CHAPTER XIII.
Holding the delicate little figure clasped close to her breast, Julie had hurriedly carried the child down the stairs. She felt as if she were in an intoxication of indignation, contempt, defiance, and triumph; her lips, which touched the child's locks, trembled, and her heart beat so that she could hardly draw her breath. It was not until she had reached the lower hall, and saw the eyes of the hotel people fixed upon her, that she recovered her composure again, and letting little Frances slide down on her feet she fastened on her hat and cloak for her. The child had not spoken a word thus far. But now, when she saw the traveling carriage standing packed and ready before the door, she clung tight to Julie again, begging in a low voice that they should hurry away. She seemed to fear that they would stop her even now, and drive off with her in the carriage. Julie quieted her, ordered a drosky to be called, and told the driver to drive home.
They sat nestled close up to one another, and were silent. Once only the child turned to her protectress and asked:
"Will she travel off without me now?"
"Don't think any more about it," Julie answered, kissing her on the forehead. "You are with me now. Are you happy?"
The child nodded and stroked Julie's hand. But one could see from her eyes that her thoughts were still busy with what had passed.
When they reached home Julie found a note, which Fridolin had brought, containing a few lines from Jansen, written in pencil. He hoped he should be able to see her before the day was over, and she mustn't feel any anxiety about him. This made her very happy. She decided to let him find his child with her, particularly as the weather was raw and it did not seem advisable to put Frances, who was feverish from weeping, into a damp drosky again. So she sent old Erich to the foster-mother, with a note in which she asked permission to keep the little one with her overnight. She wanted to do this, she said, in order to surprise the father; and having dispatched the letter she enjoyed herself playing with the child, whose affections she now felt as if she had thoroughly won and deserved. She made a cup of chocolate, and looked on while it eagerly drank it; for it had not touched the sweetmeats Lucie had given it.
She acknowledged such an evident interposition of friendly powers in all that she had just passed through, and the good gods seemed to have taken the part of her love and hopes so earnestly, that she had no doubt but what the remaining difficulties would be also satisfactorily solved.
In this opinion she was shaken, though only for a moment, by the news Frances's foster-mother brought. That good woman was still full of the fright that had been caused by the supposed abduction of the child, and had no sooner received Erich's message than she set out to convince herself with her own eyes that at all events the worst had not happened, and that little Frances was in safety. The excitement of the last few hours, the self-reproach she felt, and the thought of the consequences that might follow, had so worked upon her that, at the sight of the child smiling a welcome to her, she burst into tears and could with difficulty be quieted. As for the permission, she said she no longer had any right whatsoever to give such a thing, now that it appeared that the child had not been safe from such an invasion under her own roof; and if the father should withdraw all his confidence from her she felt she would have no right to complain.
"Let me have her just for this night," Julie begged. "I have a presentiment that Jansen must return to-night, and then he will be so rejoiced to find us together. After to-morrow, you shall once more enjoy your mother's privileges without stint, until I take your place with still better rights."
But her presentiment deceived her.
The child was put to bed early, and, with its head resting on Julie's pillow, had long since dropped off to sleep in the midst of a loving chat with its "beautiful mamma." Julie sat and listened to the storm, starting to her feet every time she heard a man's step approach the house. But the hours slipped by, and she remained alone. At last, about midnight, she gave up all hope. She dismissed her old servant, noiselessly undressed herself, and lay down on the bed by the side of the sleeping child. It was long before she closed her eyes.
When she awoke next morning her little bedfellow soon roused herself, and was very much surprised not to find herself in her accustomed place. The preceding day, with its adventures, only floated before her like a confused dream. She had a strange dislike to asking Julie how it had all come about, but allowed Julie to dress her, amid much petting and caressing, and to carry her home. Julie herself was depressed, and felt her confidence in the helping powers of fate much shaken. She resigned little Frances to the foster-mother, and then immediately started for the studio.
The weather had cleared, and a warm though pale winter sun shone down upon the streets, covered with a thin layer of snow. The long walk did Julie good. When she finally reached the house, her cheeks were glowing, her blood was quickened, and her spirits had recovered their former confidence. She was, therefore, all the more alarmed to find four well-known figures in the courtyard, all of whom greeted her with a look of profound distress--Angelica, Rosenbusch, Kohle, and Fridolin, the janitor. They were standing in a group, and appeared to be eagerly discussing something, when Julie's sudden arrival frightened them apart.
"What has happened?" she cried to them. "Has he returned? For God's sake, what has happened?"
"Dear Fräulein," said Rosenbusch, who was the first to stammer out an answer, "we know as little as you what has happened; but he has returned, and last night too, and not very late either; he gave back his horse to the stable-keeper himself; or, at all events, when I inquired about it early this morning, the two animals stood in the stalls, but the hostlers knew nothing of their riders. 'Well,' thought I to myself, 'that affair passed off better than we had a right to expect,' and hurried over here. But when I asked Fridolin, he knew nothing except that the 'professor' must have returned, for he had not been able to open the door of the studio; the key was inside, and he had received no answer to his knocking. In the mean time, as the sun rose quite high, I thought he certainly must have slept enough, and I also knocked and gave him good-morning through the keyhole. No answer. The marble-cutters, who wanted to get into the saints' studio, found the door locked likewise; and after waiting for a time, they went away again. As time went on I began to think there was something very odd about it all. So I climbed up to the window on the garden side, and looked into the ateliers--first into his own. Everything there was in the best of order, only there was no trace of him. So I climbed down again, and then up to the other window--well, in there things looked oddly enough. Just picture it, Fräulein: all his worthy saints, with the exception of the models which he had made himself, were smashed into fragments; and what was worse than all, in the midst of all this wreck I saw him--our poor friend--stretched out on the floor as if he were lying on the softest mattress; don't be frightened, Fräulein, he is alive and conscious, but so tired apparently that he cannot even rouse himself enough to go into the other studio and lie down on the sofa. For, upon my beating a most devilish reveille upon the closed window and shouting out his name, he raised himself half up, made a motion with his hand for me to leave him in peace, and then sank back again on the heap of fragments, with nothing under his head but a corner of his cloak."
He broke off, as he saw Julie turn away hastily and hasten toward the building. Angelica was about to follow, but she made a sign that she wanted to go alone, and hurriedly entered the house.
Inside, she listened for a moment at the door of the "saint-factory;" as all was quiet she knocked with a trembling hand and called Jansen's name. Immediately after the door opened, and he stood before her.
He was wrapped in his cloak, his hair hung disheveled about his temples, all the blood seemed to have left his face, and his eyes had neither a wild nor a sad look; but their tired, wandering gaze pained Julie more than the most passionate excitement.
"It is you!" he said. "You are a little too early for me. I, as you see--won't you come in? To be sure, it doesn't look very inviting here--I have been clearing out a little, and because I did it in the dark--"
She had to exert all her strength in order to cast an apparently composed look around the room.
"What harm have these innocent figures done you?" she asked, closing the door behind her.
"Innocent?--ha, ha! They only pretend to be so. In reality they all have the devil in them, in spite of their saints' halo. Not a single one of them is really innocent. I ought to know that best, for I made them. And I tell you, the reflection from the snow outside made it bright enough for me to see the lie grinning from these stupid faces. So I made an end of it and smashed them all to bits--another lie wiped out of the world. I have been doing things by halves long enough; the other half always avenges itself. Now I feel better again, especially since I have seen you."
He pressed her hand: his voice sounded hoarse and strained; his eyes were bloodshot. She had to forcibly keep down her tears, as she stepped over the wreck upon the floor.
"I am glad that it all lies behind you now," she said. "I can feel with you how it must pain you to make something in which your whole heart is not interested. But come away from this destruction. We will make a fire in the studio, and talk. Did you know that little Frances spent the night with me? The darling child! It was hard for me to give her back to the foster-mother. But then it won't be for long now."
He made no answer, but submissively allowed himself to be led away without raising his eyes from the ground. While she kindled the fire, he sat on the sofa, his arms hanging down between his knees, and began to hum a tune as if in accompaniment to the music made by the crackling flames in the iron stove. He did not appear to notice that she had again stepped to his side. It was not until she bent over, threw her arms round his neck, and, with the tears streaming down her face, kissed him again and again, that he became conscious of what was passing; and, even then, he seemed to see everything as if through a mist.
"What are you crying for?" he asked, in surprise. "Am I not quite cheerful and sensible? You, surely, are not afraid of me? Don't be afraid, the worst is over. Last night, it is true, if any one had said to me, 'Stamp with your foot on the ground and the whole world will fall in ruins and bury you and all that is good and beautiful,' I believe I would have done it. Well, those poor innocents there had to bear the brunt of my fury; and now a little child might lead me by a string."
"Won't you tell me how it all happened?"
"What would be the use? It is vile. It's bad enough that two persons know of it besides myself. Besides, it can't be changed. Don't you know that you must never draw the iron out of the wound unless you want the man to bleed to death? What time is it? Is it evening or morning? I believe I am hungry. The animal in man is immortal, and outlives all the nobler impulses. Pardon me for talking so. The words fall from my lips; I cannot hold them back."
"I will go up to Angelica's room--she always has a little supply on hand--or shall we go to my house?"
"No matter about it. I feel a disgust for all food. Hunger and disgust at the same time--a fine outlook for life! But it's no wonder. When one has nourished himself with something that appears perfectly innocent, and suddenly discovers that it has been gathered from the vilest refuse--"
She seated herself beside him on the sofa, and laid her arm on his shoulder; but he seemed to be quite unmoved by her touch, though usually her slightest caress would fairly intoxicate him.
"You must tell me all!" she whispered, stroking his rigid face, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Are we not one? Is not your life mine, just as everything I am and have belongs to you? And yet you would keep something from me, because it might give me pain! I demand my full half of your pain, or I shall begin to doubt whether I was ever anything more to you than a living picture in which your eyes found pleasure."
He slowly shook his head. "I must make an end of that, too," he said, as if to himself. "I must have done with this half-way work. But that pains me more; and it is not the beautiful image that must be dashed to pieces, but he who moulded it out of clay. Ha, ha! As if it did not follow that everything which comes from the earth must go back to the earth again. A fine thought that, a truly charming prospect--ha, ha!"
"Speak sensibly, dearest! Now I can't understand a word."
"Well, then, to speak sensibly, I must go away--the sooner the better. Do you understand what that means? I, myself--to tell the truth--I don't quite understand it yet; but that comes from my weariness. As soon as I have had a good sleep--"
"Go away! And why go away? And where to?"
"Why? You ask strange questions, dearest. As if we ever knew why we live, why the sun shines on us today and to-morrow the storm rages. And where it whirls us to--what matters it? Do you believe that any spot will be dearer to me than another where I have to do without you?"
"Without me? You are raving! O my God!--the--but I am crazy to let myself be frightened by anything so--so impossible!"
"Yes, yes!" he said, in a hollow voice, and with a bitter smile; "impossible. So many things seem to us, until those two great magicians, chance and crime, complete the trick, and make the impossible only too actual. I candidly confess to you that, when my sound reason leaves me for a moment, I also hear a voice within me crying: 'It is impossible!' And yet it must be so--and we can do nothing but kick our bleeding heels against the thorns of fate. What is the matter with you all at once? You have let your arm fall from my shoulder. Are you angry with me, poor woman, because I am a beaten man? Say yourself what is there left for us to do but to renounce and despair? Because I am so quiet with it all, do you think I have grown cold overnight? But it is only, as I said, because all strength has left me; even the strength to feel the deadliest pains. Let me sleep an hour, and then you will be satisfied with the pitiable way in which my heart will behave."
He attempted to rise, but sank back again on his couch. Just at this moment a knock was heard. They heard Angelica's voice on the landing-place outside: "Only a word, Julie; I have something to give you."
Julie arose, and opened the door. Immediately she returned to Jansen, who sat there perfectly indifferent, bearing a letter in her hand.
"It is for you," she said. "It is Felix's handwriting. Will you open it? I think you had better first go home with me and rest awhile, and try to eat and sleep. You must have pretty well talked over everything last night, so that it is hardly probable the letter can contain anything new or important."
"Do you think so?" he said, in a peculiar tone. "Because we were friends, I suppose you think that each of us must know all about the other. Well, then, my poor darling, open the letter yourself, and you will get at the tricks by which chance has made the impossible possible. Read it, read it whatever it is, it can't tell me anything more that is worth knowing!"
Breathlessly, she tore open the envelope; and standing at the window, leaning her trembling figure against the sill for support, she read the following lines.
CHAPTER XIV.
FELIX TO JANSEN.
"We parted so strangely, yesterday. Under the first shock of the blow I ran away as if I had been blind and mad. As if one could escape the mockery of hell in one's own breast! When I realized this, I turned back. I should have been glad to have surrendered myself to you--unconditionally--that very night. But you had already ridden away, and the others had chosen to leave the house and hurry off by the night train. Thus I am left here undisturbed, to come to my senses, and to write you a long letter--to which I can expect no answer.
"After all, what could you say to me? For we are parted again--we are separated, after all. And the case is so terribly clear, that it makes all explanation and discussion superfluous. Why, then, should I waste so much paper? and even go out of my way to give an explanation at which one scarcely knows whether he ought to laugh or weep?
"But I owe it to you--no, not to you; for, at bottom, I did not sin against you but against myself; and my confession, about which you will perhaps care little, is merely a relief to that self, which I hope you will grant me for the sake of our old friendship. I will try to be as brief as possible.
"You know how, just before my father died, I was sent to a watering-place; and how I twice passed through the city where you lived--the first time on my journey there, by way of Holland, where I had business to attend to; and then again on my return, when I was spurred on to the wildest haste by the news from home, and wanted to spare us both a mere shake of the hand between the steamer and the railroad, while in such a mood. In the interval between these two visits, you had married and become a father. I looked forward to becoming acquainted with your wife and child, but for that very reason I put off our meeting until a brighter time, and passed through Hamburg without suspecting----
"Still, in spite of all my anxiety as to how I should find my father, a painful recollection followed me. You know I had never been very straitlaced in my way of life or my adventures, and scarcely ever had paid for this frivolity even with remorse. I was always conscientious toward the conscientious, and unscrupulous toward the unscrupulous. I had never consciously or deliberately tried to disturb the peace of a single soul, and was above the level of the conventional bonnes fortunes one meets in his every-day path.
"But, not to make myself out better than I was, certain temptations were always powerful with me simply because of their adventurousness; and a decidedly insignificant Juliet might have seduced me into playing the Romeo, if the rope-ladder to her balcony had been a particularly breakneck one.
"Now, just before I came to Heligoland, various matters had united to put me in a bad humor; and, besides, my nerves were unstrung by wrong medical treatment, feverish work, and night-watching; and I troubled myself little more about the society of the resort than I did about the mussels and sea-weed on the beach.
"In an instant all this was changed. A stranger suddenly made her appearance--a young woman--who soon became the puzzle and the talk of the whole island. The stranger's list recorded her as Madame Jackson, of Cherbourg. She was without an escort, had rented rooms in a fisher's hut standing quite alone, and appeared to make it her chief aim to set all male and female tongues in motion by the oddity of her behavior.
"She appeared on the beach very early in the morning in a toilet that awakened the envy of all the ladies. It was not the costliness of the materials or of the ornaments, but the singular grace with which she knew how to wear and move in the plainest shawls and veils. Then, besides, her face could not fail to attract the notice of everybody, if only by its unusual contrasts. Her hair had a reddish-gold color, that literally shone in the sun when she let it fall freely down her shoulders; two delicate dark eyebrows curved over the softest blue eyes, that looked out upon the world as if they hadn't the slightest suspicion of the stir they were causing. A little black point-lace veil hung down over her forehead--however, I needn't describe her to you.
"Of course, the women insisted that her golden hair was dyed, and her eyebrows painted. Such a play of colors did not exist in Nature. But the men did not find it the less charming on that account.
"An old Englishman was the first who ventured to address her, as a countrywoman of his. She replied in the best of English, but so shortly, that this unsuccessful attempt frightened away all others of the same kind.
"However, she herself soon appeared to tire of the isolation which she had maintained for the first few days. She made advances to a Mecklenburg lady, who had accompanied her sick daughter to the seashore, and, under the pretext of sympathy, she struck up an acquaintance with her which she let drop again after a short time, evidently because it bored her. As she also spoke German, though with an English accent, several country noblemen from the Mark, who had fallen dead in love with her, ventured to speak to her. She treated them with cool condescension, and it was not long before a regular court had gathered about her, in which several young people with whom I had heretofore associated allowed themselves to be enrolled.
"They told me about the moods and whims of their lady, who was made up of ice and fire; of childish innocence and the most refined coquetry; of sentiment and wild audacity.
"The English coldness, and the soft, dove-like smile, with which she appeared in society, and the half-bored and half-ironical manner in which she accepted the homage of her admirers, were merely a mask. When she was alone with a person, an entirely different and much more adventurous character made its appearance; a seductive, melancholy, and yielding softness--which, however, changed at once into the harshest coldness the moment he who had been encouraged by it began to grow warmer, and attempted to seize the whole hand by means of the little finger she held out to him. She would thrust back any such deluded being into his place with the most cutting irony, and from that moment would treat him with pitiless disfavor, without quite setting him free.
"Several of my acquaintances had discovered this to their cost. They gave me such minute accounts of their disgraceful defeats that I recognized in this woman a type of those perfectly cold-blooded coquettes who are--to the credit of the sex be it said--but rarely met with. The aversion I had felt toward this sea-monster, from the very first moment I had set eyes on her, was only the more confirmed by this; but, at the same time, the thought sprang up in me that it might be a good work, a meritorious act toward the whole male population of the island, if I could succeed in catching this fisher of men in her own net.
"This purpose immediately became a fixed idea with me, actually as if my own honor were staked on the result. As I knew that I was absolutely proof against her charm, I proceeded to its execution without the faintest scruples. She had long regarded my reserve with amazement and anger; the consequence was that nothing was easier for me than to take advantage of the first chance meeting I could bring about, to conquer a place among her intimates.
"I will refrain from inflicting upon you, scene for scene, an account of the wretched comedy that now began. The fact that I had to do with a skillful opponent aroused my ambition, and stung into life all the dormant obstinacy of my character, so that, at the end of a week--for she, too, staked all her pride upon finally seeing me at her feet like all the others--we two stood confronting each other almost alone; her former circle of admirers had withdrawn discomfited.
"The great aim of my tactics was to represent myself as thoroughly blasé and unsusceptible, and to act as though I found the great charm of my intercourse with her merely in the fact that I had at last encountered a kindred nature, who, like me, had long since disclaimed, as a ridiculous delusion, the possession of any warmth of feeling. She accepted the rôle I assigned to her, but it never occurred to her for a moment to cease trying to tempt me out of mine. Occasional human emotions, into which I now and then allowed my calumniated heart to be betrayed, gave her some right to hope; and the freedom of a watering-place afforded a hundred opportunities for putting me to the test.
"Well, it turned out just as it could not help turning out. One evening we came home from a stormy sailing excursion, which had not been entirely free from danger, half wet through and hungry. The return trip had been delayed from the fact of the skipper's having been obliged to stop in the midst of the storm, to mend, as well as he could under the circumstances, a leak in his boat; the consequence was it was late when we reached her fisher's cottage. She herself seemed to have forgotten her enforced rôle for the moment, and appeared to have no other end in view than to refresh and warm me before dismissing me to my lodgings. While she went into her chamber and put on some dry garments, I was forced to stay in the front-room, which was itself little more than a small bedroom, and exchange my coat--which had been soaked through and through with the salt water--for a Turkish jacket she had selected from her wardrobe; and soon, the tea steaming on the table, the warmth of the fire--which was very grateful in spite of its being early fall--and, above all, the extraordinary manner in which we were dressed after the dangers we had escaped, threw us both into a reckless and merry mood such as I had never before experienced in her presence.
"But even now I was still very far from feeling anything like love, not even as much as I had sometimes felt in the most trivial of my adventures. In the midst of my sportive chat with this woman I felt at the bottom of my soul an unconquerable aversion toward her, indeed something almost like a secret horror of her--as if a presentiment were warning me who it was that sat opposite me. But a demon drove me on to play to the end of the rôle I had once undertaken, for, as I persuaded myself--mad fool that I was!--my honor was at stake! Never was a victory more dearly bought, never did a man who thought to triumph feel himself so lost and degraded in his own sight as I did in that hellish hour. Had I strangled this woman in a fit of blind passion, it would not have so degraded me as this impudent comedy.
"And the wretched woman felt that I could not, do what I would, carry out the rôle of a favored lover;--the suspicion dawned upon her in what light I must appear to myself and she to me. Horror, hate, and resentment toward me, and perhaps also shame and self-reproach, suddenly overpowered her with such force that she burst into a storm of tears; and when I, in compassionate surprise, attempted to approach her, she thrust me back with a violent gesture of disgust, and immediately afterward fell into a fainting-fit that seemed almost like death.
"That night I passed probably the most painful hours of my life, in awkward attempts to bring her back to consciousness. I did not dare to call for assistance for fear of compromising her. When at last she opened her eyes again I saw that the most forbearing thing I could do would be to leave her without saying farewell.
"I found no sleep that night. I cursed the hour in which I had seen this woman, my childish defiance and my profligate obstinacy. In vain I endeavored to comfort myself with the thought that I had pretended no deep feeling toward her, that I had received no more from her than I had returned. The feeling of abhorrence, disgust, and self-contempt would not be reasoned away--and now to-day I am almost tempted to believe there was something mysterious about the whole affair: an indefinite horror of the guilt toward my dearest friend, with which I had laden my soul.
"The following day I staid at home and saw no one. Not because I was afraid of meeting her again; for it never entered my thoughts that she would take a step across her threshold, lest she should encounter my gaze. In this respect, however, I found myself deceived. She actually made her appearance on the beach, about noon, as beautiful and unembarrassed as ever; they had asked her about me, and she had replied that she had seen nothing of me since we landed the night before. Perhaps I had caught a cold on the excursion!
"'Une femme est un diable!'
"But on the third day, when, after pondering on this profound saying, I issued forth again, anxious to see whether she would maintain her calmness in my presence too, I heard that she had gone away by the first steamer that morning--no one knew whither.
"This was my last day on the island. About noon I received the sad message that called me home. With the evening boat I left the scene of this vile farce, the bitter memory of which did not fade from my thoughts for long years afterward.
"It is true the days of mourning that awaited me at home, and then soon afterward the only true passion of my life, helped me to consign what had happened to the dim realm of the past--until it rose up before me this evening in all the horror of the present, and I was made to see that the penance I supposed I had satisfied by my separation from Irene was now demanded of me for the first time; and that the happiness of my whole life was to be the price of a guilt which I thought I had long since outlived.
"For as to this open confession, which would be sufficient, if produced before any court, to give you back the freedom you so long for--I know you too well not to feel sure that you will never make use of it. Therefore, you too will continue in chains, and I--how I should despise myself if, with this hellish laughter of Nemesis ringing in my ears, I should appear again before the dear girl I had so recently recovered, and should offer myself as a fitting husband, while you and Julie were obliged, by my guilt, to remain separated, at least before the world! The fact that I have to suffer more than I sinned does not in the least change the question.
"It has always been the custom of Divine justice to make use of different scales and different weights and measures, in exacting its dues. The sin that one man is scarcely made to expiate by a disagreeable hour costs another his own happiness and the happiness of all those dear to him!
"And now I have said all that I had to say. I shall refer Irene, to whom I have merely sent a short note, to you, in case she should insist upon learning the true reason why I am forced to leave her anew--and this time forever--without looking on her face again. Perhaps if I did I should not have the courage--and then I should be all the more contemptible in your eyes.
"It won't be long now before morning. Then I will saddle my horse, ride back to town, pack my trunks, and take good care that this letter does not come into your hands until there is no longer any danger that your magnanimity or your pity will attempt to restrain a man who can only recover his self-respect in exile.
"Farewell!--I do not dare to call you by the old familiar name. But since, from what I know of you, you will not cease, in spite of all that has happened, to cherish a warm feeling toward me, let me say, in conclusion, that you must not think of me as a despairing man who is ready to throw away his ruined life too cheaply. The sweets of life are, indeed, behind me; but much that is useful still lies open for me to do, so that I may atone to all mankind for the old crime I committed against an individual. Perhaps I may some time find out why it is that fate should have chosen me, from all the rest, to be punished with double measure for my sins. Felix."
CHAPTER XV.
Julie had long ago finished reading the letter, and still she stood motionless at the window, while Jansen, his head sunk on his breast, sat on the sofa in a state between waking and sleeping.
It was not until the sheets slipped from her hand and fell at his feet that he started from his stupor. But he did not pick them up.
"What does he write?" He asked in a hollow voice.
"Just what you thought he would," she answered. "You will hardly find anything new in the letter, or at all events, anything that can alter things. So you had better read it at some calmer hour, after you have had a good sleep. In spite of all, I feel sure the letter will do you good. It would have been impossible to write of an unworthy subject in a more dignified way, and I, at least, have no worse opinion of our friend since I have heard his sad story. I believe everything will yet go well, and we needn't even lose our friend. He speaks, to be sure, of his self-imposed exile, and has also written a farewell letter to Irene, because he is of too chivalrous a nature to allow himself a happiness of which he thinks he has deprived us."
He raised his head and looked at her with a dazed, inquiring look in his eyes.
"I don't understand a word!" he said.
She bent over him, clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him on the forehead.
"It isn't at all necessary you should understand me, dear one. Only keep quiet and trust to your best friend. It is true, circumstances treat us ill! but a true love and a little common-sense--oughtn't they to come out triumphant over all the tricks of blind fortune? I am only a woman; but it goes against my pride to submit so tamely and helplessly, when life is at stake. For in our hearts, is not everything pure between us two? And shall we not belong to one another merely because all sorts of impurity and hostility work against us from without? No, my dearest, we will not submit to this. Because we live in an imperfect world, we will do our best to make it more perfect; at least on that plot of earth on which our cot may stand."
Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, but she smiled upon him so tenderly that, for the first time in a long while, a sense of warmth passed over the soul of this broken-hearted man.
"What do you mean, dear?" he asked, looking at her in surprise.
"Be still--not yet!" she whispered, as she brushed back his hair from his forehead and kissed his eyes. "But if you love me, as you say, and as I must believe you do or else I could not live, trust me and do just what I ask. In the first place ride home and take some breakfast, at which little Frances will keep you company. And then lie down and sleep as well and as soundly as you possibly can. But I must wake you up toward evening, for I shall expect to see you at my house punctually at seven o'clock. If you will be very obedient and do all this, you shall learn, as a reward, the plan I have formed to smooth over these wearing troubles, and to make four good people happy. Until then don't try to think what it can be, but rely upon your true love. Will you do this?"
She kissed him long and tenderly, while he stammered some confused words. Then she led him out of the room. He cast a timid look toward the door of his saint factory.
"My child," he said, "I am ashamed of myself. You saw me there! Is it possible you can love a madman?"
"I am not a bit afraid," she smiled. "That wild spirit will never, even in its darkest hour, shatter anything that is sacred to us both."
When she saw the drosky roll away, she breathed more freely, and went slowly into the house. She had given the friends, who waited impatiently for news, a hint to withdraw and not to come in his way. Kohle had gone with Rosenbusch into the latter's studio; Angelica sat before her easel without touching a brush. Now, when Julie entered, she rushed upon her in her violent way. "Well?" she cried. "But what is it? you have been crying!"
"Not for sorrow, dearest! Though there was room for that too. For much that is bitter lies behind us, and how much more beautiful it all might be! But the best is not lost--listen--I must tell you something."
She stooped over and whispered something in her ear. A loud cry of joy burst from the faithful soul. She blushed deeply from joyful surprise, and the next minute she had her arms round Julie's neck, almost suffocating her with kisses and caresses.
"Foolish girl," said Julie, escaping from her at last. "What is the matter? Didn't you always prophesy it would turn out this way in the end? Now do me the favor to be as sensible as it is possible for an artist to be. You must help me; without you--how would it be possible for us to be ready by this evening? I want to tell you at once how I have thought it all out!"
They remained together for another half hour engaged in a most earnest consultation, and then separated, after many tender embraces and assurances of eternal friendship. The two men in the next room had only heard through the wall the cry of joy, and then an unintelligible whispering and murmuring; their impatience had been cruelly racked. When, therefore, the door was heard to open, they too stepped out into the entry with an air of quiet reproach.
"Angelica will tell you all about it!" cried Julie, running quickly down the stairs. "And I depend upon your both giving me the pleasure of a call this evening. Don't be alarmed about Jansen. He is at home now, and well taken care of--"
With this she disappeared from their sight.
"Fräulein Minna Engelken," said Rosenbusch, "will your at length condescend to inform us what this tedious session, with closed doors has to portend?"
"Only as much as it will be proper and necessary for you to know, Herr von Rosebud!" replied the painter, who was so excited and preoccupied that she had put on her hat wrong side before, and had not succeeded much better with the rest of her street toilet. "The two gentlemen are invited to take a cup of tea with Fräulein Julie this evening, and are requested to convey this message to Herr von Schnetz, to Herr Elfinger, and to Papa Schoepf also. You are to appear punctually at a quarter before seven in full uniform, and with all your decorations. For particulars, see small bills. And now I must beg to be excused--I have such a host of commissions--and since the lords of creation cannot possibly be made use of for anything outside of the arts and sciences--I will say au revoir! until to-night, gentlemen!"
She made a coquettish courtesy, hustled the astonished visitors out of her studio without much ceremony, and flew, singing, down the stairs.
CHAPTER XVI.
Julie had pursued her way with far more hesitation as soon as she reached the street. She stood still more than once, as though she were considering whether she should go on. In regard to Felix's letter to Jansen--of whose contents Irene would have to be informed in order that she might understand the flight of her lover--if she should send it to her instead of delivering it herself, would not that be more considerate? Would it not spare the poor girl the shame of looking in the face a friend who knew of her lover's sins? And yet, on the other hand, would it not be a last comfort to her to know that even those who were most directly affected by it had not withdrawn their affection from the deeply-penitent man, but would gladly have done anything to convince him of the folly of his ideas in regard to his self-imposed penance?
She felt that she ought to tell her all this immediately, and by word of mouth, hard as it would be for her.
When she reached the hotel, the scenes of the preceding day rose up so vividly before her that, fearful of meeting Nelida, she hurried up the stairs without first making any inquiries at the office. Her anxiety was superfluous. The countess had over-exerted her lame foot the day before, and lay in bed in the greatest pain.
But, upon arriving up-stairs, the baron came forward to meet her with such a woe-begone face, that she was greatly frightened.
"Where is Irene?" she cried. "Sick?"
"I hope not," answered the old gentleman, grasping her hand, and evidently breathing more freely, as if a guardian angel had at length appeared to him. "At least, she was in such excellent health two hours ago that, in spite of the bad weather, she suddenly made up her mind to start off over the Brenner pass, accompanied only by her maid."
"She has gone? Then I come too late!"
"My dear Fräulein, you at all events come early enough to bring comfort and aid to an old man. You see before you one who has had unexampled ill-luck in his experience of paternal joys. My own daughter slams the door in my face, and my other, my adopted daughter, who ought at least to honor me as her educator and natural protector, runs away from me. It comes all in a heap, to turn my hair gray before its time!"
"But why did you let her go? Why did you permit her--"
"Permit her! As if she asked for my permission! Just think of it, it was she, on the contrary, who gave me permission to remain here a while longer, in order that I might arrange my affairs 'in peace,' as she expressed it, before following her--which, again, I am not to do until I receive her express permission! Alas! my dear Fräulein, have I remained a bachelor, and manfully withstood all the fascinations of your sex, merely to be put under the control of two grown daughters in my old age?"
"Do tell me what reason Irene gave you for this sudden decision?" Julie asked, after a pause.
"You are very good to suppose she would consider it worth while to give me reasons!" cried the old gentleman. "Well-educated children are accustomed to do whatever they feel like, and not to hand in a long account to their foolish papas. That that rascal, Felix, is at the bottom of it all--so much I have worked out by my talent for combination. Last night she went to bed in the best of spirits, and even condescended to give me a dutiful kiss, whose value I knew how to appreciate because of its rarity. Early this morning, while I was sitting here waiting for her to come to breakfast, a note arrived from her fiancé. I send it in to her, not suspecting anything out of the way, and a half hour passes before I discover what the trouble is. All at once the door opens, and my Fräulein niece appears in complete traveling-rig. 'Uncle,' she says--and her face is as pale and as set as a wax doll's--'I am going to start off for Innsbruck by the next train. I beg you not to ask the reason. You may be sure that I have considered the matter maturely' (maturely! Only think of it, dear Fräulein, a whole half hour!) 'and, as I know that you won't be able to tear yourself away from here so quickly, I sha'n't think of asking you to accompany me. It will be sufficient if Louisa goes with me. I shall make my first stop in Riva. From there I will write to you when you are to follow. I'--and at this point her voice grew a little unsteady--'I want to be alone for a while. You may say good-by for me to such of my acquaintances as you see fit. Be sure and remember me most particularly to Fräulein Julie. Adieu!' I was, as you can imagine, somewhat taken aback by this order of the day in true bulletin style. It was not until she turned away, and I saw that she was really in earnest in what she said, that I found enough breath to ask, 'But Felix! Does he know about this? And what shall I tell him when he comes and no longer finds his betrothed here?' 'He will not come,' she said. 'He--he is prevented. You will find out all about it later. Now I must hurry, unless I want to miss the train.' And with this, she was up and away! Oh, my dear Fräulein! I, too, can cry out with the old cabinet-maker in a blood-and-thunder piece they are playing here at the theatre: 'I no longer understand this world!' Tell me yourself, is there a kreutzer's worth of common-sense in this whole comedy? To say nothing of the capricious Fräulein, there is the lover, who, only yesterday, swore by all the stars in Heaven he was the happiest wretch who had ever been pardoned with the rope already round his neck--he comes to a different conclusion over night and 'is prevented!' Now, you associate with these artists, Fräulein Julie. Tell me, do they learn diabolical tricks of this kind in their so-called Paradise, and are they the result of their celebrated joviality? If so, then my Kabyles and Arabs are the most Philistine of Philistines compared with these gentlemen!"
Julie had listened, full of sympathy, to this long outpouring of the heart. Yet now she had to laugh.
"Dear Herr Baron," she said, "don't take the matter so to heart. I think I am justified in assuring you that all will be cleared up and come out right in the end. Whatever I can do to bring this about, I shall naturally do with all my heart, since my own peace and happiness depend upon knowing that the young couple are happy too. I hope soon to be able to talk the matter over with your niece in person. In case you should have any messages, I also start for the South to-morrow, and shall most certainly go by the way of Riva."
"You, too!" broke out the baron, springing up as if he had been struck by lightning. "Now the world is coming to an end! That was the only thing lacking. No, tell me you are only joking! What is it that drives you off as if you, too, had been stung by a scorpion? And, besides, you made me a promise in regard to my child--or, perhaps, she goes too, now that all Paradise is being loaded on a cart, and Bohemia retreats through the deepest snow to the land of sunshine?"
"You make me laugh, dear baron, although I am truly in no mood for laughter. I repeat, only have patience for a little while. I can't tell you about it to-day. I hope to be able to put your mind at rest about your daughter before I start. You will receive a few lines from me tomorrow, and at the same time a letter to Irene's fiancé, whose address I don't know--for, the truth is, he has gone away because of an affair in which his honor is at stake. Promise me, as a reward for what I am going to do as your mediator with Herr Schoepf, to see that this letter reaches Baron Felix's hands safely, at all costs. They must know something about his whereabouts on his estates, and, if the worst comes to the worst, we shall have to seek for him through the newspapers."
"Now I have it!" cried the baron, eagerly; "an affair of honor--a rencontre--and that is why the girl was so beside herself that she could not bear even my vicinity. Well, if that's the case, I don't feel troubled. The boy has a sure hand, and won't be such a fool as to let himself be shot dead now that he is engaged to be married. But only tell me--centre qui?--overnight in this way--and all the while with good comrades of his, and peaceable disciples of art to boot!"
Julie considered it her wisest course to make no other reply than a nod of the head to this conjecture, which evidently completely allayed the old gentleman's fears. He grew very jolly again, kissed her hand repeatedly, and only begged her at parting to do her best to help him fulfill his paternal duties.
"Tell the defiant little red-head," he cried after her, as she was going down-stairs, "that I haven't the slightest desire to force my tenderness upon her in person. We can get accustomed to one another by letter, and familiarize ourselves with the thought that we have found one another again. Life in Germany is too full of adventures for me. I am going back to my quiet desert; and to you, my beautiful friend, I will send the skin of the first lion I kill, as a reward for your endeavors to help a father to a daughter who doesn't want to have anything to do with him!"