OTHO THE ARCHER

  Translated by Alfred Allinson

  This 1840 short novel is based on tales Dumas heard during his trip to Germany and is set on the banks of the Rhine in 1340. It features a melodramatic plot which keeps veering off in unexpected directions as Dumas explores various German tales.

  In the narrative, the Landgrave (Prince) Ludwig of Godesburg, is struck by the resemblance of his son to a friend of his wife's, and so decides that he has been cuckolded. He sends his wife off to a nunnery and ships his son, Otho, to a monastery.

  An illustration from the first English edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER I.

  TOWARDS the end of the year 1340, on a cold but still beautiful autumn night, a horseman was riding along the narrow road that follows the left bank of the Rhine. You might have thought, considering the lateness of the hour and the rapid pace at which he urged his horse, tired as it was with the long day’s journey already done, that he was going to stop for a few hours in the little town of Oberwinter, which he had just reached. But nothing of the kind; without slackening his pace and like a man who is familiar with them, he plunged into the midst of narrow tortuous streets that might shorten his way by a few minutes, and soon reappeared on the other side of the town, going out by the opposite Gate, to that by which he had come in.

  Just as the portcullis was dropped behind him, the moon, which had hitherto been clouded, now entered a space of sky clear and brilliant as a peaceful lake amid the sea of clouds rolling its fantastic waves over the heavens, and so we will use this passing gleam to take a rapid glance at the belated traveller.

  He was a man of from forty-five to fifty years of age, of medium height, but of an athletic and square-shouldered build; and so entirely were his movements in harmony with those of his horse that the two appeared as if cut out of one and the same piece of rock. As he was in a friendly country and thus secure from all danger, he had hung his helmet from his saddle-bow, and to protect his head from the dank night air wore only a little hood of mail lined with cloth, which when his helmet was on his head fell back in a point between his shoulders.

  True a head of long and abundant hair just turning grey served its owner for the same purpose as the most comfortable head-dress could have done, besides surrounding as with a natural frame a face dignified and reposeful as a lion’s.

  His rank could have been a secret only to the few people who at this period were ignorant of heraldic language; for if you looked at his helmet, you saw rising through an Earl’s coronet — which combined with it formed a crest — a bare arm supporting a naked sword, while on the other side of the saddle hung a shield face outwards, on which glittered on a background gules the three gold stars — two in line and one under — of the house of Homburg, one of the oldest and most highly esteemed in all Germany.

  Now if you would know more of the character we have just introduced, we will add that Count Karl was on his way back from Flanders, where he had gone at the command of the Emperor Louis V. of Bavaria, to lend the assistance of his brave sword to Edward III., of England, nominated eighteen months previously Vicegerent of the Empire. And this monarch, in virtue of the year’s truce he had just signed with Philip of Valois at the intercession of the Lady Jeanne, sister of the King of France, and mother of the Count de Hainault, had for the time being given our friend his freedom.

  Arrived near the little village of Melheim, the traveller left the riverside road he had followed since Coblentz, to take a pathway leading directly inland. Horse and rider plunged into a ravine, to emerge shortly on the other side, and then pursue across the open plain a road that seemed well known to both of them.

  In fact in another five minutes, the horse tossed his head and neighed, as if to announce his arrival, and then without his master finding it necessary to urge him on by word or spur, his eagerness increased so much that in a few moments they passed on their left in the darkness the little village of Godesberg, hidden in its clump of trees, and quitting the road from Rolandseck to Bonn, and turning a second time to the left, made straight for the Castle situated on the top of a hill, and bearing the same name as the town, though which of the two gave the name to the other is uncertain.

  It was now clear the Castle of Godesberg was the goal of Count Karl’s journey, but it was even more evident that he was about to reach his destination in the midst of great festivities. As he climbed higher up the road ascending spirally from the foot of the mountain to the Great Gate, he saw each face of the Donjon Keep gleaming with lights from all its windows, and behind the redly glowing window-hangings numerous figures moving, continually forming and reforming in diversified groups. Though it was easy to discern by the slight frowning of his brows that he would rather have lighted in the midst of the family circle than amid the confusion of a ball, he pushed on his way all the same, so that in a few moments he was passing through the Castle Gate.

  The Bailey was crowded with squires, grooms, horses and litters; for, as we have said, there was high festival at Godesberg. Scarcely had Count Karl put foot to ground ere a crowd of grooms and serving- men ran forward to take his horse, and lead it to the stables. But not so readily would the Knight part with his faithful companion, neither would he trust the care of it to anyone but himself; taking the bridle, he led the animal to a stable apart from the others, where the Landgrave of Godesberg’s own horses were kept.

  The grooms did not interfere, though astonished at his boldness, for the Knight had acted with an assurance which convinced them that he was entitled to do what he pleased.

  When Hans — this was the Count’s name for his horse — was securely placed in a vacant stall, and this stall was supplied with sufficient straw for his comfort, his manger with oats, his rack with hay, the Knight then began to think of himself, and after again stroking his noble animal, which turned aside from its meal to acknowledge the attention by a grateful neigh, — he proceeded to the Great Staircase, and in spite of the hindrance of pages and squires blocking the way, he reached the rooms where all the nobility of the country-side were then gathered together.

  Count Karl paused a moment at one of the doors of the principal withdrawing room to look at the most brilliant portion of the assemblage. Here was an animated and noisy scene, gay with young men dressed in velvet and noble ladies with embroidered robes; and amongst the young men and noble ladies, the handsomest was Otho, and the fairest the Lady Emma, the one the son and the other the wife of the Landgrave Ludwig of Godesberg, Lord of the Castle and companion in arms of the newly-arrived Knight.

  The appearance of the latter had roused attention.

  Alone in the midst of all the guests, he appeared like Wilhelm to Lenora, still wearing his armour, the dark steel of which contrasted strangely with the bright, joyous hues of velvet and silk. Immediately, all looks were turned in his direction, except only the Count Ludwig’s, who standing at the opposite door seemed rapt in such a profound meditation that his eyes remained set in a fixed gaze.

  Karl recognised his old friend, and without troubling himself further as to the cause of his preoccupation, he made his way through the rooms, and after a desperate but successful struggle with the crowd he reached the retired apartment, at one door of which he saw, as he entered by the other, Count Ludwig who had not changed his posture, and still stood there with the same gloomy look.

  Karl again paused a moment to observe the host’s strange melancholy, the more strange as, while lavishing pleasure upon others, he seemed to have kept only gloom and anxiety for himself; then he stepped forward, and seeing that he had reached his friend without the sound of his steps attracting attention, he placed his hand on his shoulder.

  The Landgrave turned round with a start. His mind and thought were so deeply immersed in a range of ideas far removed from the man who now broke in upon him, that he looked at him for some time without recognising him, though his face was now uncovered, — and this the man whom on any other occasion he would have named, even with the visor lowered, amid all the Emperor’s Court. But Karl, holding out his arms, said, “Ludwig,” and the charm was broken.

  Ludwig flung himself on his comrade’s breast, rather as a man who seeks refuge from a great sorrow than as a friend full of joy at beholding his friend once more.

  But this unexpected return produced a happy distraction for the care-worn host of the gay festival. He drew the newcomer to the other end of the room, and there making him sit on a spacious oaken settle overhung by a canopy of cloth-of- gold, he took a seat beside him, and hiding his head in the shadow and taking his hand, asked him for an account of his fortunes during the three long years of absence which had separated them from each other.

  Karl told the whole story with the fullness of military detail in which an old soldier delights; how the troops of England, Brabant and the Empire, led by Edward III. in person, had besieged Cambrai, burning and destroying all before them; how the two armies met at Buironfosse without fighting, because a message from the King of Sicily, who was learned in astrology had come just as they were about to engage, telling Philip of Valois that any battle he fought with the English and in which Edward should personally command would be fatal to him (a prediction that came true later on at
Crecy), and he described how a year’s truce had been concluded between the two rival Kings on the plain of Esplechin, and that, as we have said, at the earnest entreaty of the Lady Jeanne de Valois, sister of the King of France.

  The Landgrave had listened to this account with a silence which up to a certain point might have passed for attention, although he had risen from time to time with obvious restlessness to look into the ball-room, but as he returned each time to take his former place, the speaker, though momentarily interrupted, did not fail to resume his narrative, comprehending how the master of the house was bound to keep an eye on the details of the entertainment, so that nothing should be lacking for the pleasure of the guests.

  However, since after the last interruption, the Landgrave, as if he had forgotten his friend, did not return to his seat beside him, he rose and again drew near the ball-room door by which a flood of light entered this small, dark, retired room; and this time his friend heard his approach, for he raised his arm without turning his head.

  Count Karl took the place pointed out to him by this movement, and the Landgrave’s arm fell on his comrade’s shoulder, which he pressed convulsively against his own.

  A terrible struggle was evidently taking place in the man’s secret heart, and yet though Karl looked in vain at the happy throng that whirled before him, he saw nothing that could explain such emotion. But it was too obvious for a friend so devoted as the Count not to perceive it, and not himself in some measure to be distressed. Still he said nothing, recognising that a scrupulous regard for a friend’s secret is the first duty of friendship; but at the same time there is a sympathetic union in hearts that are accustomed to understand one another. Thus the Landgrave, appreciating the other’s discreet silence, looked at his friend, passed his hand across his forehead and sighed. Then after a moment’s hesitation:

  “Karl,” he said finally, in a hollow voice and pointing to his son, “do you not think there is a strange resemblance between Otho and the young lord who is dancing with his mother?”

  It was now Count Karl’s turn to start. These few words were to him as the lightning illumining the night to the traveller lost in the desert; by its tempestuous flash, swift as it was, he had seen the precipice. The resemblance was so striking between the boy and the man, that in spite of his friendship for the Landgrave, the Count, though he felt the import of his answer, replied before he could stop himself:

  “True, Ludwig, they might indeed be brothers.”

  He had hardly spoken, however, when a shiver ran through the man he stood beside, and he hastened to add: “After all, what of it?”

  “Nothing,” answered the Landgrave in a thick voice; “only I was glad to have your opinion on the point. Now tell me the end of your campaign.”

  And he led him back to the same settle where Karl had begun his story, which he now finished without further interruption.

  He had hardly stopped talking when a man stood in the doorway by which Karl had entered. The Landgrave rose quickly at sight of him, and advanced to meet him. The two men conversed in low voices for a moment, without Karl being able to hear what they said. However he easily saw by their gestures that it concerned a matter of the deepest moment, and he was the further convinced of this when the Landgrave returned to him with a face even more profoundly melancholy than before.

  “Karl,” said Ludwig, but this time not sitting down, “you must want rest rather than dancing and merry-making after such a long journey as you have had today. I will show you to your room. Good-night, we shall see one another to-morrow.”

  Karl perceived his friend wished to be left alone; so he rose without answering, silently shook his head, questioning him with a look for the last time. But the Landgrave responded only with one of those sad smiles that inform a friend the moment has not yet come to give him the sacred trust he claims. Karl by a last pressure of the hand gave him to understand he would always find him a trusty comrade, and retired to the room that had been prepared for him, where, remote as it was, the noise of revel still reached him. The Count lay down, his mind full of sad thoughts and his ears dinned with sounds of merriment; and the conflict of this strange contrast banished sleep. But at last fatigue got the better of uneasiness, the body prevailed over the mind. Little by little, thoughts and objects became less distinct, his senses grew benumbed, and his eyes closed. There was still between somnolence and real sleep an interval similar to the twilight which divides day and night, a fantastic and indescribable interval during which reality blends with dream, so that it is neither dream nor reality. Then followed deep slumber.

  It was so long since the Knight had slept anywhere but under a tent and in his armour, that he yielded himself with pleasure to the delight of a good bed so thoroughly that, when he awoke, he perceived by the daylight that the morning must be far advanced. He saw immediately an unexpected sight, recalling the scene of the previous evening and absorbing all his attention. The Landgrave was seated in an armchair, perfectly still, with his head drooping on his breast, as if he were waiting for his friend to awake, but so great was his abstraction that he had not noticed his awakening, when it actually occurred. The Count looked silently at him for a moment; then seeing two tears rolling down the furrowed and pale cheeks, he could no longer contain himself, but holding out his arms towards him, he cried earnestly:

  “Ludwig! In God’s name, what is the matter with you?”

  “The matter?” answered the Landgrave, “Alas! alas! I have neither wife nor son left me.”

  And rising with difficulty as he spoke, staggering like a drunken man, he fell forward into the Count’s outstretched arms.

  CHAPTER II.

  IN order to understand the events which | follow, our readers must go back with us into the past. The Landgrave had been married for sixteen years; his wife was the daughter of Count Ronsdorf, who had been killed in 1316 during the wars between King Ludwig of Bavaria, for whom he had fought, and Friedrich, surnamed the Handsome, of Austria, and whose lands lay on the right bank of the Rhine beyond and at the foot of the chain of hills called the Sieben Gebirge, or Seven Mountains. The Dowager Countess, a woman of lofty virtue and unblemished reputation, had been left a widow with one daughter five years old; but as she was of royal race she had during her widowhood kept up the former splendour of her house, so that her retinue continued to be one of the best appointed among all the neighbouring Castles.

  Shortly after the Count’s death the Dowager Countess’s household was increased by a young page, the son, she said, of a friend of hers who had died in poor circumstances. He was a handsome lad, not more than three or four years older than Emma; and in her treatment of him the Countess did not belie her reputation for kindness and generosity. The orphan boy was received by her as a son, and was brought up side by side with her daughter, with whom he shared the affections of the Countess so impartially that it was hard to say which of the two was her own and which the adopted child. Thus the two grew up beside each other, and were destined, many people said, for each other; when much to the astonishment of the nobles who dwelt near the Rhine, the young Count Ludwig of Godesberg, then eighteen years of age, was betrothed to little Emma of Ronsdorf, who was only ten. It was however arranged between the old Margrave and the Countess that the betrothed pair should wait another five years before becoming man and wife.

  And so Emma and Albrecht grew up, he into a handsome Knight and she into a charming girl; the Countess had moreover kept a watchful eye upon the progress of their friendship, and had noticed with pleasure that, sincere though their affection was, it had none of the characteristics of love.

  Emma was now thirteen and Albrecht eighteen; their hearts like budding roses were soon to open in the early glow of adolescence, and that was the time which the Countess feared for them. Unfortunately, just at this crisis she fell ill; for a time it was hoped that the vigour of youth (for the Countess was barely thirty-four) would triumph over the persistence of the malady. But this was not to be; she was sick unto death. Feeling this herself, she sent for her doctor and questioned him so urgently and with such determination that he could not avoid telling her that human science was powerless, and that she could henceforth look only to heaven for help.