not calculated to inspire our hero with less sorrowful thoughts or more consoling reflections. Everything there spoke of death, eternity and purgatory. The nave was draped with black; upon all sides, upon the pillars, on the altar, on the candelabra, were funeral emblems, death’s heads and cross bones, and skeletons, speaking of punishments and expiations of the other life. He felt ill at ease in the midst of all these lugubrious decorations. This colossal edifice, partially lighted by innumerable wax candles, this compact crowd kneeling on the marble and buried in prayer, these gigantic columns hidden under the funeral drapings, and, more than all, the mournful strains of the organ and the solemn character of the chants, saddened him and filled him with an indefinable and mysterious fear.

All this only served to recall more vividly his own situation, and he felt he could no longer endure it. As he advanced towards another door of the church he noticed in the shade of a pillar a female who, while appearing to pray with fervour, watched all his movements and endeavoured to attract his attention. Before her two persons were kneeling, one a young girl with an angelic countenance, whose elegant figure was not entirely hidden by the ample folds of her black silk cloak. He recognized her whose silence had made him suffer so cruelly. The other, an old man whose features were strongly marked with sternness and severity, was the father of Katharina. The female who had at first attracted his attention was the servant, whose eloquent gestures had caused to disappear, as if by enchantment, the sorrow and discouragement of the desolate lover, who thought no more of leaving the church. Drawing his cloak around him, so as to conceal as much as possible his features, he placed himself behind the persons upon whom all his thoughts were concentrated, and decided to wait until the close of the services, hoping he should succeed in learning something of the inexplicable conduct of the daughter of the banker. The service was finished, the last modulations of the organ had died away, when the old man and his daughter prepared to leave the church.

The young man followed as near as possible, without being noticed. Near the door he felt some one press his arm and at the same instant put in his hand a letter, which he took without pronouncing a word. He continued to follow the three persons instinctively. It was only after seeing them enter their dwelling and close the door that he thought of returning home.

II

To those acquainted, however slightly, with the history of Antwerp it will be superfluous to recall the immense prosperity of the city at the time of our little drama. To give an idea of its ancient wealth and magnificence, it will suffice to say that five hundred vessels ascended and descended the Scheldt daily. The river near the city was literally covered with ships at anchor, waiting their turn to discharge; they often extended as far as the village of Hoboken, three miles from the city, which gave rise to the Flemish saying “Op de Hobooksche hei liggen” (To remain in the fields of Hoboken). This saying is used to designate persons who are obliged to wait a long time for the accomplishment of their desires. Nearly every nation had its representatives in the fine and celebrated city of Antwerp, and one of the writers of the time said that the Antwerpians could study the customs, language and costumes of all the nations of the globe without leaving their city. We will not attempt to explain the causes of this gigantic prosperity, which caused Antwerp to be the rival of Genoa and Venice. Its admirable situation, which still contributes to its prosperity, was one of the principal reasons. The fairs, like those of Leipsic and Frankfort, were endowed with many valuable privileges; one of these guaranteed to its visitors a species of inviolability. They could not be molested for debt during the continuance of the fair and while making their return trip to their homes. It is not astonishing that with the freedom and facility which foreign merchants enjoyed they preferred Antwerp to other cities, and that it attained such a degree of splendour.

Among the foreign bankers the most noted was a German named Wolfgang FrÜgger. He was descended from the famous FrÜggers of Augsburg, who had representatives in France, Spain, Italy and Antwerp. They were the richest bankers of Europe, the Rothschilds of the epoch. He had inherited from his father a sum of six million crowns, a fabulous amount at that time. His house had the reputation of containing more treasures than the palace of a king. He was called by every one “FrÜgger the Rich.” He lived in a very simple, miserly manner.

FrÜgger had been for a long time connected with another German banker, immensely rich, named Hochstetter, whose mode of living differed essentially from that of the father of Katharina. He lived in a princely manner in a palace which he had built in the street that still bears his name. It appears that notwithstanding the difference in their manner of living, they agreed marvelously, and visited each other frequently. Their names were inseparable upon the Bourse, as all believed that there existed between the two houses a secret partnership, and why should they not have believed so? For when the name of one alone was cited in a transaction it was soon known that the other participated in it. When the loan of £152,000 sterling was made to Henry VIII, King of England, ostensibly by FrÜgger alone, it was soon known that it was an operation of the two houses. Later, when Hochstetter concluded his loan of 3,000,000 crowns of gold, to the King of Portugal, FrÜgger, which was a mystery for no one, took part for at least one-half.

Thus it had been for many years, when suddenly without any apparent cause the union of the rich Germans was interrupted in the most complete manner. They ceased to visit and became as strangers. Although no one knew the reason of this sudden change they did not doubt that FrÜgger was the cause, as it was known that Hochstetter had been to visit him and had not been received. This happened a few days only before the ceremonies at the church for the repose of the dead. FrÜgger had not for several days appeared at the Bourse, which had filled all the merchants with astonishment.

III

The same evening of the ceremonies two persons conversed together in one of the salons of the superb mansion of Hochstetter. One of them was a man of about sixty years of age, of a venerable aspect, whose features expressed mildness and benevolence. This was Hochstetter. Not far from him was seated in a heavy oaken chair the young man whom we have followed from the river to the church; he appeared a prey to great despair and tried vainly to repress his tears. The father was reading the letter which the servant of Katharina had given to the lover of her mistress, and from time to time he stopped to bestow upon his son a regard full of tenderness, but the contents of the letter were not of a nature to calm his sorrows, or to give him courage. It ran as follows:

“It is eight long days that I have not seen you, nor your worthy father, and I have not even been able to send you any word. Perhaps you have already accused me of forgetfulness and ingratitude. If it is thus, ask God to pardon your unjust suspicions, for never were reproaches less merited. If you knew my situation you would feel only pity for my unhappy fate, and you would not impute sentiments to me which are far from my heart. Since the day your father, my esteemed guardian, came to demand my hand, my father has changed so much that I can hardly recognize him. Not contented with forbidding me all communication with you, he will not even allow me to talk with any one; even my own maid is a prisoner like myself. Not a word from you or your father have I had. I have only been told you asked my hand in marriage. When I asked my father for an explanation he answered me that it was not yet time but that he would give me one later. I cannot comprehend it—my father who has appeared to love me so tenderly and has always gratified all my wishes—to treat me suddenly with so much severity, so much cruelty. What can I say? He knows that I love you, and what adds to my grief is not to be able to tell you my troubles, and not to see you. He is not ignorant that I suffer and weep almost continually. I fear you will ascribe my silence to other sentiments. He has kept me from your father and all my friends who could speak to me of you. He has also changed so much that it astonishes me; he is always agitated, filled with a continual fear which it is impossible for me to understand; he trembles and turns pale at the slightest noise, speaks of thieves and robbers as if the city contained them by thousands; in the evening he dares not retire until he has assured himself that the doors are well fastened. His long, strange absences, of which I have formerly spoken to you, become more and more frequent, and they often last for hours. No one sees him go out, but he is nowhere to be found. Then suddenly he appears without any one being able to say how he has entered. He has forbidden me to go to the morning mass as I have always done, and it was with great reluctance that he accompanied me to the church of St. AndrÉ to pray for the repose of the soul of my deceased mother, whose loss I have never felt more deeply than now. As I have the hope of seeing you there, I know not why, I have written these lines, and confide them to Clara and pray that she may find means of giving them to you.”

This letter did not appear to astonish Hochstetter much, but his discontent was none the less visible.

“Decidedly he is losing his senses,” murmured he, throwing it upon the table. Then, turning towards his son, “Carl,” said he, taking his hand, “calm yourself, you see that all is not lost as you feared, and you were wrong to doubt Katharina. The poor child loves you more than ever.”

“But her father,” sighed Carl, “her father. I avow that his conduct....”

“But I think I understand it. I have been connected with him twenty years and I think I know him well enough to flatter myself that he had much friendship for us, and that it must cost him something to sacrifice it for an idea; but still he shows himself uncivil, refuses to have any more transactions with me, and when I visited him to demand an explanation he would not receive me. He forbids his daughter, my ward, all communication with us, and for what?—because I have asked of him her hand in marriage for my only son, whose fortune is larger than that of any other in the city! He has seen this attachment in the games of your infancy and has always approved of it. If I regret one thing it is not the interruption of our commercial relations, or the loss of his friendship, but the sudden disappointment of the hopes which this union had made me form for you. Alas! do not be discouraged, my son; you have not so much to complain of, it appears to me. The young girl loves you, you cannot doubt it, and in spite of the severity of her father she finds means to communicate with you, and then she says that she does not comprehend her father’s strange conduct, and gives us to understand that he must labour under some aberration of mind. I am sure that when he is reËstablished in health we shall find him the same old friend and tender father, who will be pleased to have you for a son-in-law. For where will he find one more suitable in every respect? Besides, you will be immensely rich.”

“If FrÜgger will not accord me the hand of Katharina of what use will all the riches of the earth be to me?”

“Lover’s words! Riches are always useful; you will learn that later. He will consent; but if he persists in his absurd obstinacy will you consent to marry her without any dowry, or even the fortune which belongs to her from her mother?”

“Instantly, even if she were the daughter of the most humble artisan.”

“I will make another attempt. I know him well enough to prophesy that my offers will be accepted. Console yourself; all will be well.” After this they separated, each to retire to his apartment.

IV

At the rue des Tailleurs de Pierres, in one of the rooms of the house of FrÜgger, took place almost at the same moment, a scene which, although of another character, still related to the same subject as the one which had just occurred at the house of Hochstetter.

“My child,” said FrÜgger to his daughter, “you know that since the death of your mother I have loved no one but yourself in this world, and have endeavoured to augment my fortune only in order to make you the richest heiress of all the provinces reunited under the scepter of the Emperor Charles V. You, for whom I have done so much, for whom I continue to amass wealth, in order to elevate you so high that misfortune can never reach you, and whom all the world shall envy; you can do nothing for me? Why refuse me, who have never refused you the accomplishment of the slightest desire? Why refuse me the obedience that every child owes to its parents, even when they have not done for it what I have done for you?”

“Father,” responded Katharina in a firm tone, “I have never refused to obey you, and have always endeavoured to prove by my obedience that I have not ceased to love and respect you, which is my wish and duty.”

“It is probably with this intention,” said the old man bitterly, “that notwithstanding my express will you still persist in loving the son of Hochstetter.”

“Oh, Father,” interrupted the young girl, blushing deeply.

“Try not to deny it,” answered he with anger. “You love him, you love him madly, in spite of me or my strict orders, and the obedience which you declare you owe me.”

Katharina was too much agitated to answer immediately. She hesitated, and then said with a trembling voice, which grew firmer as she proceeded:

“I love him more than I can say, more than I know myself, which renders me incapable of obeying you, when you require that I shall forget him. Can you make me commit a crime? Is it not you yourself who have taught me from my most tender youth to esteem and love Hochstetter as your friend, and the friend of my deceased mother, and to consider him as my second father? Is it my fault if in obeying you I have ended by loving his son, the friend of my infancy, the companion of my youthful days, the only child of my guardian? No, the fault is yours at first, yours alone, and in commanding me to change my sentiments you demand an impossibility and render me the most unhappy of all beings!”

“It is true,” murmured FrÜgger, striking his forehead. “It is my fault, it is my fault. I have had too much confidence. I have delivered myself to them bound hand and foot, like an old fool that I was. But if with an effort you can satisfy me, render me happy?” questioned he, raising his voice.

“Render you happy, Father? I do not understand you. Why is your interest so great?”

“What interest, child,” cried he, with a frightful expression upon his features, “what interest!—You know you are sure of my affection for you, but I believe, nevertheless, that sooner than let you persevere in this love I prefer to see you dead. Oh, yes, dead! Ask of me all you wish, demand my blood, my life, but I plead with you, renounce this detested Carl, whom I hate as my enemy,” continued he, seizing her arm and pressing it with savage energy. “Renounce him, I pray you; say that you will love him no more, that you will think of him only as an enemy—as the enemy of your father.”

Katharina burst into tears. “I wish I could promise what you exact of me, but I feel it impossible to keep a promise to forget him.”

“Oh! say to me that you will never abandon me, never leave me alone in my solitary dwelling,” pursued the merciless old man, without appearing to have heard the words of his daughter; “say that you will not marry while I live. You wish not my death, do you?”

“Your death!”

“Yes, my death! Listen! I lost your mother while you were an infant. It is needless to say what a terrible blow her loss was to me, but I have consoled myself with the idea that you remained to me, and with the hope of finding in you all her virtues. This hope has not been deceived. I see in you today my regretted Anne, with her beauty, all her precious qualities, and her incessant cares for my happiness. If in losing you I lose a second time all that is dear to me I shall not survive it.”

“Father, I pray you.”

“Oh, I know what you wish to say, that your husband would be my friend, would prove a most tender and respectful son; perhaps even through pity he would consent to leave you with me; but the idea alone of knowing that when he wished he could take you from me would embitter my life. And now,” said he, perceiving with joy that his words had made a profound impression upon the young girl, “Katharina, I appeal to your heart. Will you abandon the poor old man who lives only by you and for you? Can you reduce to despair and fill with bitterness the few days which yet remain to me? Would you kill me slowly and force me to curse in my last moments, my only daughter, whose abandonment will have caused my death?”

“Never, oh, never!” she cried, throwing herself in tears upon his breast. “Pardon me, my poor father.”

“Thus you will remain? Always! You will never think of marrying while I live?”

“Never.”

“Oh, I knew it,” cried he, embracing her. “I knew I should recover my daughter! The conviction that you have assured the happiness of your father will soften the bitterness of your regrets.”

She fell upon her knees sobbing, a prey to an indescribable emotion. He placed his hand upon her head, and raising his eyes to heaven said with an inspired air:

“God, who has promised long and prosperous days in this life, and in the other eternal felicity, to children who love and obey their parents, may he bless thee as I bless thee, and render thee tenfold the joy which I feel at this moment, at thy filial piety.”

Raising the weeping Katharina he rang a bell placed upon a table near him. Her servant appeared. Katharina embraced him anew, and left the room, supported by the maid.

V

FrÜgger waited until he heard her enter her apartment. Then he closed the door. A smile of satisfaction played around the corners of his mouth, and a look of triumph lightened his features. He remained at first motionless and silent. Little by little the air of contentment disappeared and gave place to one of anxiety. His face contracted; he rose and commenced to walk back and forth in the room.

“If she should change her ideas, retract the promise that I have extorted from her; if she should force me to consent to her marriage, or worse still, marry without it, what could I do then?—Oppose her design?—-Impossible!—Here,” said he, taking from an escritoire a parchment covered with several seals, “here is this abhorred writing signed by the hand of my wife, which exacts that when my daughter attains the age of twenty-five years—or sooner, if she wishes to marry—that I shall give her half of my fortune, and to complete the misfortune, confides to Hochstetter the guardianship of my child! Ah! my wife knew well what she did in making this will! She knew me, and was not ignorant that this gold, these bonds, these treasures, were my life, and that I would give my soul to preserve them, and would willingly sacrifice my eternal salvation rather than be separated from them. Part with them? Malediction! Another to possess and have in his power these riches, fruits of so many days of anxiety and nights filled with anguish—of so many unfortunate speculations!—Another to manage this wealth so laboriously amassed—to have the right to dispose of my money, to squander it perhaps, for I know these Hochstetters; they live like princes and entertain all the nobles of the land.—Grand Dieu! Not to be able to rejoice daily over the sight of these riches; to part with half. Never! that shall never be! I!—Yes! I will sooner kill the unfortunate child.”

In exclaiming thus, the expression of his face was so terrible that it was almost fiendish. The violence of his emotions was so powerful that he was himself startled by their intensity. After a few moments of reflection he became more calm.

“I am wrong to agitate myself thus; she will not marry; she has promised it; and then have I not the testament in my own hands? But Hochstetter knows it; he possesses proofs of its existence. I fear he has a copy of it. Oh! he knows very well what he has done! My daughter, the wife of his son—le misÉrable! To abuse thus my friendship, my confidence; that calls for revenge. But no, I have merited it; it is my fault. She loves the son and respects the father more than she does me. I could cry with rage.”

Pronouncing these words with ferocity he fell back upon his seat, somber and discouraged, and remained plunged in thought.

VI

A half hour later, when he judged that all were wrapped in slumber he rose, took from a secret compartment of his escritoire a little key, lighted a dark lantern, and left the room. After having assured himself that there was no fear of meeting any one, he advanced softly and descended the staircase. Arriving in the spacious corridor, he first went to the street door to assure himself that it was solidly fastened, returned, opened another door at the end of the corridor, and descended the stairs which led into the cellar. The dwelling of the miser was very large; the cellars extended under the street, forming a species of labyrinth. His father had constructed them upon a vast scale in order that they might serve as storehouses in times of trouble. FrÜgger went through them with a sure step which proved sufficiently that all the nooks and corners were familiar to him. After having traversed several of these subterranean chambers, he stopped suddenly before one of the last, and listened attentively, to assure himself that the same silence continued to reign, and that no one would come to interrupt him. As all remained tranquil he advanced towards one of the angles of the vault. This angle differed in no respect from the others; the walls were as damp and as dark, but hardly had FrÜgger introduced the little key into an imperceptible opening, which no one but himself could distinguish, when a solid iron door turned upon its hinges, opened, and permitted him to pass into another vault of which no one would have suspected the existence. After having listened anxiously and persuaded himself that no one watched him, he entered; the massive door shut behind him with a loud clang that sounded through the subterranean apartments. A second after the silence of death reigned throughout the dwelling.

INTERIOR OF AN OLD HOUSE, ANTWERP.