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My father's brother married at Lausanne, in the Canton de Vaud, and resided there. He died early, and left one son; who, as you may suppose, was half a Frenchman. In spite of that, I thought Caspar von Hazenfeldt a very handsome fellow. His chestnut hair knotted in curls over his shoulders.
Caspar von Hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless unguarded moment. Hazenfeldt was introduced to Caroline in due form, and engaged her for the first dance. Before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair.
He was not where he had fallen: he was sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock. Caroline de Werner was beside him. Her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in Bacchante curls, twined with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was fast locked in that of Hazenfeldt.
Caroline de Werner is in a mad-house near Vevay: the man in black has not been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of Beau-Sejour: my cousin, Caspar von Hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the Swiss mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met the old gentleman, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of the Gemmi.
She was the daughter of a rich old colonel of the Empire: he was the poor son of a poorer widow. What could he do? Caspar von Hazenfeldt could gaze on the house of the old soldier; but the avenue of elms, the waving corn-fields, and the luxuriant gardens, told him that the heiress of Beau-Sejour could never he his.
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