Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Barbara Blomberg — Complete by Georg Ebers (self help books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Georg Ebers
Book online «Barbara Blomberg — Complete by Georg Ebers (self help books to read TXT) 📖». Author Georg Ebers
The young girl raised her head with fresh courage. What had happened more than she had expected?
Because he loved her, he had become jealous, and made her feel his anger. But if she should now persistently withdraw from him, and let him realize how deeply he had offended her, she could not fail to win the game. In spite of all his crowns and kingdoms, he was only a man, and must not she, who in a few brief hours had forced a Maurice of Saxony to sue yearningly for her love, succeed by the might of her art and her beauty in transforming the wrath of the far older man, Charles, into his former passion?
If the Italian novels with which she was familiar did not lie, not only jealousy, but apparent indifference on the part of the beloved object, fanned the heart of man to burst into fresh flames.
It was only necessary to hold her impetuous temper in check, and profit by the jealousy which had now been aroused in Charles’s mind. Hitherto she had always obeyed hasty impulses. Why should not she, too, succeed in accomplishing a well-considered plan? With the torturing emotions of failure, mortification, desertion, remorse, and yearning for forgiveness, now blended the hope of yet bringing to a successful conclusion the hazardous enterprise which she had already given up as hopeless, and, while walking on, her brain toiled diligently over plans for the campaign which would compel the great general to return with twofold devotion the love of which he had deprived her.
So, in the intense darkness, she followed the light which the torches cast upon the uneven path. At first she had taken up the train of her dress; now it was sweeping the dusty road.
What did she care for the magnificent robe if she regained Charles’s love? Of what use would it be if she had lost it, lost it forever?
Before the litters reached the little castle a gust of wind rose, driving large drops of rain, straw, and withered leaves-Barbara could not imagine whence they came in the month of May—into her face. She was obliged to struggle against these harbingers of the coming tempest, and her heart grew lighter during the conflict. She was not born to endure, but to contend.
The scene of the festivities emptied rapidly. The duke and Granvelle drove back to the city in the minister’s carriage. Malfalconnet and Quijada, in spite of the gathering storm, went home on foot.
“What a festival!” said Don Luis scornfully.
“In former days such things presented a more superb spectacle even here. But now! No procession, no scarlet save on the cardinals, no golden cross, no venerable priest’s head on the whole pleasure ground, and, moreover, neither consecration nor the pious exhortation to remember Heaven, whence comes the joy in which the crowd is rejoicing.”
“I, too, missed something here,” cried the baron eagerly, “and now I learn through you what it is.”
“Will not the heretics themselves gradually feel that they are robbing the pasty of faith of its truffles—what am I saying?—of its salt? May their dry black bread choke them! The only thing that gave the unseasoned meal a certain charm was the capitally performed gagliarde.
“Which angered his Majesty more deeply than you imagine,” replied Don Luis. “The singer’s days are probably numbered. It is a pity! She was wonderfully successful in subduing the spirits of melancholy.”
“The war, on which we can now depend, will do that equally well, if not better,” interrupted the baron. “Within a short time I, too, have lost all admiration for this fair one. Cold-hearted and arrogant. Capable of the utmost extremes when her hot blood urges her on. Unpopular with the people to whom she belongs, and, in spite of her bold courage, surprisingly afraid of the Holy Inquisition. Here, among the heretics, that gives cause for thought.”
“Enough!” replied Don Luis. “We will let matters take their course. If the worst comes, I, at least, will not move a finger in her behalf.”
“Nor will I,” said Malfalconnet, and both walked quietly on.
BOOK 2.
CHAPTER I.
Through the storm, which lashed her face with whirling clouds of dust and drops of rain, Barbara reached the little Prebrunn castle.
The marquise had not yet left her litter. The wind had extinguished two of the torches. One bearer walked in front of Barbara with his, and the gale blew the smoking flame aside. But, ere she had reached the gate, a man who had been concealed behind the old elm by the path stepped forward to meet her. She started back and, as he called her by name, she recognised the young Wittenberg theologian, Erasmus Eckhart. Sincerely indignant, she ordered him to go away at once, but her first words were interrupted by the shrill voice of the marquise, who had now left her litter, and with loud shrieks ordered the steward to seize the burglar.
Erasmus, however, trusted to his strength and nimbleness and, instead of promptly taking flight, entreated Barbara to listen to him a moment. Not until, far from allowing herself to be softened, she, too, threatened him, did he attempt to escape, but both litters were in his way, and when he had successfully passed around them the gardener, suddenly emerging from the darkness, seized him. But the sturdy young fellow knew how to defend his liberty, and had already released himself from his assailant when other servants grasped him.
Above the roar of the storm now rose the shrieks of the marquise, the shouts of “Stop thief!” from the men, and Erasmus’s protestations that he was no robber, coupled with an appeal to Jungfrau Blomberg, who knew him.
Barbara now stated that he was the son of a respectable family, and had by no means come here to steal the property of others; but the marquise, though she probably correctly interpreted the handsome young fellow’s late visit, vehemently insisted upon his arrest. She treated Barbara’s remonstrance with bitter contempt; and when Cassian, the almoner’s servant, appeared and declared that he had already caught this rascal more than once strolling in a suspicious manner near the castle, and that he himself was here so late only because his beloved bride, in her mistress’s absence, was afraid of the robber and his companions, Barbara’s entreaties and commands were disregarded, and Erasmus’s hands were bound.
By degrees the noise drew most of the inmates of the castle out of doors, and among them Frau Lerch. Lastly, several halberdiers, who were coming from the Lindenplatz and had heard the screams in the garden, appeared, chained the prisoner, and took him to the Prebrunn jail.
But scarcely had Erasmus been led away when the priests of the household also came out and asked what had happened. In doing this Barbara’s caution in not calling Erasmus by name proved to have been futile, for Cassian had recognised him, and told the ecclesiastics what he knew. The chaplain then asserted that, as the
Comments (0)