estates in the Lausitz, where the family estate lies, and in Russian
Poland. The present prince, also, has both Slavonic and Germanic blood
in his veins. His mother, the Princess Stephanie Letbus, of the house
of Wartenberg, married in eighteen hundred and twenty-two, in St.
Petersburg, where she has lived from her early youth--I mentioned
before that part of their possessions are in Russia--a Count Constantin
Malikowsky, the last scion of a once very rich and powerful Polish
family, who is now, however, quite reduced. The Emperor Alexander, who,
as they say, was under obligations to both families" (here the
professor ventured upon a stealthy smile to the young princess, who was
lady in waiting to the empress and exceedingly beautiful, and to the
count whose family had been mainly ruined by Russian confiscations,)
"has the credit of having made the match. Such influence was perhaps
necessary, because the reputation of the count was--I trust you will
pardon the veracity of a conscientious historian--was, how shall I call
it, somewhat doubtful. Young noblemen must sow their wild oats, we all
know that; but Count Malikowsky had probably carried the matter a
little too far. However that may be, the offspring of this marriage of
Count Constantin Malikowsky with the Princess Stephanie Letbus is the
prince, who at first was in the Russian service; but when with the last
Prince Waldenberg the male succession in the family came to an end, and
the estates lapsed back to the crown, the King of Prussia as a special
favor declared him qualified to succeed, and he entered our service as
Prince Count Malikowsky Waldenberg. His full name is, as you may
possibly not know yet, Raimund Gregorius Stephan, Prince Count
Malikowsky Waldenberg, hereditary lord of Letbus."

The company had followed the genealogical lecture of the learned
professor with the same attention with which a company of ordinary
crows might listen to the report of an owl about the descent of a rare
raven who measures four yards from tip to tip. The devout silence was
suddenly interrupted by the voice of the servant, who opened the door
with nervous haste and called out, "His Highness, Prince Waldenberg!"

The nervous servant seemed to have electrified the whole company in the
room. A moment later and they all stood straight up before their
chairs, anxiously looking at the door, through whose wide-open frame
the prince was entering so quickly that Anna Maria was not able to make
the three steps to meet him which etiquette required, but had only time
for one and a half.

"You have had the kindness, madame," said the prince in excellent
French, slightly bending over the hand of the baroness, "to anticipate
my wishes by your invitation, before I had an opportunity to make
myself worthy of such an attention. Permit me to try to make amends for
my neglect."

"An effort, _mon prince_," answered Anna Maria, with her sweetest
smile, also in French, "which in a gentleman like yourself is sure of
success. I regret exceedingly that, rarely as we are from home, an
unfortunate accident should have caused us the other day to be absent
just when you thought of honoring us with a visit. Permit me to present
to you my friends: the baron, my husband; Baron and Baroness Barnewitz;
Baron and Baroness Cloten."

"I have already the honor," said the prince, smiling.

"Professor Jager, an excellent scholar, and a friend of our house; Mrs.
Jager, a lady whose poetical talent deserves encouragement."

The prince bowed to each one of the persons presented--even to the
last-mentioned, which made quite a sensation--with the same dignity and
courtesy, and gave the signal to sit down by choosing himself a seat by
Anna Maria on an easy-chair.

During this long salutation those who had not known the prince before
had an opportunity to study his outward appearance. His was a Herculean
form, calculated to impress a professional boxer forcibly, and to
create a sensation in a circus, dressed up as an athlete; but for
ordinary life was, perhaps, a little too large. Upon the large,
powerful body, whose height was in full harmony with the breadth of the
shoulders and the magnificent chest, there was set a head more angular
than round, covered all over with short, curling black hair, and firmly
resting upon a neck which looked too short for the size of the head.
The features of the face corresponded with the whole. The brow was low
and straight, the eyes of bright darkness but small, and apparently
still further reduced in size by the heavy eyelids with their dark
lashes. The nose as well as the thick lips were somewhat protruding. A
beard, thicker and blacker than the hair on the head, covered the
cheeks and the upper lip. The chin alone, shaved smooth, in military
style, was the energetic base of this energetic face. Taken all in all,
the assertion made by Hortense that the prince looked like a Mongolian
agreed as little with the reality as Emily's judgment that he was
strikingly handsome. Nevertheless, the whole was a far too striking
individuality and too full of character to be called plain, even if the
strict rules of ideal beauty were not all observed. A physiognomist
would in vain have looked for ideal qualities of any kind in the face
of the prince, but he would have discovered, in return, a most
energetic, powerful will; and, perhaps, if he had examined carefully, a
boundless pride, which slept with open eyes behind the mask, like a
lion behind the bars of his cage, and could be roused by a mere
nothing.

The prince wore the simple uniform of the regiment in garrison in
Grunwald, but the two decorations on his breast--a small cross set in
diamonds, probably Russian; and the order of the Blue Falcon of the
second class, with crossed swords--proved abundantly that he was a man
whose importance was great, aside from epaulet and sword-knot.

Anna Maria treated her great guest with a distinction corresponding
fully with this higher mystical importance, which was only revealed to
the profane eye by the awe-inspiring sparkling of the diamonds. It was
this that caused the modest silence into which Barnewitz and Cloten had
fallen since his arrival; the coquetry with which Hortense and Clotilde
tried to attract his attention, and the embarrassment of the author of
the fragments and the poetess, who had a vague impression that they
were more than superfluous in this most noble company, and yet did not
dare to rise from their seats and to go away. The prince and the
baroness at first kept up the conversation alone, until Hortense
succeeded in wedging in a casual remark, expressed in excellent French,
and thus to obtain the word to the great annoyance of Emily, who had to
leave her adversary in the undisturbed enjoyment of this triumph, as
she spoke French but imperfectly, and was hardly able to follow the
rapid utterance of her rival. Hortense, who knew Emily's weak point,
carried her malice so far as to turn round to her continually with a
"_qu'en dites--vous, chère amie? N'est ce pas, Emilie?_" and to force
her in this way to reply in a manner which might be clever in spirit
but was very imperfect in form. Any one who could have noticed the
intense delight with which Hortense enjoyed her triumph over her
adversary would have been compelled to acknowledge that even malice has
its moments of happiness. The delight, however, became almost too great
to be borne, when at last the prince hardly noticed Emily any longer,
and gave himself up entirely to the charm of Hortense's amusing
conversation.

Emily, however, was far too frivolous and too bold to lose her good
humor at once, because of such a momentary defeat. The prince was not
to her taste, although she had before praised him in order to annoy her
rival; and if he did not choose to speak German to her, as he had done
the night before, he might leave it alone. Emily played with her beaux
as a trifling child plays with its dolls; it was utterly indifferent to
her whether she broke the head of one, or the other fell into the
water; she felt it only when one of her favorite dolls and she had
occasionally, for the sake of variety, one that she overwhelmed with
caresses and kisses--was not willing to be tender to her and to return
her affection. Oswald had been such a favorite, but cold, desperately
cold doll for her. She might have married him and become his faithful
wife if he had belonged to the same circles in which she lived--at
least her fancy represented it to her as possible in dreamy hours--but
now she was Baroness Cloten, and then--what did it matter to her? Was
she not handsome and young, and ten times cleverer than her foolish
husband with his everlasting "upon honor!" and "divine!" Why will
foolish men marry clever and handsome young wives, especially when
these wives have a fondness for fancies brighter than the dull gray of
actual life? Are the wives to be blamed in such cases if they go their
own way, which is sometimes so narrow and dark that virtue and honor,
the faithful companions of good wives, are lost by the way?

Emily Cloten had been watching the whole time for an opportunity to
enter into conversation with Mrs. Jager, who, she suspected, might be
able to give her some news about Oswald, whom she had not seen again
since the night before. She availed herself, therefore, of the
favorable moment when the prince was speaking to the baroness and
Hortense, and the baron to the reverend gentleman, in order to inquire
of Primula about "that young man who was tutor at Grenwitz last
summer--Fels, I think, or Rock, or Stein, or whatever his name
was--since a friend of hers was in need of a teacher." Emily was not
mistaken; Primula could give her all information about Mr. Stein--"not
Fels, although he has a heart like the poet's hero, Felsenfest; not
Rock, although he towers like a rock above all men"--as the
enthusiastic poetess added warmly. He called nearly every day, she said
(Oswald had been there once); he was like a member of the family, and
as truly united with her in warm friendship as in their common
aspirations. "Excelsior!" She did not think, however, Oswald would just
now accept such a position, as he was "suffering in the dull bonds of a
school," but she would mention to him the offer.

"Perhaps you had better not say anything," said Emily, after a short
meditation. "You know Mr. Stein--how could I forget the name--did not
leave our circle in perfect harmony. He might reject the offer at once,
if it came to him in that way. Could you not--how shall we manage
it?--yes! that's the way! Could you not arrange it so, my dear Mrs.
Jager, that I should meet him at your house as if by mere chance? I
have long since desired to see the table on which the author of the
'Cornflowers' composes her beautiful poems."

"You overwhelm me with your kindness," cried Primula. "I can only say
with Zeus at the distribution of the gifts of the earth: if you really
wish to enter my lowly hut, as often as you come it shall be open to
you. Shall we say day after to-morrow, at seven?"

"That will suit me exactly," said Emily.

Emily had given herself so completely to this interesting conversation
that her husband had to remind her of the intended breaking up of the
company. The prince had risen; the others had followed his example.

"_Madame_," said the prince, "_jai l'honneur_"--the word died on his
lips, for he saw in the large mirror before him the form of a
marvellously beautiful girl who had suddenly entered the room without
being announced by the servant. He turned round almost frightened, and
stepped aside, with a low bow, to make room for the young lady, who
went up to the baroness. The young lady was Helen Grenwitz.

Her appearance here was unexpected by all except the baron and the
baroness, and surprised and interested each one in his own way. The
prince, who saw her now for the first time, was the only one who knew
nothing of the difficulties in the family; the others had discussed the
Grenwitz catastrophe for weeks with great zeal and vast ingenuity in
all directions, and as Helen had thus been the common topic of
conversation, this first meeting of mother and daughter was therefore
to them all a most attractive scene. But if they had expected anything
extraordinary they were doomed to disappointment. The baron, to be
sure, showed some emotion as he rose to meet Helen and to kiss her
brow, but mother and daughter met with courteous coldness, which
furnished little food for the curiosity and thirst for scandal of the
assembly, ready as they were to notice every gesture, and to treasure
up every word.

"Ah, good-day, my dear child," said the baroness, in French, kissing
Helen likewise on her forehead, but very lightly. "You come just in
time. Permit me, _mon prince_, to present my daughter, Helen--His
Highness, Prince Waldenberg, my child, the most recent as well as the
most brilliant acquisition for our society."

Helen returned the low bow of the prince, apparently not dazzled by his
high rank and his imposing appearance, and then turned to Emily Cloten,
who welcomed her most heartily. Emily's sharp eyes had not failed to
observe the impression which Helen's startling beauty had produced on
the prince. Let the prince admire whom he pleased, so Hortense lost her
triumph!

"Oh, how nice!" she cried, embracing Helen, "that you show yourself at
last. I was coming to see you soon; we have a whole world to tell each
other." And she seized her friend by both hands and drew her aside a
few steps, so as to be able to say to her: "Look, the prince is done
for, _totalement_ done for! He does not take is black eyes off you for
an instant! If you want him, I'll let you have him. He dances
beautifully, but he is not my _genre_. Encourage him a little; it
annoys the Barnewitz fearfully. Just think, the old coquette still
wants to play her part, although she has now to paint even her veins
blue, and last night remained twice without a partner! How do you like
the She Bear? _Apropos_, have you heard anything of Oswald Stein? I
shall never forget that evening at your house! We came too late with
our warning, but he pulled through beautifully. Even Arthur says he
acted like a perfect gentleman. Don't turn round, the prince is coming
this way. He no doubt wants to secure the first waltz for tomorrow."

Emily's cunning had guessed right. The prince had really, while keeping
up a conversation with the baroness, looked incessantly at Helen, and
had been so absent in his answers that one could easily see his
thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly he interrupted a brilliant sentence
of Anna Maria's by asking whether there would be dancing to-morrow, and
whether he might be allowed to ask Fräulein von Grenwitz to keep him a
dance? When both questions had been answered with a gracious "_Mais
oui, monseigneur!_" he approached the two ladies with a bow.

"I beg pardon," he said in German, "if I interrupt the ladies in an
interesting conversation; but I cannot leave without having made an
effort to secure a dance for to-morrow. May I hope, madame? May I have
the honor, Miss Helen?"

The madame and the miss had the goodness to grant the prince's request,
and his highness left with a haste which clearly showed that nothing
had kept him so long but the accomplishment of this important task.

The departure of his highness was a signal for the other company, who
had been waiting for it to go likewise, to the great satisfaction of
coachmen and servants in the street below, who began to be as impatient
as the horses.

The carriages had rolled away. The reception-rooms were once more
empty; only the baron and the baroness remained, for the two Clotens
had taken Helen in their carriage; the interrupted dialogue might have
been resumed. But it was not done. The old gentleman felt too tired,
and Anna Maria began to look in an entirely new light upon the question
whether Helen should remain at the boarding-school or not? For about
ten minutes ago the thought had suddenly entered her mind that it
might, after all, be wiser to be reconciled to her daughter, who had at
least as much prospect as any other young lady, and probably more, to
become Princess of Waldenberg Malikowsky, Countess of Letbus.

                              CHAPTER III.

A man who is to be married in a few weeks finds it usually very hard,
even in ordinary cases, to do equal justice to his professional duties
and to his duties as a betrothed. But in the case of Franz this
dilemma, insuperable to many persons, was perhaps the easiest part of
his task, although he had an abundance of business as one of the
representatives of the privy councillor in his medical practice
(another part had been assumed by one of his colleagues). But more
difficult by far than these duties were the troubles arising from his
effort to arrange the extremely complicated money matters of his future
father-in-law. It appeared gradually that the debts of the privy
councillor would not be so overwhelming, if it should be feasible to
collect the sums which were due him on all sides. But this was in most
cases highly improbable. The debtors of the privy councillor generally
lived in garrets and cellars; they were the lame and the crippled, the
infirm and the invalid, often widows and orphans, as often also
unworthy people, who had wretchedly abused the well-known liberality of
the privy councillor. What enormous and, alas! what useless efforts
this man had made to fill the Danaids' tub of the poor! with what zeal
he had made himself poor in order to overcome the poverty around him,
like the fabled pelican, who feeds his young with his own blood. What
embarrassments he had wilfully assumed, in order to relieve others from
the same troubles! How often he had given up his own sleep that his
neighbor might sleep! How he had borrowed money at usurious interest in
order to pay the debts of others. How he had entered into the most
hazardous speculations, of which he knew nothing, but which must
succeed and return a hundred per cent, if you believed the originators,
but which of course never did succeed, and overwhelmed the good-natured
and credulous privy councillor with new indebtedness--only to help
others on in their own business!

It would have been a difficult task for the most experienced lawyer to
find his way through this vast mass of more or less complicated
questions, and to decide in each case what was to be done for the
moment, and what for the future; how much more for Franz, who had no
experience in such matters of business. But love lent him miraculous
power, and sharpened his natural delicacy in his peculiar relations to
his father-in-law, which called upon him continually to encourage, to
appease, and to persuade. "I should not hesitate a moment," he would
say, "to jump after you into the water, if I saw you were in danger of
drowning, and you and everybody who should see it would think it
perfectly natural. Now you are in a danger which to many people appears
more formidable even than drowning--for many escape it only by rushing
into eternity--and I risk for your sake not my life, which you could
not give me back, but a few thousand dollars, which you can pay me back
at any time, when, as it seems highly probable, your health is
completely restored, and which, even if the worst should happen, it
would not make me unhappy to lose."

In this way Franz tried to help his father-in-law through many a sad
hour, in which the sense of his disease and the consciousness of his
position weighed too heavily on his soul. Franz hoped that the
excellent constitution of the man would do the rest. The privy
councillor had indeed hardly gained the conviction that--thanks to the
able and energetic help of his son-in-law--no dishonor could be
attached to his name, even if he were to die now, than he laid aside
all thoughts of death and determined to get well as soon as he could.
"Not quite well," he said, "for that I can never be again; but half
well, or two-thirds well--just well enough to be able to bring the hay,
which is now lying fresh on the meadow, dry into the barn. I feel it,
there are a few evening hours left me yet; I mean to make good use of
them. You shall not spend your money upon me, and into the bargain
sacrifice your future prospects for my sake."

Unfortunately this sacrifice had already been made.

Just at this time it happened that a famous professor of the university
in the capital had seen a monograph on typhus, published by Franz
during the summer, and had then been reminded that Franz had formerly
been one of his most talented pupils, for Franz had pursued his studies
for three years in the capital. He wrote to Franz congratulating him on
his work, "which gave excellent evidence of his sharp acumen, and of
his astounding erudition, rare in so young a man. But," continued the
letter, "while thanking you in the name of science for your book, I beg
leave at the same time to make you a proposition, which I hope you will
consider promptly and seriously. Next Easter the place of first
assistant in the great hospital here will be vacant. I know among our
younger men of eminence none to whom I would entrust this place as
readily as to you." The great man then spoke at length of the
advantages which Franz would secure by accepting this position, and
concluded with the words: "You see this is a prospect as favorable as
you will ever have. I am, as you know, a very cool judge of men and
things; and as matters stand now in our university, you cannot fail, if
you wish, to obtain in a few years the appointment as full professor. I
am convinced that my friend Roban, to whom I beg you will give my
kindest regards, will look at the matter in the same light. Consult
him, and let me hear from you as soon as you can."

Franz had answered, but without having consulted his father-in-law. He
had declined the offer, though he was fully alive to the advantages it
held out. The career which was opened to him was one of great
attractions to a man of science, and promised in the end to satisfy
even the most insatiable ambition; yet it did not appear to be
lucrative for some years to come, but, on the contrary, to require at
least a small independent fortune, which Franz did no longer possess.
He had placed himself by his generosity in the disagreeable position to
have to move into a new house before it is finished or dry--an
embarrassment in which many honest men find themselves; or, to speak
more clearly, to have to look to money-earning at a time when
he needed money to spend on his full preparation for his profession.
And for such a purpose Grunwald and his position as son-in-law of the
most prominent physician of the place were peculiarly well adapted.
Therefore--farewell thou golden toy of a life overflowing with mental
enjoyment and high aspirations!

           "Away, thou dream, so bright and golden,
            But life and love are not yet lost."

Thus Franz consoled himself while he made this great sacrifice of his
ambition and his hopes for the sake of those he loved, and his only
great care was now to keep this sacrifice a secret from those beloved
ones, especially from his betrothed.

This care seemed to be unnecessary. Sophie found an explanation for the
clouds which darkened Franz's brow when he thought himself unobserved,
in the overwhelming burden of his professional duties; and for his
frequent and long interviews with her father, in the nature of his
practice. Since the condition of her father no longer filled her with
apprehensions, the happy cheerfulness of Sophie had fully reappeared.
She worked hard at her trousseau, and complained to Franz of the
confusion which the care for so many and so varied things produced in
her head. How much would a knowledge of the transactions that took
place between Franz and her father have interfered with the happiness
which she enjoyed in these days, as she labored to build her little
nest like a merry bird full of song and playful flutterings, if she had
known that the money with which she paid her long bills so cheerfully
had come from the purse of her betrothed? She had easily consoled
herself as to the grief arising from her inability to get ready by the
day on which Franz insisted with very unusual pertinacity; she had even
openly confessed that she had never looked upon it as such a very great
misfortune to have to begin her housekeeping with a few dozen napkins,
towels, etc., which were not yet hemmed, or marked in full.

Nothing, therefore, was more painful to Sophie in these days of
excitement and great pressure than that the familiar circle could
not, as usually, assemble at night around the fire-place in the
sitting-room. The father, although able to sit up daily a little
longer, had yet to retire quite early; Franz was often down town till
far in the night, or he had to study in his rooms; even "the third in
the league," the old student, as he called himself, Bemperlein, _alias_
Bemperly, did not show himself nowadays, and Sophie had at last deemed
it her duty to inquire for him at his lodging, thinking that he might
be sick, and that Franz had kept it secret from her so as to cause her
no apprehension. But she found the old student in his laboratory, in
the midst of phials, retorts, boxes, and instruments--looking, if not
like Faust, at least like Faust's famulus--at all events very busy and
industrious, but evidently not in danger of death from sickness.
Bemperlein excused himself on the score of his work--a very complicated
chemical analysis, which must not be interrupted. How could Sophie
think he had taken anything amiss?--he, and take amiss! and from
Sophie!--really, the analysis alone was to blame, and as an evidence of
it he promised to come that very night and stay as long as ever.

Sophie's eyes, though a little near-sighted, were yet very well able to
see things near by, and thus she had not failed to notice a certain
veil of embarrassment which hung over Bemperlein's honest face, while
he blamed the troublesome analysis. As the young lady was slowly
walking homeward, and thought what might be the real reason why
Bemperlein had stayed away, she came, just as she was turning around a
corner, upon a gentleman who came hurriedly from the opposite
direction.

"Pardon!" said the gentleman, lifting his hat and hurrying on.

It was Oswald Stein. He had evidently not recognized Sophie.

This unexpected meeting gave a new direction to Sophie's thoughts. She
remembered now that Bemperlein had not been at her house since he had
met Oswald there, who was just about to leave with Helen; that the
meeting of the two gentlemen had been very cold, strangely cold, and
that Bemperlein had given evasive answers to all their questions about
the relations in which he stood to Oswald. Was it Oswald, who had since
spent several evenings there, once in company with Helen Grenwitz, who
had frightened away Bemperlein? Was Bemperlein jealous?

As Sophie knew nothing of Bemperlein's former relations to Oswald, she
could of course hardly expect to guess rightly. The truth lay somewhere
else.

When Anastasius Bemperlein was no longer willing to shake hands with a
man whom he had once esteemed highly and loved heartily, one might rest
assured that a goodly portion of strong poison must have been mixed
with his milk of human kindness. Anastasius Bemperlein had fully
trusted Oswald Stein. He had seen the life and happiness of those he
loved best in his hand without fear, and he had overcome all his
apprehensions about a union formed so suddenly and resting on the
unsafe basis of entirely different social positions. He had said to
himself, "All this is idle nonsense in comparison with the invaluable
price of true love. Is not love stronger than faith and hope; how can
it fail to be stronger than foolish prejudices?" He had reached a point
where he had seen in the union of Melitta and Oswald a triumph of pure
humanity over the barbarism of civilization, and victory of truth over
falsehood.

But only upon such a lofty basis was such a union justifiable and
possible. If one or the other sank below the level, both were lost.
Bemperlein had known Fran von Berkow for seven years; he knew that her
heart was true and good. Bemperlein had known Oswald for as many weeks,
and he thought Oswald was worthy of her. He thought so because he had
no choice; because to doubt would have seemed to him to insult his
much-beloved friend.

And yet such doubts had made their way to his heart, slowly, silently,
as in our dreams a fearful monster drags itself towards us and we try
in vain to escape. He had struggled against these doubts until he could
struggle no longer.

Melitta had returned from her second journey to Fichtenau, on which
Bemperlein had in vain offered to accompany her; but after a few hours'
stay at Grunwald she had gone on with Julius to Berkow, without sending
for Bemperlein. The latter did not hear of her having been there except
through old Baumann, who had remained behind to arrange Julius's
things, and to execute some other commissions. Bemperlein had never
spoken to the old man about Oswald. This time the latter began himself
He told him that Oswald had been at Fichtenau when they were there,
that he had learnt from the waiter that his mistress was at the hotel,
but had left again without calling on her. Here he paused, evidently in
order to hear what Bemperlein would say about this piece of news. But
when Bemperlein said nothing but "so so!" "indeed!" the old man could
no longer control himself, and poured out his full heart, and with it
the full cup of his wrath over Oswald.

"He had never trusted the fine gentleman from the first moment, and now
he thought it as clear as light that the scamp had deceived his
mistress infamously. He had spoken himself to his mistress about it,
with all deference--for he knew he was nothing but a servant, and knew
his place--but also very seriously, for he had carried her about as a
child in his arms, and had always loved her tenderly; and she had
always confessed to him on all such occasions, not entirely and not by
halves, but sufficiently full for him, who knew her as well as his own
hand. And then he had had a great desire to shoot the fine gentleman
who had played his mistress such a mean trick, like a mad dog; and
little had been wanting one night on the heath between Grenwitz and
Fashwitz. But now he thanked God that he had held his arm and saved him
from such a crime, especially as He had allowed it to happen that the
story did not break the good lady's heart, but opened her eyes and
showed her the way in which alone she can find happiness on earth."
What this way was the old man had not said, but had risen and marched
straight out of the room, as if he wished to make all further questions
utterly impossible.

It may easily be imagined how much this conversation, which confirmed
his worst fears, had affected Bemperlein; and what impression it must
have made upon him, when he came, quite full of these sensations, to
Doctor Rohan's house, and the first man who met him there was Oswald.

This meeting had been so painful to him, and a possible repetition
seemed to him so intolerable, that it took him a whole week to recover
from his fright; and that he would perhaps never have recovered
entirely if Sophie had not come and made an end to his indecision. Poor
Bemperlein! He had longed to see his fair friend so much! He had to
tell her matters of such importance--of amazing importance for
Anastasius Bemperlein.

Fortunately Sophie was alone when he appeared an hour later in her
sitting-room. Franz had just left, promising to be back later. Sophie
was surprised by Bemperlein's repeated question: "But there will be no
other visitor to-night?" and she naturally connected these questions
with her suspicions about the causes of Bemperlein's absence. As it was
not her nature to keep a thing long to herself, she said, after
watching Bemperlein for a time in silence as he was continually
stirring the fire with a poker,

"Was not the true reason, Bemperly, why you have not been here for a
whole week, that you did not wish to meet Oswald Stein here?"

"Who says so?" asked Bemperlein, pausing in his occupation, quite
frightened.

"A question is no answer," replied Sophie. "Out with it, Bemperly! It
does not pay to attempt keeping secrets in your intercourse with such
clever people as I am. I know everything."

"What do you know?" exclaimed Bemperlein, in great excitement, and
jumping up from his chair.

"Why, Bemperly!" said Sophie, "you forget all consideration for my
nerves. You frighten me out of my wits, standing there with the red-hot
poker in your hands like the man in Shakespeare. Compose yourself, I
pray you! I know nothing at all. But you would really do me a favor,
if--pray sit down again and put the poker down!--well! if you would
tell me in all peacefulness and friendship what is the matter with you,
for the more I look at you the more change I see in you."

"Miss Sophie," replied Bemperlein, "you know we cannot always be quite
open, even with our most intimate friends--and there is no one in the
wide world I would trust rather than you--because our secrets are in
many cases not our own, but are shared by others, and have to be kept
sacred for their sake."

"Why, Bemperly!" said Sophie, "you surely do not think I want to pry
into your secrets! I am neither so impertinent nor so curious. Let us
drop the matter and talk of something else!"

"No, no," exclaimed Bemperlein, eagerly, "let us speak of it! You
do not know how I have longed to talk with you--about--certain
things--certain persons--who----"

Mr. Bemperlein had once more seized the poker, which had not yet cooled
off, and stirred the coals more assiduously than ever. Sophie shook her
head as she watched his doing so. It occurred to her that Bemperlein
might have made too great exertions in his chemical analysis, and that
his mind might have been somewhat injured.

"As for my not coming here," continued Bemperlein, of a sudden, "you
were quite right. I stayed away because I did not wish to meet Oswald
Stein here."

"But," said Sophie, "Franz told me you and Oswald Stein had been very
good friends. How did you fall out?"

"How?" said Mr. Bemperlein. "Why, Miss Sophie, that is exactly what I
cannot tell you, much as I would like to tell you. Would you be friends
with somebody, or rather would you not try in every way to avoid
meeting somebody, who had mortally offended a third person whom you
love and revere?"

"Certainly," replied Sophie, "for then he would have offended myself.
But are you quite sure that that is so? Have you heard both parties? As
for myself, I am not so enchanted with Mr. Stein; or, to tell the
truth, I dislike him the more the oftener I see him; but Franz, who is
very clever, and a capital judge of men, is quite enthusiastic about
him. How could that be if Stein were a bad man?"

"I did not say he was bad," replied Bemperlein, working hard at a big
lump of coal; "bad is a very relative idea, and what I call acting
badly, Mr. Stein calls, perhaps, only acting thoughtlessly, in a
cavalier manner, or some such name. But I call it acting badly, if a
man----"

Here Bemperlein interrupted himself, and poked more violently at the
coal than ever.

"How would you call it, for instance--I do not speak now of Mr.
Stein--if a man were to promise marriage to a poor dependent girl,
without parents, without friends, who has not a soul in this wide, wide
world to protect her, who has believed his oaths and is willing to
follow him, and who then finds herself sold and betrayed to a--Oh it is
rascally, it is atrocious!"

"But, for Heaven's sake, Oswald surely has not----"

"I told you I am not speaking now of Mr. Stein. There are more
cavaliers of the sort in this world, and they look as much one like the
other as one viper looks like another viper."

"My dear Bemperly, I pray you put the poker down; I can really stand it
no longer. Take this cushion, if you must absolutely have something in
your hand."

"Thanks," said Bemperlein, putting down the poker, and seizing the
cushion; and then, holding it like a baby in his arms, sinking into
deep silence.

Sophie began now in good earnest to be troubled about Bemperlein's
excited condition. But what was her terror when Bemperlein suddenly
jumped up, let the cushion in his arm fall on the ground, knelt down on
it with both knees, seized one of her hands in his own, and bowing low
before her, groaned in most piteous tones: "Oh! Miss Sophie, Miss
Sophie!"

"For Heaven's sake, Bemperly," exclaimed the young lady, "get up! If
anybody saw you--saw us!"

"Let me kneel," murmured Mr. Bemperlein. "I must tell you; and I
cannot tell you if you look at me with your big eyes, or if you were to
laugh----"

Sophie at first did not know whether she should laugh or cry at this
unexpected declaration of love. For Bemperlein's sake she could have
cried; but for her own person, she could hardly help laughing aloud.
"Bemperly," she said, "Bemperly, compose yourself; think of what you
are saying, of what you are doing."

"I know," murmured Bemperlein. "I have told myself so a hundred and a
thousand times. At my age--"

"Leaving that aside," said Sophie, in whom the inclination to laugh
gradually became too strong, "how can you, Franz's best friend,
and--at least I have looked upon you in that light until now--my best
friend----"

"I shall remain your friend; I shall remain Franz's friend," cried
Bemperlein with great animation. "Love and friendship shall both find
room in my heart; they shall become only the purer, the deeper, the
holier, the one through the other."

"But, Bemperly, how do you reconcile it with such a lofty Platonic love
to lie on your knees like a Don Carlos? If Franz should at this moment
come in at the door----"

"And if he came," cried Bemperlein, jumping up, "'_il n'y a que le
premier pas qui coûte._' I feel, now that I have spoken--that I have
spoken to you--the courage to tell it to all the world. Franz will
approve of my choice when he knows her as I know her."

"As you know _me_?"

"And you also will approve of it," cried Bemperlein, utterly unmindful
of her interruption, and waving the cushion like a flag in the air;
"you will be a friend and a sister to the poor girl; you will do it for
my sake, because I love you and esteem you so very much; you will do it
for her sake, for you may believe me, Miss Sophie, she deserves it."

"But whom do you mean, Bemperly?"

"I thought you knew long since," said Bemperlein, suddenly, half
frightened; and then he added in a very low voice: "Marguerite Martin,
the governess at Grenwitz!"

Fortunately, Bemperlein's excitement was too great to allow him to
observe the confusion created by this announcement in Sophie's mind.
The knot was cut most unexpectedly. She had been so near committing a
great folly by suspecting her friend of another great folly! And yet
she was not quite free from a little disappointment that she was not
the exclusive idol of Bemperlein! Such a feeling could of course only
pass for an instant through Sophie's heart as a light breeze curls the
mirror-like surface of a deep lake only in passing, and before
Bemperlein had quite recovered his equanimity she was again wholly the
sympathizing, prudent friend for whom Bemperlein had been longing in
the anguish of his heart.

As to the fact that Bemperlein, quiet, old-maidish Bemperlein, had been
seized with a passion--that did not surprise her so much. Her main
apprehension was, that the modest, unsuspecting man, who in spite of
his thirty years was utterly inexperienced, might have fallen into the
net of a coquette; and this fear was all the more serious as she had
heard the brown eyes of Marguerite spoken of more than once in
connection with events which seemed to confirm her suspicion. Her first
question was, therefore,

"Do you really know Mademoiselle Marguerite, Bemperlein? I mean, do you
know that she is a good girl; that she has a good heart; in one word,
that she is worthy of my good Bemperlein?"

"She worthy of me?" cried Bemperlein, most enthusiastically.

"You mean to say, that I am worthy of her?"

"I wanted to say exactly what I said. I, your best friend--for that
privilege I am not willing to give up yet--I have the right and the
duty to be strict, and to examine before I say: Yes and Amen."

"Oh, Miss Sophie, I assure you my Marguerite is an angel."

"Your Marguerite? Why, look at the lion-hearted Bemperlein? Has it come
to that already? But, jesting apart, Bemperly! what do you know of the
angelic character of your Marguerite? I mean of that angelic nature
which is perceptible to other mortals also? Come, sit down here by me
quietly, before the fire, and tell me the whole thing from the
beginning. Here, take your cushion again, but please leave the poker
where it is!"

In spite of the trifling words, Sophie's voice sounded so faithful and
good, and her large blue eyes looked so full of sympathy and kindness,
that Bemperlein was not in the least afraid now to let the dear girl
look into the holiest of his heart, and to tell her everything, which
he did not even dare to think of but with trembling!

"You remember, Miss Sophie," he began, "that I told you and Franz
recently how I went to the Grenwitz House in order to find out what the
baroness, who had sent for me, wanted of me. I told you also that I
found Mademoiselle Marguerite in the ante-room, and the remarkable
scene which there took place; but I did not tell you, and I have not
let anybody see yet, the deep impression which that scene had made on
me. A man who has grown up in great poverty, as I have, and who has had
to struggle hard with cares and troubles, learns to understand
thoroughly what it means to be helpless and forsaken. You will
understand, therefore, what I mean, when I say that such a man, when he
sees others suffer, feels and thinks very differently from those who
have never been in such a position. That was the reason why I could not
get rid of the sight of the poor, forsaken girl in tears. I saw her
continually before me as she was standing near the door which led to
the rooms of the baroness sobbing and pressing her little hands upon
her eyes, while the bright tears were slipping through the slender
fingers. I heard continually the words: '_Oh, je suis si malheureuse_,'
and I worried myself to find out why the poor girl should be so
unhappy; for I could have sworn that there must have been another cause
than the mere sense of dependence, or the pain of having been once more
unjustly scolded.

"This troubled me so much that I could not sleep all night long, and
the next day it seemed to me an eternity before the time came when I
was to wait on the baroness. At last it struck two o'clock. I went to
the house and was admitted at once. The baroness was alone in her room.
She was uncommonly gracious, inquired after Frau von Berkow, asked how
I liked Grunwald, if I had much to do, and at last came out with her
request. She could not make up her mind, she said, to send Malte to
college, for reasons which she mentioned, but which were so foolish
that I will not repeat them here; but she was as little inclined to try
another tutor after the sad experiences which she had made. The lady,
therefore, decided to have him taught at home by private tutors, who
must, of course, be tried men of well-known principles, and--now we
came to the point--would I whom she esteemed most highly, aid her in
her work, and give her son, daily, one or two lessons in ancient
languages! Now you may imagine, Miss Sophie, that I would have refused
under other circumstances without hesitation; because, setting every
other consideration aside, I could employ my time much better than by
sacrificing it for the sake of a stupid boy, whom I never could bear;
but I considered that this might give me an opportunity to meet poor
Marguerite more frequently, and as this was my most ardent wish, the
offer of the baroness seemed to me a sign from on high, and I accepted
it at once."

"Bravo, Bemperly!" said Sophie; "I see you have, after all, more talent
for a little innocent intrigue than I expected."

"Oh, it comes still better," replied Bemperlein, smiling; "you will
marvel at my talent. In the course of the conversation the baroness
spoke also of French lessons, and mentioned how inconvenient it was to
have to engage a French teacher, although she had a French woman in the
house, because she had little confidence in mademoiselle's grammatical
knowledge. I said at once--I do not know yet how I gathered courage to
do so--that I was sure mademoiselle would very quickly learn grammar,
and be able to teach it hereafter, if she had been carried once through
a regular course of grammar. My time, I told her, was fully occupied;
but half an hour every day--the baroness did not let me finish, and
accepted my offer at once. The very next day the lessons were to
begin."

"When did you have that interview with the baroness?"

"Yesterday was a week, on the same day on which I had come home very
full of this interview, and of another which I had had on my return
home with--with--I must not tell you, Miss Sophie, with whom--when I
hastened to you. I found Mr. Stein here."

Bemperlein paused; his face darkened once more, and he took hold again
of the poker.

Sophie took it quietly out of his hand, placed it further away, and
said:

"You were excited that evening, and did not stay long. Does the other
interview with the great unknown stand in any connection with your
story?"

"Not directly," replied Bemperlein, seizing once more the cushion,
"only, inasmuch as it increased my interest in poor Marguerite,
to whom--and afterwards my suspicions have been most remarkably
confirmed--some thing similar might have happened; but never mind that!
Next day, then, I began my lessons. The lesson with that boy, Malte,
was soon over. I was left alone in the room, and waited for my fair
pupil; I can tell you, Miss Sophie, my heart beat! Why, I could not
tell myself. I only know that I felt all of a sudden as if I were a
very bad man. I had never yet in all my life played comedy; and these
lessons in grammar were, after all, nothing but comedy. I had a great
mind to run away; but as that could not very well be done, I could only
pull up my collar, make a bow before the mirror, and say with my best
accent: '_Ah, bon jour, Mademoiselle, comment vous portez-vous!_' As I
repeated the question a third time--and this time to my complete
satisfaction--the lady came into the room, a book in her hand, and I
was so much confused by the fear she might have seen me before the
mirror that I blushed all over, and stammered something, which might
possibly have been French, but which certainly was very foolish, for
Mademoiselle Marguerite smiled and said something of _bonté_ and
_enseigner_. Next I only know that we were sitting opposite each other,
and that we were turning over the leaves without saying a word--what
else can I tell you, Miss Sophie? What is best and most necessary I
can, after all, not tell you. I have been with Marguerite now for a
week daily, quite alone, during a whole hour. We have not studied
grammar; at least, we never read beyond the first pages; but, in
return, she has opened to me the book of her life, and I have been
allowed to read it, word by word, from the first to the last page. I
tell you, Miss Sophie, there is not a bad word in it, and not a page of
which she need be ashamed. She has had to fight her way through the
world, poor thing--much worse than I! Her parents died so early that
she has never known them; brothers and sisters or near relations she
never had, except a wicked aunt, who made her life a hell, until at
fourteen she fell among strangers, who at least did not beat her like
her wretched aunt. Alas! Miss Sophie, if I were to tell you what the
poor thing has suffered, you would say: 'Such things are impossible,'
and your heart would overflow with sympathy as mine did."

Mr. Bemperlein paused because his emotion was too deep. Sophie took his
hand and said, "Good Bemperly!" Bemperlein returned the pressure
warmly, and continued, after having cleared his voice repeatedly to
hide his emotion:

"She kept nothing from me; not even that she has of late come in
contact with a bad man (I repeat, Miss Sophie, that I am not speaking
of Mr. Stein)--with a man who has cheated her most egregiously, and who
wished to hand her over to a notorious scapegrace. But that is such a
mean, low story that I would rather not speak of it, even if I had not
promised Marguerite never to mention the person in question to any one,
whoever it be. And now," concluded Bemperlein, taking both of Sophie's
hands in his own, "what do you say, now you know all?"

Sophie was somewhat embarrassed by the sudden question. She had formed
a picture of Marguerite from casual remarks made by Helen, Oswald, and
her betrothed, which was by no means flattering for the young lady; and
even Bemperlein's account was not calculated to remove her prejudice
completely. She was pained to have to hurt the feelings of the poor
man, whose kind face was turned towards her with an excited, anxious
expression, as if life and death depended on her decision, and yet she
could and would not prevaricate, and an answer she must give. She
assumed, therefore, a charming air of wisdom, shaking her head gently
and thoughtfully,

"Love is a curious thing, Bemperly. I have often reflected on it since
the time that I learned to know Franz and to love him. There are
sensations which are very praiseworthy in themselves, but they are not
love, and we must be careful not to mistake them for love. And the
nobler the heart the more easily it falls into the danger of committing
such an error, just as the most trustful people are always the readiest
to take false money instead of good money. I, for instance, never
failed to find a false coin in my purse upon returning from market, if
there was a false piece in the whole crowd. Now, there is no sensation
which looks so much like love, and which so readily deceives a noble
heart, as sympathy. Might it not be, Bemperly"--and here the young lady
put her hand upon Bemperlein's hand--"that, as your interest for Miss
Marguerite first arose from sympathy, it may to this moment not be the
genuine love, but only sympathy?"

Bemperlein's face had been growing longer with every word of this long
exposition. He had expected a very different welcome for his news here.
Almost despairing, he asked, therefore,

"But, Miss Sophie, how do you distinguish sympathy from love? Is not
the love of our neighbor, the purest form of love, identical with
sympathy?"

"The love of the neighbor?" replied Sophie; "yes! but not that love of
which we are speaking--the love which we must feel if we wish to marry
somebody--the love, for instance, which I feel for Franz, and which
Franz feels for me. That is something very different, quite
different,"--and the young philosopher nodded thoughtfully her wise
head.

"But what is it then?" cried Bemperlein, desperately. "How can we find
out if we really love?"

"That is very difficult," replied Sophie; "yet it is also very easy.
For instance; have you always simply wished to transfer Miss Marguerite
from her dependent position to a better one, to shelter her, to protect
her against all trouble and danger; or have you sometimes desired----"

Here the philosopher hesitated and blushed.

"Well?" asked Bemperlein, eagerly.

"To give her a kiss!" said Sophie, determined to clear the matter up,
even at the risk of being thought indiscreet,

"If that is all," said Bemperlein, triumphantly, "I can answer that
question with 'Yes.'"

"Bravo, Bemperly! And _have_ you given her a kiss?"

"No!"

"Have you confessed your love to her?"

"No!"

"How do you know, then, that she loves you too?"

"I don't know that."

The gradually decreasing certainty of these negations was so comical
that Sophie could hardly keep from laughing.

"But, Bemperly," she cried, "how will you find that out?"

"I will ask her!" replied Bemperlein, resolutely.

"Very well! And if she says No?"

"She cannot say so; she will not say so;" cried Bemperlein, pale with
emotion. "I have never thought of it, but that would be terrible. I--I
thought it would be so beautiful if she should become my wife and I
could work for her, and I could love her and she should love me back
again! For I must love somebody with my whole heart, and I must feel
that somebody loves me with her whole heart, or I should be the most
wretched man in the world. Oh, Miss Sophie! surely, surely. Marguerite
will not say No!"

His voice trembled and his eyes filled with tears. The kind-hearted
girl was hardly less deeply moved. The passionate feeling of Bemperlein
had touched a sympathetic chord in her heart. She felt suddenly under
an obligation to protect the youthful love of her thirty-year-old pupil
with all her power.

"What do you say, Bemperly?" she said, very decidedly. "We can soon
find out. Bring Marguerite here!"

Bemperlein breathed freely again.

"May I, really?"

"Of course. I cannot very well call on her, because that would attract
attention; but she can come here without its being noticed. Just tell
her I should like to make her acquaintance. If she loves you, she will
come soon enough; and if we once have her here, the rest will follow of
course. Yes, yes," continued the young lady, clapping her hands with
delight, "that is the way! that is the way! And when we are good
friends, then we have another plan--oh, Bemperly, another plan--if you
knew what--but no, no!--you must not know yet--nor must Franz know.
Hush, there he is. Not a word, Bemperly, of _our_ secret!"

                              CHAPTER IV.

Felix had changed sadly in these days, and it looked almost as if his
last appearance as a star in Grenwitz, which had been such a lamentable
failure, should also be his last performance in the salons where he had
so often shone brilliantly. The wound which he had received in his duel
with Oswald, though in itself not dangerous, had thoroughly undermined
his whole system, already weakened by a wild, profligate life, just as
a house in which the timber is affected with dry rot will be in danger
of tumbling down at any time, if but one of the joists be removed. The
ball had not injured any of the vital parts, and he had had the best of
medical advice, and yet the wound would not heal. And when it began at
last to look a little better, very grave symptoms of pulmonary disease
in an advanced stage had suddenly shown themselves. The physicians who
were called in shook their heads, spoke of the necessity of a change of
air, and a longer residence in a southern climate.

But Felix refused to see what was very clear to all others. Those
little scars?--why, I have been spotted very differently before. That
little fever?--ridiculous; I have felt worse many a morning after a
wild night. My lungs?--nonsense! What does that old wig, Balthasar,
know of my lungs? I don't believe in wise wigs. Felix Grenwitz wont die
so easily!

Perhaps it was a desire to confirm himself in this conviction which
made the _bon vivant attempt_ to succeed in the part of a lover as soon
as he was allowed to leave his room again after several weeks'
confinement with a diet of medicine and mucilage. He had looked upon
neat, pretty, blue-eyed Madeline, as soon as he had seen her, as a
rose-bud which it might be worth his while to gather, and he would have
made some efforts in that direction long since if Albert had not, for
very good reasons, dissuaded him earnestly. Besides, he had then not
given up the hope of winning the fair Helen, and his eyes had been
captivated for a time by her exceedingly pretty maid, Louisa. Now, when
those hopes were gone, he found in the monotony of his convalescence
the necessary leisure and ample opportunity to turn his attention
towards little Marguerite. Felix Grenwitz knew only two classes of
women: pretty women and ugly women; any other division, virtuous women
and others, he did not admit. He did not believe in female virtue; he
had never met with it; at most, caprice, coquettish cunning, and the
art to enhance the value of the merchandise so as to induce the buyer
to pay the highest price. Hence Felix Grenwitz did not believe that
Marguerite was virtuous, and this all the less as this experienced man
soon discovered that "Mamselle" had carried on a love affair with Mr.
Surveyor Timm while the masters were at the watering place. Timm
thought about women just as he did himself, as Felix knew perfectly
well; he had therefore won the game even before beginning it. Could
Felix Grenwitz fail where Albert Timm had succeeded? Nevertheless,
there was another item in the bill which he had overlooked, and the Don
Giovanni was not a little surprised, therefore, when he failed after
all. Little Marguerite had a soft heart, thirsting after love, and she
had so small a share of love alloted her in life! Hence Albert Timm had
been able to overcome the heart of the girl, but not her virtue. For
little Marguerite was proud--proud as poor beings are who have been
enslaved and ill-treated from childhood up without losing their native
nobility, and whose only defence against the contempt of the world lies
in their self-respect. She would have sacrificed for her lover the
whole of her hard-earned little fortune, but nothing else. If Albert
could not succeed who really loved her, Felix must of course fail, for
she detested him. And yet he was not fastidious in the means he
employed. He presented Albert to her in the darkest colors; he laughed
at the poor girl for having allowed herself to be cheated by a man who
wanted nothing but her few hundred dollars; a man who would do anything
for money, and who would yet gamble away in a single night all the
money he might have secured by fair means or foul. He effected by this
description, which was unfortunately not untrue in its main features,
nothing but that the little one said with flaming eyes and deep-red
cheeks in her broken German: "And if _Monsieur Albert_ is really a bad
man, you are not any better by a hair, _Monsieur le Baron_!" Poor
child! she was soon to become fully aware that _Monsieur Albert_ and
_Monsieur le Baron_ were really of precisely the same value! She had
been in the adjoining room when Felix and Albert Timm had been holding
their conversation, and she had felt as if she ought to sink into the
ground for shame and indignation when she heard how the two gentlemen
bargained so unceremoniously for her virtue, as if they had bargained
for a horse. To dispel every doubt as to what she had only half
understood, she had managed to meet Mr. Timm when he left the baron in
the ante-room. Here she had asked him, hot-blooded as she was, about
the matter, and received an answer which caused her to be bathed in
tears, when Mr. Bemperlein came in a few minutes later.

Felix, however, was content to have driven off his most dangerous
rival, and did not pursue his advantage for the present. The whole
affair had become too serious for his taste for one thing, and then
another business was just now claiming his whole attention. His health
had become so much worse during the last days that even his frivolity
could no longer make him blind to the imminence of actual danger. The
wounds, but half healed, opened once more; a slow fever undermined his
nervous system by day and by night, and he had hardly fallen asleep
when a hacking cough waked him from dreams so fearful that even
sleeplessness seemed a benefit in comparison. The anxiety about his
health was increased by other cares which he had formerly treated very
lightly, but which now had a sad effect upon his hypochondriac temper,
and confused and troubled him sorely. People would crowd into his
bed-chamber who would not be refused admittance by his servants--people
with odd faces and remarkably soiled linen, who had no sooner succeeded
in making their way to his bed-side than they opened large pocketbooks
and presented the baron with a little bit of a note "for two hundred or
three hundred dollars--a mere trifle for the baron."

Perhaps the baron would have been able to redeem these ominous papers
if he had been what he had hoped to be when he adorned them with his
signature: the acknowledged affianced of Helen, and the son-in-law of
the richest landowner of the province. But unfortunately he was neither
the one nor the other, had no prospect of becoming such, and could
therefore not be very much astonished if the baroness was less gracious
every time she met one of these suspicious personages. It had been
different a few weeks ago, when the sun of his invincible power of
charming was still in the zenith. Felix knew perfectly well that his
aunt was so liberal only, in spite of her natural disposition, because
she knew him to be in possession of a grave family secret. But even
this last tie, which could be replaced by no other, was hanging on a
single thread.

For he could not doubt that it was only the fear of "the stupid honesty
of the baron"--the identical words of his amiable wife--which kept her
from bringing matters to a crisis in her conflict with Albert Timm, and
Felix was by no means quite sure whether even this fear was likely to
induce her to assent to the bargain which he had made with Albert in
her name. He had, therefore, not dared yet to tell her the full amount
for which he had purchased Albert's silence.

His timidity in the whole business had a very good motive in his
critical situation. He had to keep his aunt in the best possible humor
in order to obtain from her the sums he required for his personal
wants. It would be time enough hereafter to enlighten her on the
subject of Timm's demand. Felix hated Oswald intensely, and it would
have been intolerable to him to see the hated man obtain possession of
the large fortune with Albert's aid, and perhaps after awhile also of
Helen's hand; but all that had to give way for the present to the
imperative necessities of his position.

This was the condition of things when the baroness came on the morning
after the party, where Felix of course had not been able to be present,
to pay the patient a visit, after having been ceremoniously announced.
Felix was wrapped up in a large dressing gown, and sat shivering close
to the stove. His big eyes, once so supercilious, and now glassy and
staring, and the sickly, well-defined red spot on his lean cheeks, bore
witness to the rapid progress which the disease had made during the
last days. Somewhat astonished at such a visit at so unusual an hour,
he half rose from his chair, and offered his aunt his thin feverish
hand.

"_Bon jour, ma tante!_ must I say, so early or so late? for you have
been dancing till very recently. I heard the bass viol all the way down
to my room here: brm! brm! brm! until it nearly made me crazy; and if
you had not cured me of cursing, my dear aunt, I could have wished the
accursed creature who made all the tantrum down to the deepest place
in----"

"I hope your health is not worse to-day than your cursing," said Anna
Maria, smiling. She settled down in an arm-chair before the patient,
and took out some work as an evidence that she intended to pay a long
visit. "But seriously speaking, dear Felix, I have been sorry for you,
and I have come to ask your pardon for the interruption."

"Why, you are prodigiously gracious to-day, _ma tante_?"

"I thought I always was so," replied Anna Maria; "only there are people
who will never be persuaded of it."

"I am not one of them, dear aunt."

"I know it, Felix; and I trust you will acknowledge that I have always
done for you whatever was in my power."

"Yes indeed; yes indeed!" murmured Felix, reflecting whether this was a
favorable moment to mention to his aunt a little affair in which he was
involved--now nearly three months--with a certain Mr. Wolfson, of the
firm of Wolfson, Reinike & Co., and which had to be settled in a few
days.

"The company--who, however, broke up punctually at a quarter past two,
dear Felix--seemed to enjoy themselves very much," continued the
baroness, "and I was heartily sorry that you could not be there. It is
really high time you should report yourself well again."

"God knows!" sighed the patient, impatiently tossing about in his
arm-chair, "I am turning a perfect hypochondriac in this hole. But tell
me something about yesterday. Who was there?"

"Oh, not a great many; you know I do not like very large parties:
Grieben, Nadlitz, Bamewitz, Cloten----"

"That is not a bad arrangement of names," said Felix. "Did not Hortense
and Clotilde scratch each other's eyes out?"

"Oh, no! they are the best friends in the world; and besides, yesterday
they had no reason to dispute each other the palm, as that had been
decided before by the unanimous judgment of the whole company."

"Oh, indeed! And who was this bird Ph[oe]nix?"

"Your cousin, dear Felix," said the baroness, counting the stitches in
her work; "she looked really magnificent last night. I was quite
surprised myself; but she was universally admired."

Felix listened attentively. To hear Helen praised by her mother was
such a new air that he did not trust his ears.

"It looks as if the last weeks--five, six, seven--had, after all, had a
very happy effect upon her. She has eight, nine, ten--lost a good deal
of her haughtiness; the Countess Grieben congratulated me on her
modest, truly womanly manners."

"Pardon me, dear aunt," said Felix, most bitterly; "but I can hardly
rejoice as much as you at this favorable change. I wish it had taken
place a few weeks before. Perhaps I should then not be lying here
helpless, like a horse who has been hamstrung;" and he struck the arm
of his chair violently with his sound hand.

"I know you have some reason to complain of Helen," said the baroness;
"but hatred and revenge are very unchristian feelings, especially
between relatives, whom nature has ordained for mutual love."

"Oh, certainly," interrupted Felix. "You are perfectly right, dear
aunt! Our whole plan was built upon that supposition. What a pity,
though, that Miss Helen did not care at all for this Christian love for
our relatives!"

"You are bitter, Felix; and, as I said before, I admit that you may
complain. But let us talk now of the matter that brought me here so
early in the morning. The state of your health, dear Felix, causes me
such great concern that I have been thinking of it all last night, and
now I have formed a plan. You must start, and as soon as possible, on
your trip to Italy."

Felix was destined to-day to pass from one astonishment into another.
The physicians had advised this trip urgently for a fortnight; Anna
Maria had opposed it as strenuously, because neither Felix, as she
thought, nor she herself could at that moment afford to provide the
necessary means. All of a sudden these means were forthcoming! All who
knew the consistency of the baroness must have known that only a very
extraordinary reason could have produced so sudden a change in her
views.

What this reason was Felix did not learn in the further course of the
conversation. He did not care particularly to know it. The last days
and nights, full of pain, had broken his spirit; the frivolous
haughtiness which he had so far boastingly exhibited had given way to
mournful nervousness, in which but one thought remained uppermost--the
desire to be well again at any cost. For this great purpose any means
were welcome. If his aunt was willing to furnish the means for his
travels, which he knew were indispensable for his recovery, well!--and
all the better, the more she gave! Why she gave--why she gave now,
after having declared it only a few days before utterly impossible to
raise the means--what did he care for that? No more than a man who is
in danger of drowning inquires from whence the saving log comes
swimming down to which he clings at the very last moment.

When the baroness rose an hour later and folded up her work, the
Italian journey was a settled matter. Felix was, if his condition did
not grow worse, to start in a few days. "You know, dear Felix," said
Anna Maria, "I am in favor of doing promptly what has to be done. And
here there is danger in delay; besides, I should forever reproach
myself bitterly if I had not done whatever was in my feeble power to
avert this threatening danger from you."

She offered him kindly her bony hand, and Felix kissed it reverently.
Anna Maria then left the room.

"The old dragon," grumbled Felix, sinking back exhausted; "what can
have gotten into her head to make her all of a sudden so liberal? How
lucky I did not tell her how much that rascal Timm is asking for! She
will have to hear it one of these days; but not before I am down in
Italy. Oh! my arm! I must submit to a regular cure; and, after all,
every man is his own nearest neighbor."

"The foolish fellow," thought Anna Maria, as she slowly walked back to
her room through the long passages; "it is hard that I have to go to
such fearful expense after having paid so much for him already. But it
cannot be helped. He must leave the house, and this is the most
respectable and the least noisy way to get rid of him."

The explanation of the generosity of the baroness was very simple. The
ambitious thought that her daughter had at least as much prospect to
become the wife of the prince as any other lady, had been so much
encouraged last night during the party that it had grown up into a
well-built plan. The prince had distinguished Helen in the most
flattering manner. He had not only against all rules, danced twice with
her, but he had, besides, borrowed her from her regular partner as
often as an opportunity offered; he had led her to supper, and during
the whole evening not lost sight of her for a moment; he had, finally,
spoken in the most exalted terms of the incomparable beauty of the
young baroness to the Countess Grieben, who had reported his words five
minutes later to the baroness. All this was the more striking as the
cool reserve with which that grand seigneur generally received all the
homage offered him by the provincial nobility had already become
proverbial. What was poor Felix in comparison with this proud eagle? A
poor crow, plucked bare by misfortune and countless creditors. And
especially now since the physicians began to shake their heads
ominously, and when the baroness asked them upon their consciences,
answered: they would give the young baron six months, unless a miracle
took place! What was Felix when he ceased to be the presumptive heir to
the entailed estates? Nothing!--less than nothing; a very expensive
pensioner on the bounty of the family, whose only merit was that he
would in all probability not draw that pension long! No, no! That sun
had set in mist and fogs; now a more brilliant, a more powerful sun
must give its light. It was worth while to become the mother-in-law of
His Highness Prince Waldenberg. Then the obstinate, intolerably
obstinate old husband might die today or to-morrow, and the executors
were welcome to add the revenues from the estates, which now belonged
to her, to the principal. She had laid aside enough, thanks to her wise
economy; and then there was the very respectable sum of Harald's
legacy, which that impudent fellow, Timm, would no longer dare to
trouble her about. And suppose even that the baron should leave Helen
the greater part of his fortune, which seemed very probable, the
gratitude of a princely son-in-law to whom she had given so beautiful a
wife, and of a daughter to whom she had given a princely husband, was
in itself a capital that must bring ample interest.

Strange! from the moment in which this brilliant perspective had opened
for Helen she had no longer felt any resentment against the rebellious
child. Even her pride, of which she had so bitterly complained, now
appeared to her eyes as a merit in the girl. Was not this very
haughtiness, together with the beauty which it served to bring out more
strikingly, that feature which had evidently decided the prince to give
the preference to her daughter over other young ladies like that very
beautiful but blond and sentimental Miss Nadelitz, and even over
pretty, coquettish Emily Cloten, and graceful, intriguing Hortense
Barnewitz? For the past two days the baroness had actually felt some
affection for her daughter--her beautiful, brilliant daughter--who, by
her prudent management had secured the bright dazzling prospect of
becoming Princess Waldenberg-Malikowsky, Countess of Letbus!

The first step towards this lofty goal was of course a full
reconciliation with Helen. The catastrophe at Grenwitz had taught her
to respect an adversary who was able to act with so much firmness in
spite of her youth. Henceforth she would see if she could not succeed
better with love and kindness; and how could she better prove this love
and kindness than by recalling the disobedient and yet cherished child
from her banishment back again (if only Felix would go quickly!) to the
paternal house, to the dear parents who impatiently expected their
beloved daughter! She had immediately begun this great work of
reconciliation; this very day she hoped to finish the preliminaries.

It was a late hour on that day. The windows in Miss Bear's
boarding-school had been darkened for two hours, except one which
looked upon the garden in the rear. He who could have watched this
window from the garden, or from the public park which adjoined the
garden--and there was really a young man leaning against the trunk of a
beech-tree whose eyes were incessantly directed through the dense
darkness towards the lighted window--might have seen that the light
came from a lamp which was standing quite near it on an escritoire, and
that the occupant of the room was sitting at the escritoire writing or
reading; it could not be distinguished.

The occupant of the room was Helen Grenwitz. She was writing eagerly,
with burning cheeks, as young ladies who have no confidant but a friend
hundreds of miles away are apt to write:

"You quiet, prudent girl, with your quiet, prudent blue eyes! Ah, who
could pass through life as you do, ever true to one's self! Who could
have your peace of soul, in which everything is reflected, as in a deep
still lake, in clear colors and sharp outlines! Whatever you think
right to-day, you think so to-morrow; what you like to-day, you will
not dislike to-morrow. The standard by which you measure men is, though
severe, unchangeably the same; he who does not come up to it is, to
your mind, not your equal, and you treat him accordingly, to-morrow as
to-day, and every other day, with that mild kindness for which I have
so often envied you. With me, alas! everything is different--so very
different! My heart is a storm-tossed ocean, and the images of life
tremble in it, changing and restless, and troubling me like so many
spectres. On the surface, to be sure--well, there all is apparently
calm; at least people say so, and I feel so; but down below!--there it
seethes and boils; there are wishes growing up which I dare scarcely
confess to myself; there thoughts are rising that frighten me; there a
longing is forever blooming--a longing of which I have often told you,
and alas! never in words equal to what I really feel, and which you
always sent back into the realm of dreams. Is it possible that you were
right? that the passion which is glowing within me is never to be
cooled? that the voice which often calls from the depth of my soul in
every still night, as just now, full of complaint, of yearning, of
despair--that this voice is never to find an echo? My brow is burning,
my eyes are blinded, my heart beats impatiently! What do you want,
restless, wild heart!--Love? Yes! Power, and honor, and distinction?
Yes! But how, if you cannot have all at once; if you must sacrifice the
one or the other!--how then? Which are you willing to give up? Love?
No! High rank? No! Oh no!... Well then! beat on restless and
unsatisfied, and trouble me without pity, till this hand and this head
shall be tired of counting your feverish pulsations!

"I see you looking at me expectantly, with your soft, blue eyes; I see
your lips trembling with the question: What is the matter, dearest? Oh,
dearest darling, _you_ are to tell me! For some time now, I have not
known myself any longer.

"I wrote you that I saw Mr. S. accidentally from my window, and that I
wished very much to see him alone. My wish was to be fulfilled the same
day. I met him at Miss R's, and as my servant did not come for me, he
accompanied me home. We had a conversation on the way which affected me
deeply, as it turned on Bruno, and I had, at last, an opportunity of
thanking Mr. S., as I had so long desired to do. I was deeply moved
when he took leave of me at the door. The charm which this man has
always had for me, and which I can only shake off when I do not see or
hear anything of him, had become once more all-powerful in his
presence. I felt it; and yet, just on that account--you know me--I did
not avoid seeing him again, although I might easily have done so.

"Two evenings later I met him again, also at Miss R's. This time the
servant was behind us as we went home, but as we spoke French--Mr. S.
speaks it beautifully; he told me he was half French by descent--our
conversation was as free as if we had been alone. What the two days'
absence had set right, two hours' intercourse destroyed again, and I
found out to my great humiliation--and I write it with blushing
cheeks--that the feeling which overcomes me when he is near is stronger
than my pride. Not that he is so imposing by his lofty mind or by his
male strength! Far from it. He does not resemble the ideal which I bear
in my heart of the hero whom I might love; but there is something in
the tone of his voice, in the glance of his large blue eyes, in his
whole manner, which touches me unspeakably. And then--I mean to be
candid with you--I know that he loves me, and, as it cannot be
otherwise under the circumstances, loves me without hope, and that
makes him dear to me, like the dagger with the bright Damascus blade
and the golden handle which I, a girl of twelve, found in the armory at
Grenwitz, and which I then took as a precious treasure to my room, and
never have allowed to pass away again into other hands. I know--Oswald
and the dagger--both belong to me; to me alone. It is so exquisitely
sweet to be able to call something one's own of which nobody else knows
anything, nobody suspects anything, and which is still sure to stand by
us, and to assist us in extremity, when all others shall have abandoned
us. Whenever I see Oswald's eyes fixed upon me I feel as if I were
drawing the dagger half-way from the sheath and saw the blade glitter
in the sunlight.

"But there is danger in this glittering. How often have I drawn out the
weapon entirely, and, placing the sharp point upon my heart, said to
myself: a slight pressure and you are no more! And there is danger in
the presence of this man; a word from him, and he has ceased to live
for me; and if I were weak enough to reply--I dare not think of it; I
dare not think how near I have already been standing to the abyss.

"I have determined not to go any more to Miss R's, and I have carried
out my determination. Day before yesterday, towards evening, when I was
alone in the garden--the others were walking out as usually with Miss
Bear as leader--I heard the roaring of the sea so distinctly that I
felt an invincible desire to see my favorite element once more eye to
eye. Our garden adjoins a public park which extends down to the
sea-shore. It belongs to the city, and is, I am told, a popular
promenade in the summer. In autumn, however, and especially in the
evening, when it is damp and cool, I had never seen anybody in the wide
avenues under the tall trees. I therefore, opened, the gate, which was
not locked, and went into the park. It was darker there than in the
garden; the evening breeze was sighing in the bare branches of the
mighty beech-trees; the sea roared grandly. Beneath my feet the dry
leaves were rustling; overhead two crows were cawing, unable to find
rest on the storm-tossed branches. I wrapped myself closer in my shawl
and went on. The darkness was coming on apace, and the cool, damp
breath of the woods and the sea brought their old charm to bear upon
me, as I had felt it so often in early childhood. I felt no fear;
the happiness to be for once perfectly alone with myself and my
thoughts--alone amid such surroundings, which entirely harmonized with
my state of mind--did not allow such feelings to rise in me. I went on
and on, as in a dream, till I came to the end of the avenue. There a
small open square, almost entirely overshadowed by tall trees, looks in
one direction towards the sea, which breaks almost directly upon the
moderately high but steep shore. An iron railing runs along the edge.
There are benches here for the tired visitor, and for all who wish to
enjoy the coolness of the place and the view over the sea. I was
leaning on the railing and looking out upon the dark waste of waters,
bright in its way amid the darkness, and I saw wave follow wave without
rest and breaking into foam upon the smooth pebbles of the narrow
beach. The thunder, which drowned every other noise, was like a nursery
song for my stormy heart, and lulled me to dream wonderfully of
happiness deep and boundless, like the deep, boundless sea, on whose
fading horizon my eyes were hanging, and--would happiness else have any
charms for me?--of fearful mysteries and unforeseen dangers.

"Suddenly a voice fell upon my ear from quite near by. I rose from my
stooping position, and Mr. S. was standing before me.

"'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'if I interrupt you in pleasant dreams;
but the accident which made me find you here at this hour is too
remarkable to be looked upon as nothing more than a mere accident.'

"I was so surprised and frightened by this sudden meeting--and I
suddenly saw how very improper the step was--that I replied coldly and
sharply:

"'How do you mean, sir? I hope it is really an accident only which
procures me at this moment the pleasure of your company?'

"He stepped back a step.

"'Pardon me, Miss Helen,' he said, 'I did not know you objected to my
presence.'

"He bowed, and went away.

"The tone in which he had uttered these words cut me to the heart. When
he was a few yards off, I could not bear it any longer. I called his
name. The next moment he was again by my side.

"'Mr. S.,' I said, 'I beg your pardon. I was frightened I did not know
what I was saying.'

"'No, no!' he replied. 'You were quite right. It is not an accident
which has made us meet here. At least not on my side. I saw you enter
the park; I followed you; I did not lose sight of you for an instant.'

"'And do you often come here?' I inquired, as we began to walk back the
dark avenue.

"'Yes,' he replied; 'the unhappy find in darkness and solitude their
most suitable companions.'

"I did not have the courage to ask him why he was unhappy; we went on
side by side in deep silence. I hastened my steps, for the old charm
was creeping over me and I was determined to escape. A few minutes
brought us to the iron gate which leads from the garden into the park.
Among the shrubbery and under the tall trees it was quite dark. My
heart beat as if it would burst. I was determined, should it cost me my
life, to reject his love, if he should begin to speak of love; and
still I wished him to speak; I was angry because he did not speak. The
few seconds seemed to be an eternity--an eternity of fear and hope. We
were standing at the gate. Oswald opened it. I thanked him, and wished
him good-night. He only answered by a silent bow. When the gate fell
behind me into the latch I started like a prisoner who hears close
behind him the door of the cell which parts him forever from life. At
first I felt like stretching my hand after him through the grating and
telling him--I know not what; but I checked myself and went, without
looking back, rapidly up to the house; and when I had reached my room I
threw myself on the sofa, and wept bitterly, bitterly--as I had never
wept before in my life--as I did not think Helen Grenwitz would ever be
able to weep!

"But then I rose and swore I would overcome this weakness, which was so
humiliating, at any risk and sacrifice. My pride, I felt it, is my only
property--the bright weapon which makes me, when I hold it in my hand,
the equal of any adversary, even of my mother! I thought with trembling
of the moment when I should feel humiliated before myself after having
humiliated myself before others; when I should no longer be able to
look boldly into her cold, stern eyes. I knew--I knew with absolute
certainty--that that moment would be the last of my life.

"And thus I went to bed; but sleep would not come. I was lying there,
my hands crossed on my bosom, and I repeated to myself over and over
again what I had sworn; and whenever my heart became heavy--ah, so
heavy! from an unspeakable sense of wretchedness--then I put the point
of my dagger upon my disobedient, rebellious heart, and it became quiet
again and humble! It felt, so to say, that it had no hope of victory in
a battle between pride and love. At last I fell asleep and dreamed I
was reconciled to my mother. She covered me with kisses and with
jewels; but the kisses were icy, and the jewels chilled me to the
marrow of my bones. Yet I suffered it to be done, and she took me by
the hand and led me through dark passages into the brilliantly-lighted
interior of a church which was full of people. The eyes of all these
people were fixed upon me. Then it was suddenly no longer my mother who
held my hand, but a tall, strange man in a uniform dazzling with gold
and diamonds. I could not see his face, for he held it always aside.
Thus we approached the altar; a priest was standing on the steps. The
organ sounded, and song filled the high vaults. Above the priest hung a
large wooden crucifix, such as we have hanging in the chapel at
Grenwitz, which always filled me with horror when I was a child. The
same horror overcame me now; for while the priest was speaking, the
image was continually shaking its head; and when I examined it more
accurately it bore Oswald's features, but disfigured and deadly pale,
and in the side of the body my dagger was sticking up to the hilt, and
black drops of blood were trickling down one by one. Then it opened its
lips and cried aloud--a fearful, yelling cry--and the cry scattered the
crowd, the vaults came down with a crash, and the man by my side
changed into a skeleton. I tried in vain to escape from its hold.
It seized me with its bony arms and went down with me into dark
depths--faster, faster, till I awoke with horror! The dismal autumn
morning was looking into my room, but I thought I still heard the
trumpets, and it took me some time before I could make out that they
were the melancholy strains of a military band which escorted a funeral
past our house to the graveyard near by.

"I tried to smile at my ridiculous dream, and I succeeded; because I
_willed_ it; because I was determined not to allow empty fancies of an
excited imagination to influence my decision. Besides, I could now,
when I was calm again, readily explain how the dream had come about.
The night before I had seen Oswald take leave of me, suffering greatly;
on this very day I was to meet my mother once more after a long, long
interval. My father had brought about this interview. He wished me to
be at a party which they proposed to give, and I could not refuse my
good father this request.

"I went there in the morning at the time for visiting. The meeting was
less painful than I had expected, I found fortunately a crowd of
visitors there--the Clotens, Barnewitz, etc.; also an officer--a Prince
Waldenberg--a remarkably stately, proud man, but not handsome. He had,
of course, introduced himself to me, and asked me to give him a waltz
for the next night. Soon afterwards the visitors left, and I also.
Emily Cloten--I have often written to you about her--congratulated me,
as she drove me back to my boarding-school in her carriage, on my
'conquest.' I told her I had no fondness for conquests which were so
easily made. '_Chacun a son goût_,' she answered, laughing. 'I, for my
part, think that what we do not catch on the wing is not worth
catching. My motto is always: _l'amour ou la vie_. It is true I am a
swallow, and live on midges. Royal eagles, like yourself, must have
nobler prey: a prey which at need can defend itself. The princely
quarry is too proud for me, I confess. But for you--_e'est autre
chose_. Like and like, you know.'

"The frivolous words of the talkative woman had roused my curiosity. I
resolved to examine the prince more closely during the party. In the
humor in which I was I liked the idea of measuring my pride against the
pride of another. Had I not sworn never again to admit softer feelings
to my heart? Thus it was a kind of comfort to me that there were other
people in the world who thought about it as I did.

"My mother received me on the evening of the next day with a kindness
which, to say the least, I had not deserved. It was evidently her
intention to show me that she intended a genuine reconciliation. She
kissed my forehead, took me by the hand and led me to the ladies, who
likewise overwhelmed me with civility. It looked as if the whole
festivity was arranged only for my sake, as if I was the centre of the
whole. Wherever I sat or stood I had a circle of gentlemen and ladies
around me, like a queen.

"It was the first time since I had left Grenwitz that I could again
move among my equals in fine, well-lighted rooms. I felt, more clearly
than I had ever felt it before, that this was the only sphere in which
I could move freely, that this was the only air I could breathe with
comfort; in fine, that I was born to rule and not to serve. It seemed
to me all of a sudden not so very difficult after all to keep the vow
which I had burnt in that night into my heart with glowing tears. I
only smiled at the fancies of a girl at boarding-school. And with a
smile I received the homage which was profusely laid at my feet.

"Among those around me was also Prince Waldenberg. I did not need to
inquire after his family and circumstances. Everybody was eager to
furnish me with information. He is a native of Russia, and immensely
rich. His mother's estates--she is Princess Letbus--lie in various
parts of Russia; he is Prince Waldenberg through his mother, who comes
of that family. Since he has succeeded to the estates, he has left the
Russian service for our service. His father is a Count Malikowsky. Both
parents are still alive, and he is their only child. You see, dear
Mary, here appears in my letters for the first time a real grandee, who
is the equal of your dukes and marquises; and while the prince's black
eyes, however far he was from me, were all the time looking at me, I
was thinking of you, whether I would see an encouraging smile in your
eyes if you were here, and you would say, 'He is worthy of you!' I
hoped you would, for the appearance and the manner of the prince is as
lofty as his rank. I noticed with heartfelt shame how sorry our own
young men looked by his side, and how they all tried in vain to copy
his way of walking and his carriage. He spoke several times very
eagerly with me. One of his sayings I remember, because it came from my
own heart. I asked him why he, who has thousands and thousands of
serfs, was serving in the army like our young noblemen, who had nothing
in the world but their swords? 'Because I am too proud,' he replied,
'to wish to rule where I am not fully entitled to rule.' 'How so,
highness?' I am not sovereign; my ancestors were sovereign; I have to
pay for the weakness of my ancestors.' 'Would you not have given up the
sovereignty?' 'Never,' he said, and this was the only time that I saw a
kind of genuine emotion in his cold, proud face; 'never! a thousand
times rather my life. But,' he added after a short pause, 'I know
somebody who also would rather die than be humbled.' 'And who can that
be?' 'You yourself, Miss Helen.'

"The party did not end till late at night. Papa sent me home in our
carriage. Mamma promised to return my visit the next day; that was
to-day. She really came this forenoon. She was again exceedingly kind,
paid me many compliments about my conduct last night, and expressed her
desire to have me back again at the house, just as my father also
wishes it. However, she left it entirely to me, whether I would come
back at all, and when. 'You did not exactly have your free will when
you went away,' she said; 'I want, therefore, at least to be perfectly
sure that your coming back is quite voluntary.'

"'And cousin Felix?' 'He leaves in a few days for Italy. I shall of
course not expect you to stay with him under the same roof.'

"Certainly, even if my mother does not mean it honestly, she has at
least found the right way to my heart. I am half decided to do what she
and papa want me to do."

The young girl had, as it will happen, felt all the changes of her own
heart which she described in her letter, once more in their full
strength. The tormenting conflict between love and ambition, the desire
to read clearly her own heart, had put the pen into her hand, and she
had at last obtained in the process of writing that peace which had
been so far from her when she began her letter.

She was leaning back in her chair with folded arms, and was looking
fixedly before her as in a dream. She listened mechanically to the
modulations of the night-wind in the poplar-trees before the window,
through which she heard occasionally the low thunder of the ocean as it
dashed against the shore. This music recalled to her the earliest
recollections of her childhood, and with them very different sensations
from those of which she had been writing. Suddenly she started and
listened breathlessly towards the window. Through the mournful sounds
of the wind she heard the singing of a soft, deep voice. At first she
fancied it was a trick of her excited imagination, but as she listened
more attentively, she distinguished the words. The voice sang:

           "Thy face, alas! so fair and dear,
            I saw it in my dreams quite near.
            It was so angel-like, so sweet,
            And yet with pain and grief replete,
            The lips alone, they are still red,
            But soon they will be pale and dead."

Then the wind became louder again and silenced the voice; then it began
once more distinctly:

           "The lips alone, they are still red,
            But soon they will be pale and dead."

Helen trembled in all her limbs. She knew the singer could not look up
into the lighted room; but she felt as if his eyes--his blue dreamy
eyes--were resting on her. She dared not move, she hardly dared to
breathe. Once more, but at a greater distance now, scarcely to be
distinguished, he sang:

           "The lips alone, they are still red,
            But soon they will be pale and dead."

Helen thought of the image in her dream, the pale crucified one, who
shook his head so sadly when the priest was saying the blessing; and
she thought of the dagger which had been thrust into his side up to the
golden hilt, and of the drops of blood which slowly trickled down, and
shuddering, she pressed, her face in her hands.

                               CHAPTER V.

From the moment when an accident had thrown into Albert Timm's hand
that famous package of faded letters, bound up with red-silk ribbon,
and long hid in the archives of Grenwitz, the lucky finder had not
rested till he had found out, if not all, at least most of the threads
of the secret web which he had so unexpectedly touched; then he had set
to work making a good stout tissue of it. The work had not been easy.
He had been forced to use all his ingenuity and all his inventive
power, and finally, when the decisive moment occurred in the interview
with Felix and the baroness, all his coolness and boldness. But the
venture had succeeded. The captured quarry was struggling in the
meshes, and the excellent huntsman rejoiced at it. No sportsman could
blame him for his joy. Now farewell to labor and trouble! Welcome,
sweet leisure, which would allow him to rest after his work! Four
hundred dollars a month for a whole year, and then, "after so many
sorrows," a few thousand dollars extra. Albert Timm would not have been
the contented redskin he was, if he had not left it with unbounded
confidence to the Great Spirit to care mercifully hereafter for his red
child.

Nevertheless, Albert Timm was too good a sportsman, in spite of all his
modesty, not to know the old rule, that one must always have "two
string's to the bow." Albert Timm had a second string to his bow, and
the manner in which he had twisted this string according to all the
rules of his art out of innocent sheep-sinews was so odd that the
artist himself could not help laughing heartily whenever he thought of
the story. Or was it perhaps not odd at all, that the man whose the
booty legally was, not only never suspected it, but actually had been
good-natured and stupid enough to become the intimate friend of the
poacher. Not odd at all that Albert Timm, feeling the first four
hundred dollars, hard-earned money, in his pocket, and sitting in the
city cellar of Grunwald to drink his own health and a happy issue of
all his plans, should have used the _lupus in fabula_, Mr. Oswald
Stein, and thus been able to treat him with champagne and oysters, for
which he paid with the very money out of which he had cheated him. He
who did not think this remarkably odd or witty, as Albert Timm called
it, had doubtless no eye for comical combinations, such as accident
from time to time shakes together in the kaleidoscope of life.

Partly to enjoy the comedy and partly for the sake of a "second
string," Albert Timm had met his old acquaintance from Grenwitz with
open arms, and had even carried the fun so far as to offer to become
his intimate friend. He calculated thus: It cannot be a bad speculation
in any case to be the friend of this disinherited knight. If the
Grenwitz keep their word and pay punctually--good; then it is a
beautiful evidence of your good heart, to let part of the abundance
drop into the lap of the knight who has unconsciously procured it for
you. If Anna Maria (he thought he was sure of Felix) wishes to break
the contract, or if an unforeseen accident relieves you of your
promise, still better; then your disinterested friendship for the
knight whose claims you then boldly advocate, gives you the strongest
claim upon his gratitude--in dollars.

Thus or nearly thus, the first sketch of his outline had been formed,
when Albert met Stein that night in the city cellar. Since that time he
had employed his leisure hours (and he had now an abundance) to fill up
the sketch, and he was so much pleased with his new plan, that he was
already considering whether it would not be better, after all, to
overthrow the legitimate ruling dynasty, and to proclaim Oswald as the
pretender. However, to act suddenly is not the manner of Indians, and
to throw away muddy water before you have clear water, is folly. Albert
found upon thoughtful reflection that Oswald was not quite ripe yet for
the part which he meant him to play. Oswald was an enthusiast, and
enthusiasts have all kinds of odd notions in their heads. For instance:
"Property is theft," or "the true beggars are the true kings," and so
forth. Might he not take up one of these odd notions at the very moment
when he ought to have acted promptly? It is true he found Oswald
greatly changed since he had seen him last. He seemed to have laid
aside his dreamy sentimentality, and to be filled with a concealed
restlessness, which broke forth now in extravagant merriment, and now
in savage, ironical bitterness. But who can ever judge rightly of
problematic characters? A remnant of the old ideology was no doubt
still there, and that had first to be driven out thoroughly. Faust,
just escaped from his cell, must find it impossible to return; he must
be taught to relish gay life; and how could he have found a better
teacher in this noble art than in the past grand master of all merry
fellows, the invincible Albert Timm, whose very sight was a laughing
protest against all old fogyism. And then there was a will-o'-the-wisp
with which the knight, wandering helplessly in the labyrinth of his
passions, could be led far into the morass, from where there was no
escape. This will-o'-the-wisp was love; his love for a certain great
and rich lady, for whose sake it was well worth while to leave the
straight road; a love which the knight had in the meantime confessed to
his friend, and which the friend fanned in a way which would have done
honor to the cleverest Marinelli. When the knight was once lured far
enough to make the return impossible, when he had been turned round and
round till he knew no longer where his head was, then the moment had
come when he might go up to him and say: Honored knight, what will you
give your Pylades if he enables you to possess all the glorious things
which heretofore have been mere phantoms seen in voluptuous dreams, in
tangible reality?

Unfortunately Oswald spared him much of the trouble. He was at that
time unhappier and less self-reliant than he had ever been before.
Berger's doctrine of contempt was a bad seed, which had fallen upon soil
only too fertile. And since Oswald thought he had been betrayed by Melitta,
he had, in order to be able the more readily to betray her himself,
irrevocably lost the better part of his self-respect. It did not avail him
that he charged all the blame of the rupture with Melitta upon her, that
he called her a heartless coquette, who had betrayed him disgracefully,
and who now laughed at the poor victim (how many were there in all?) in
the arms of her lover. There was a voice continually whispering to him,
which he could not silence, and which repeated again and again: You lie,
you lie; a woman with such deep, loving eyes is not heartless; a woman
capable of such love is not a coquette; a woman with such noble thoughts
and feelings does not betray the man whose happiness she knows is in herself
alone.

But even his love for Helen was but a faint reflex of that heavenly,
pure flame which had lighted up his heart like the moon in a dark night
during the time of his love for Melitta. There was in this love much of
that weird, consuming fire of an eager devouring passion which knows no
holy reverence for its idol.

To all this must be added, that he felt indescribably unhappy in his
position. His duties at the college were repugnant to him, when he had
hardly begun them. The virtues required by the exceedingly difficult
vocation of a teacher: industry, perseverance, patience, self-denial,
he had practised little in his life. The close air of the class-room,
and the noise of a crowd of merry boys were a torment for his
over-wrought nerves. And then his colleagues! this Rector Clemens,
overflowing with a false humanity; this stiff, wooden Professor
Snellius; this Doctor Kubel, combining easy comfort with so-called wit;
these lions of learning, Winimer and Broadfoot. Gulliver meeting, on
his famous travels, with the man-like, and therefore awfully hideous
Yahoos, could not feel a greater aversion for them than Oswald did for
those people with whom his position brought him in daily contact. And
these Yahoos were exceedingly obliging and familiar; they seemed to
have no suspicion of their ugliness; they overwhelmed the new comer
with all possible kindnesses; they invited him again and again to
evenings at whist, and evenings at tenpins, æsthetic teas, and dramatic
readings! They did not seem to mind at all his reserve, his chilling
coldness; on the contrary, they saw in it the awkwardness of a young
man who has not moved much in good company, and must be encouraged.
Even the ladies seemed to be full of this notion, especially Mrs.
Rector Clemens, who declared openly her intention to take the shy young
man, who was standing so sadly alone in the world, under her wings, and
who had already begun to carry out her threat. "I like you, dear
Stein!" said the energetic lady; "you have conquered my heart, and
gained by your reading of the 'Captain' a place in our dramatic club. I
consider it my duty to polish the younger colleagues. True humanity can
only be acquired in intercourse with refined ladies. For what says the
poet: 'If you wish to know what is becoming, ask noble ladies!' Look at
our colleague, Winimer! You have no idea what a bashful, awkward man he
was two years ago when he first came here, and what a charming young
man I have made of him! Well, with help from above, I shall probably do
as well with you."

Oswald overlooked, of course, the natural bonhommie which prompted this
and similar little speeches, and only saw the ridiculous form, at which
he laughed mercilessly with Timm, whose company he sought regularly
after these inflictions.

But there was in Grunwald, besides the fair manager of the dramatic
club, yet another lady who thought she had an older and better right to
humanize the young scapegrace, and who was the less willing to yield
her part to a rival, as she had elsewhere also been mortally offended
by her in her most sacred feelings.

This lady was the authoress of the "Cornflowers."

Primula still trembled whenever she thought of the terrible evening on
which she had been expected to become the murderer of a great general
and hero, and her only consolation was that so far from reading the
part allotted her she had scarcely commenced it. But, however that
might be, her hatred and her contempt for the people who had treated
her with such indignity remained the same. She declared that an
unexpected meeting with Mrs. Rector Clemens might have the most
disastrous consequences for her health. She carried, even at first, the
precaution so far that she never went out without sending her husband
some twenty or thirty yards ahead, so that he could warn her in time of
the probable approach of the "Gorgon's head;" and although this extreme
nervousness gradually subsided, the mere mention of her adversary's
name continued still to cause her immediately great and painful
emotion.

But Primula's enterprising spirit did not rest long content with such
an apparently passive resistance. Her adversary, and not she alone, but
her whole kin and her whole circle, must not merely be despised in
silence; they must be positively humiliated. She must be cut to the
heart, or, as the poetess called it in Maenadic passionateness, "the
flaming firebrand must be hurled upon her own hearth." This, however,
could be done in no other way than by exploding the dramatic club by
establishing another club in opposition, which should contain, under
Primula's direction, all the intelligence of Grunwald, and eclipse the
club of the schoolmasters as completely as the moon eclipses a fixed
star of first magnitude. To preside over such a club at Grunwald had
long been Primula's favorite dream when she was still wandering in the
evening twilight by the side of the Fragmentist through the fields of
Fashwitz, winding a wreath of blue cyanes for herself in sweet
anticipation of the triumphs which she was to celebrate hereafter. She
had thought this dream near its fulfilment when she crossed the
threshold of the reception rooms in Rector Clemens's house, her
Wallenstein in her hand, and the part of Thekla word by word in her
head. She had expected that evening to be the hour of her triumph. Was
it not to be foreseen--or, more correctly speaking, was it not a matter
of course--that as soon as she, Primula, had read the first lines, an
immense storm of applause would break out; that the men would beat upon
their shields (or books), and men and women would exclaim as with one
accord:

           "Hail, thrice hail, to the proud light
            That makes our darkness bright!
            Oh, poetess of lofty mien,
            Be thou hereafter our queen!
            Oh, don't deny this prayer of ours,
            Great author of 'Cornflowers!'"

For this was the Pæan which the authoress had herself composed for the
occasion.

Now she saw clearly that she had chosen the wrong road. The scales had
fallen from her eyes. What had she, the thoughtful weaver of
cornflower-wreaths, to do with the conflict of tragic passions; she,
the poetess of the famous Ode to the Mole that she found dead by the
wayside, and to the May-bug that lay on its back, in a _dramatic_ club?
A lyric club it ought to be; and to establish such a lyric club in open
and explicit opposition to the dramatic club at Rector Clemens's house
was the thought which, as the poetess sang in her own words, "was
rushing through her soul like a mighty tempest in spring, calling forth
a thousand germs irresistibly, and yet overthrowing everything in its
path." Who could resist such inspiration?

Surely not the author of the Fragments, who was filled with like
ambition, and whose vanity had been most deeply offended by the conduct
of the pedagogues. He became the first pupil of the prophetess.

But a prophetess and one pupil make no congregation; and husband and
wife, however clever they my be, do not make a club when they sit at
the tea-table. The first condition of their success was, therefore,
that prophetess and pupil should go forth as fishers of men; that is to
say, of members of the new club. The task was not so easy. Professor
Jager knew comparatively little of Grunwald society, which he had only
seen at a distance when he was a poor student there. His wife, on the
other hand, a native of the town, the seventh daughter of
Superintendent Doctor Darkling, knew of course the society well; but
the society knew her also as a bugbear of fright and disgust, on
account of her eccentricities, long before Jager, then a candidate for
holy orders, had courted her, and at last upon his appointment to the
curacy of Fashwitz had carried her home under his lowly roof. Although
the prophetess, therefore, stood at the shore and cast out her nets day
after day, and from morning till night, she had as yet caught but few
fish. This would have been extremely painful for a sensitive poetess if
her favorite Oswald had not been among the few captives.

His conduct on that evening had won him Primula's heart, a large slice
of which he possessed already before, and to a certain degree also the
heart of the Fragmentist. Both had urgently requested him not to forget
the "hospitable friends of Argos in the plains of the Scamander," and
Oswald had accepted the invitation in a fit of malicious curiosity. He
had vied during the visit with the professor and the professor's wife
in sarcasm against the pedagogues and their wives, and had at last,
when Primula revealed to him her plan of a club, entered into her views
with the greatest enthusiasm. He had promised to interest the surveyor,
Mr. Albert Timm, whom everybody in Grunwald knew as a very clever man,
for the plan, and the poetess had in reward for such a happy thought
embraced him before the eyes of her husband.

Since that visit not a day had elapsed on which a poetical epistle
written by Primula had not reached Oswald. She inquired anxiously after
the success of his efforts--little notes which Oswald carefully kept,
and then read at night, of course without mentioning names, in the city
cellar before the "Rats' Nest." This was the name of a secret society
which held every evening its sessions in the above-mentioned rooms, and
to which Oswald had the honor to belong as honorary member. His reading
invariably provoked a Homeric laughter on the part of the assembled
rats.

It was the day after the party at the Grenwitz house, when the
professor's servant Lebrecht brought him once more one of these
poetical inquiries, written on pink paper. This time, however, it
seemed to be of special importance, for Lebrecht, a pale young man of
fifteen years, who had been a charity boy a few months before, and
still looked more than half-starved, remained standing near the door
and said, with his hollow, orphan-house voice, "An answer is
requested." Upon the envelope, also, in one of the corners, the
letters A. a. i. r. were written daintily, surrounded by a wreath of
forget-me-nots. The note was of course in verses, and ran thus:

              TO A YOUNG EAGLE FLYING THROUGH THE CLOUDS.

                  The proud young eagle,
                    Why does he stay so far,
                  Amid gray crows and rooks,
                    He my life's only star?

                  Oh, how I love to see
                    The dark-brown eagle's hair,
                  On your dear noble head,
                    With the blue eyes fair.

                  Know not what was done!
                    Oh glorious conquest!
                  When in thy eyes I looked,
                    Was lost fore'er my rest.

                  But to the stars he soars,
                    He prizes naught below,
                  That I, poor Primula,
                    Am naught to him, I know!

Oswald read the verses twice and a third time without understanding
what answer could be expected to such nonsense, until he discovered far
down in the corner a microscopic "_tournez s'il vous plaît_. He turned
the leaf over, and there, on the other side, he read:

"Dear O.: I must needs descend to prose. I was yesterday in most noble
company, about whom I can tell you much if you will listen. This
evening a lady is coming to see me (a member of the same society) who
has very distinctly intimated her desire to meet you at my house, and
who has something to communicate to you which may possibly be decisive
for your future happiness. It is true I should be deeply grieved to
lose you, but my friendship for the young eagle (see page 1) is as pure
as the element which he beats with his mighty wings. Will you call at
seven o'clock on

                 "Your servant,                       Primula."

A joyful fear fell upon Oswald. Who else could this be but Helen? It is
true the step was a bold one, but what is it that love does not dare?
He threw with rapid pen a few lines on the paper and gave it to
Lebrecht, with the direction to be sure and not to lose the note, an
admonition which seemed to be but too well justified by the exceedingly
stupid appearance of the orphan boy.

The hours which had to pass till the evening came seemed to him to
creep slowly. Misfortune would have it, besides, that he had to give
two lessons that afternoon, and to an upper class, where the pupils
disliked him particularly on account of his partiality. There was no
lack, therefore, of annoyances and tricks, especially as their young
teacher seemed to be in worse humor than usually, and Oswald allowed
himself to be carried away by his passionate anger--a scene which
restored quiet in the frightened class, but which caused him greater
annoyance than anything else.

Wrath and disgust in his heart, he left the college. Not far from there
he met Franz. No meeting could have been more inconvenient to him just
then. He had cultivated the friendship of this excellent man very
little; he had hardly been two or three times at Doctor Roban's house,
and generally with a hope of not finding Franz there. He knew that such
conduct towards a man to whom he was deeply indebted laid him open to
the charge of gross ingratitude, but he preferred that to the sense of
humiliation which he always felt when the grave eyes of his friend were
resting upon him.

"How are you, Oswald?" said Franz, crossing over from the other side of
the street and cordially shaking hands with him. "You must be
desperately busy that we see so little of you."

"Not exactly," replied Oswald; "but what little I have to do is all the
more disagreeable."

"How so?"

"That school! A single hour in the wretched treadmill spoils my temper
for the other twenty-three hours of the day. Rather a sweeper in the
streets than a teacher."

"I knew beforehand the thing would not suit you." said Franz, with his
kindly, warm smile; "but, Oswald, you know habit is a great thing; and
then, pray, consider, every profession requires self-denial and
sacrifices, even the sweeper's profession. Good-by, Oswald; I have to
call here. Do, pray, come and see us soon: I have something important
to tell you."

Franz entered the house of his patient, and Oswald walked on.

"Self-denial--sacrifices!" he murmured; "that sounds very beautiful
from the lips of one who is happy in his vocation. There is nothing
more intensely disagreeable than to be lectured in such general
phrases, which suit our position about as well as a blow upon the eye.
Timm is right: Franz is a tiresome pedant."

Involuntarily he turned into the street that led to his friend's
lodgings. Albert lived under the shadow of the church of St. Bridget,
in the house of the sexton, Toby Goodheart, a man who stood in the odor
of very special sanctity, so that nobody could comprehend why the very
unholy tenant should have chosen such a landlord, and still less how
the two had been able to get along so well for many years.

Albert was at home. He was lying on a sofa, reading. The fragrance of a
fine Havana cigar filled the room which formed a suitable frame for the
occupant in its reckless disorder.

"Ah, here you are, '_Pompei, meorum prime sodalium_,'" he said,
throwing down his book as Oswald entered, and rising. "I was just
thinking of you, and wondering whether you like Horace as much when you
interpret him from your desk to your boys as I enjoy him here on my
sofa with a good cigar between my teeth. Isn't he a famous fellow? I
always think of him as a small man with a bald head, a promise of a
paunch, bright black eyes and large kissable lips, who lounges, his
hands crossed behind him, through the streets of Rome, casting sheep's
eyes at a pretty girl on his left and flinging a sarcasm at a citizen
on his right, and whose whole moral code is contained in the words:
'Hurrah for Falernian wine and pretty girls! To live without them is
not worth while!' Am I right?"

"I rather think you are."

"Oh heavens! What a sepulchral voice. What is the matter now? Have you
a note to take up?"

"This wretched college!"

"Oh, is that all? Send it to the Evil One, who invented them all!"

"'_Mais il faut vivre_,' as the tailor told M. de Talleyrand."

"'_Je n'en vois pas la necessité_,' as M. de Talleyrand replied; at
least not the necessity to live as you do."

"How shall I live then? I have about three hundred dollars; when they
are at an end--and that may be very soon--I must either work or make an
end of myself too!"

"Don't be such a fool! A man like you, who has a thousand ways to make
his fortune!"

"For instance?"

"For instance, by marrying the little Grenwitz, who seems to me to wish
nothing more eagerly."

"That is easier said than done."

"Perhaps not, if you take the right road."

"And which is that?"

"Force them to give you the girl, whether they will or not."

"What do you mean by your riddle?"

"You are very hard of comprehension to-day."

Albert leaned back in his sofa-corner and blew, as he loved to do, ring
after ring in the air. Oswald was absorbed in thought. He considered
whether he ought to confide to Timm the secret of the rendezvous to
which he had been invited for to-night. At last he said, almost against
his own conviction,

"I received a curious note from Primula to-day; I should like to see if
you can make more of it than I can."

"Let us hear," replied Albert, lost in admiration of a huge blue ring
which he had just accomplished.

Oswald read him the address to the young eagle, and the mysterious
postscript. Albert started up from the sofa.

"Oswald, you are the luckiest dog alive!" he cried. "Why, the thing is
evident. The young lady can be nobody else but the little Grenwitz. The
girl has indeed ten times more sense and pluck than her chaste lover,
who understands so little of the great art of seizing fortune by the
hem of her garment. In good earnest, Oswald, the cards have been dealt
so well for you, it could not be better. Of course, it will not be
quite so easy to take the fortress. The Jager has evidently said more
than she was authorized to say; but never mind that--you have the
outworks, and if you do not get on soon it is your own fault. When are
you to be at Primula's house?"

"At seven."

"It is five now; we have two hours time. Come, let us consider the plan
of operation with the help of a good glass of wine. Charles the Bald
has an excellent hock, and you must drink of that bravely, so that you
may show yourself strong and hearty in your enterprise and permit no
trace of sickly hesitation to be seen. Come!"

                              CHAPTER VI.

Primula was sitting in her study before a table covered with new books,
magazines, and papers. The door was open towards the reception-room,
which was also lighted up. She had just finished a longer poem, which
had to be sent this very evening to the editor of a literary journal,
in the "correspondence" of which the following notice had appeared
three times already: "P. V. in Gr. Great and gifted friend:--We await
the promised MS. _impatiently_." There it was now, the promised MS.,
written with the heart's blood of the poetess! She had but just placed
the last dot over the last i, and already it was to be sent away into
the wide heartless world, before he who had inspired all these glowing
stanza had ever seen a line of the poem! If he would only come early,
so that she might read him at least a few stanzas before that young
Baroness Cloten came, in whose presence that would of course be
impossible!

There, listen! Was not that a ring at the bell? The door is open below
... A deep male voice ... It is he! it is he! Thanks be to you, oh
gracious gods!

Primula blushed, cast a glance at the mirror that was hanging over her
writing-table and pushed the fair curls from her blushing face, seized
a pen and began although there was no ink in the pen--to scribble with
nervous eagerness on a blank sheet.

"Do I interrupt you?" asked the deep voice, close to her ear.

"Why, great heavens!" exclaimed the poetess, casting away the pen; "is
it you, Oswald? I had not heard you come at all."

"You were kind enough, madame, to tell me in the most charming note
that I have ever read----"

"You flatterer! If you praise thus the simple lines of this morning,
what will you say of these verses which I have written this evening
with glowing brow and beating heart, thinking of no one but yourself? I
must read you at least the beginning. She will not be here so soon;
perhaps not at all."

"But who is it?"

"Pray, take a seat. It has to go to the post-office in half an hour.
Listen! What do you think of this original metre, which seems to be
worthy of our Freiligrath? The title is, 'The lion at the Cape.'"

The Castalian Spring once opened was not to be checked. Oswald had to
submit to his hard fate and allow himself to be flooded by a genuine
deluge of wretched verses. Suddenly the door-bell rang again. The sound
seemed to be but a signal for the poetess to read with double and
treble rapidity, while she laid her hand upon her hearer's arm, as if
to prevent him from escaping. There were only about thirty stanzas yet
to be read, when a silk dress was heard rustling in the adjoining room,
and suddenly the graceful figure of Emily Cloten was standing in the
open door which led to the reception-room.

"I do not interrupt, I hope?" asked the young lady, with a half shy and
half bold glance at Oswald; "I'd rather go away again."

"Oh no, no!" replied Primula, in a melancholy tone, putting down the
MS. and rising; "not at all! I was just reading to my young friend
Stein a few stanzas of a poem. Why, it is nearly half-past seven, and
the papers must be at the post-office by eight! Dear Baroness Cloten,
dear Mr. Stein, excuse me for the hundredth part of an instant. Stay
here in the sitting-room, and I will be back as soon as I have sent off
the parcel!"

The excited poetess pushed her guests unceremoniously into the next
room, whispering at the same time to Oswald: "What a pity! Only a poet
can feel it! The _last_ verses were by far the finest."

She dropped the curtain, partly to be undisturbed and partly not to
disturb her friends, and Oswald and Emily stood gazing at each
other--Oswald speechless from astonishment at this strange and
unexpected solution of the mystery, and Emily also silent and
embarrassed in spite of her boldness and cleverness, but only for an
instant. Immediately afterwards she raised her drooping lashes, smiled
at Oswald from the corners of her large, gray eyes, and said hurriedly
and in a whisper:

"You surely do not think it an accident which has brought us together
here?"

"I hardly know what to believe," replied Oswald, unconsciously assuming
the same hurried and secret tone.

"Then Mrs. Jager has not told you yet?"

"What?"

"I made her believe I had a commission to ask you if you would accept a
place in the house of some friends of mine; of course, there is not a
word of truth in it. I only came----"

A glance from her bright eyes and a quiver of the charming mouth filled
quite eloquently the pause which the young lady made in her speech.
Oswald was still unable to adapt himself at once to the situation. He
had expected Helen, he found Emily--Emily, whose enchanting, coquettish
beauty reminded him so forcibly of some of the most delightful and yet
most painful scenes in the confused drama of his life--Emily, whom he
had intended to meet with a tragic resolve of resignation! And now he
was expected of a sudden to play the part of a lover! He felt a very
decided conviction that he must give the young lady some answer or
other, but the varied sensations which he experienced overcame him so
entirely that he in vain sought for words.

"Why did you not call, as you promised the other day?" continued Emily,
somewhat disheartened by this silence of her knight, in the tone of a
spoilt child who cannot get the toy she desires, and who therefore is
on the point of breaking into tears. "Is it right not to comply with
the request--the harmless request--of a lady, and thus compel her to
take a step which she can hardly excuse to herself, much less to the
judgment of the world?"

Oswald stepped back unconsciously, and replied in a half serious half
ironical tone: "It seems, madame, to be my fate to embarrass you always
by my plebeian want of knightly gallantry."

He had hardly uttered these words when he would have given a world to
take them back. Emily's lovely face, which had until now beamed with
rosy smiles, became deadly pale. Her large eyes grew still larger and
rigid, like the eyes of one who has to suffer an intense physical or
mental pain; her pale lips trembled convulsively, as if she wished to
say something and could not find the strength to do so. Her whole body
trembled, and she grasped the back of a chair. He had not meant to
wound her so deeply. Oswald was ashamed of his cruelty, especially as
he was by no means so much in earnest with the Catonic severity which
he had displayed. He went up to Emily; he seized her hand and held it,
although she made a feeble effort to draw it away; he conjured her in
passionate words to forgive him; he swore he repented of what he had
said; his heart was sick, his head confused, his lips often said what
his head and his heart did not wish to be said; she ought to give him
time to recover and to justify himself before his own heart and before