CHAPTER VII.

In the mean while they had passed through the city, which was richly decked out with flags, wreaths and mottoes, while crowds of joyfully-excited people surged up and down the streets--and had arrived at the English garden.

"Where are you taking me to?" asked Felix. "There is no hospital within twenty miles of here, unless they have been turning the Chinese tower into one."

"Come along," answered Schnetz. "You'll soon get things straight. The queen-dowager selected the place herself, and no doubt many a poor fellow will make true the saying: 'hodie eris mecum in Paradiso.'"

"In the Paradise garden? In our Paradise? The boldest imagination among us all could never have dreamed of such a thing as our meeting there again under such different circumstances."

"Sic transit!--And besides, our friends are, fortunately, much too lively a pair of birds of paradise not to fly away again some fine day."

When they reached the garden gate, they saw that all the benches under the trees were empty, although in all the other beer-gardens they had passed the people sat packed close together. An inscription indicated the different use to which the house was now devoted, and the few grave-looking people who met them--among the rest women with eyes red from weeping, leading little children by the hand, and further back in the garden the pale, tottering figures of convalescents--formed a sharp contrast to the noisy, merry crowd that was generally to be found here on holidays. The two friends walked thoughtfully round to the other side of the house, and, being in uniform, had no difficulty in obtaining admittance.

They had made the rounds of many a hospital-ward within the last year, and had seen the after-effects of the war in much more horrible pictures than any that clean, quiet rooms could offer them.

And yet now, when they beheld once more the halls which they had left in the blaze of the carnival time, robbed of all their ornaments, and the sisters of charity moving softly up and down the long row of sick-beds, soothing a moan of pain here and mixing a cooling drink there; and the grotesque frescoes on the bare walls no longer concealed by tall plants; and outside the window the pure sunlight shimmering through the green treetops, instead of the midnight stars looking in upon a merry feast--such mingled feelings came over them that neither could utter a word.

They started to look for their friends. But strange faces only looked up at them from their beds of pain. Finally, a young doctor gave them the desired information.

The halls down below here were already full when the two gentlemen had been brought in. So they had willingly acceded to their request to have a room to themselves, and had quartered them in the top story. He offered to guide them up there himself; but this Schnetz gratefully declined, not wishing to take him away from his patients.

So they mounted to the corridor of the top story, and at the very first door which they came to they heard a voice from the room within that caused them to start. It was a soft, girlish voice reading something aloud--verses, as it seemed.

"It isn't likely they are in here," muttered Schnetz, "unless they have been seized with a pious fit, and have consented to let a sister of charity come in and edify them with her hymn-book. Well, there have been instances.--But no, this hymn-book has never seen the inside of a church, at all events."

They listened, and distinctly heard the lines.

"'Holy Maid of Orleans, pray for us!'" cried Schnetz. "I must be greatly mistaken in my man, if Elfinger isn't found somewhere near when Schiller is being spouted."

Without stopping to knock, he softly opened the door, and entered with Felix.

It was a high but not a very large room, whose only window opened on the rear of the garden. Only a single ray of the afternoon sunshine streamed through the gray blind and fell upon one of the beds that stood near the wall on the right; while the other cot, opposite it, was surrounded by a high Spanish screen, and was pushed back so as to be entirely in the shade.

On the bed to the right lay Rosenbusch, covered over with a thin blanket, the upper part of his body propped up into a half-sitting posture by pillows, holding a sketchbook on his knees and busily engaged in drawing.

Except that his face was somewhat paler, he showed no traces of the hardships he had suffered; but on the contrary, his bright eyes beamed from under a red fez as merrily, and he looked as fresh as he lay there in his loose jacket, with his carefully-tended beard, as though he had made his toilet for the express purpose of receiving visits.

"I could have told you so!" he cried to his friends, as they entered (the reader who sat behind the screen was silent in an instant)--"the first visit of the saviours of the fatherland, on this day of triumph, is to the invalid's paradise. God greet you, noble souls! You find us here as well provided for as if we were in the lap of Abraham; art, poetry, and love, make our life beautiful, and the fare is ample; though, unfortunately, we are on invalids' diet. No, you mustn't look at what I am scribbling. Or rather, for all I care, you may look at the thing as much as you like. A Rosenbusch, seconda maniera, or terza rather, if I count in my classical period, my parting of Hector and Iphigenia à la David. Now, as you see, we are splashing about in realism of the most modern sort--Father Wouverman will turn in his grave, but I can't help that. And, after all, this pack of Turcos and Zouaves are by no means to be despised. Magnificent contrasts of color, set off by the vineyard scenery, and our own blue devils over there--like a thunder-cloud. By Jove! it won't look bad, will it? Do you know what the secret of modern battle-painting is, the clew to the riddle, to find which I had first to have a hole shot in my thigh? The episode, my dear fellow, nothing but the episode. Grouping in masses, tricks of tactics--nonsense, a map would do just as well for that purpose. But to condense in an episode the prevailing character of a whole battle--that is the point. Those old fellows had an easy time of it, for in those days a great, murderous battle was nothing but a handful of episodes. Well, every man must accommodate himself to the length of his blanket."

"Tours is long enough to keep you warm, old comrade-in-arms," replied Schnetz, examining the ingenious sketch with great pleasure. "But how goes it with your bodily progress?"

"Thanks. Fairly. In six or eight weeks I hope to prove myself quite a lively dancer at my own wedding. I only wish," he added, in a lower voice, with a slight movement of the head toward the other bed--"that our friend over opposite had such bright prospects--"

"Herr von Schnetz!" they now heard Elfinger's sonorous voice say from behind the screen--"You seem to have completely forgotten that there are other people living on the other side of the mountain. Whom have you brought with you? To judge from the step it is our brave baron. Won't the gentlemen be so kind as to do a poor blind man the honor? You will find some one else here who will be very glad to welcome my old friends again."

At the first sound of these cheerful words, which moved him painfully, Schnetz had stepped behind the screen and seized the hands the sick man gropingly held out to him. Felix, too, approached. Elfinger could not raise his head from the pillow on account of the ice compress that was laid across both eyes, but the pale, finely-formed face beneath it lit up with such a joyful smile, that the two friends were so moved they could hardly stammer out the necessary words of greeting.

A slim young figure had risen from the chair at the head of the bed to make room for the gentlemen. She still held in her hand the book from which she had been reading, and her delicate face blushed when Schnetz turned and cordially pressed her hand.

"I need not introduce you to one another," said Elfinger. "Baron Felix, too, will probably recollect my little Fanny, from having met her at that memorable boating party. In those days we two were not so well acquainted with one another as we are now, for, as you know, 'it must be dark for Friedland's stars to shine.' I still had one eye too many. It is only since I have been left quite in the darkness that she has clearly seen that her heavenly bridegroom would not be angry with her for being unfaithful to him in order to light a poor blind cripple through life. Isn't it so, sweetheart?"

"Don't boast in such a godless way," they heard Rosenbusch call out, "as if it were on your account, pour tes beaux yeux, as messieurs our hereditary enemies say, that she became converted and joined our society. Nonsense! Fräulein Fanny, it is simply because you have to do penance for your faithless sister, and redeem the honor of the Munich women."

"Be quiet over there, most fickle of mortals," cried Elfinger; "or I'll complain of you to Angelica. You must know they take turns in nursing us, these two good angels; and although that frivolous man opposite ought to thank God that such an excellent woman has finally received him into grace, he is perpetually making love to my sweetheart over the screen. Fortunately, I have, once and for all, said good-by to jealousy, which would certainly be ridiculous enough in a blind man--"

"I hope you exaggerate, Elfinger," interrupted Felix; "when we took leave of one another in Versailles the doctor gave us great reason to hope--"

"The way was a trifle long, and the snow-storm that welcomed us home to our fatherland--pshaw! If it is so, and I only have enough twilight left for me to recognize the outlines of a certain face when it is close to mine, I will be happy. But even if this is no longer possible, ought I not to count my lot fortunate? 'I had it once--I tell you I can recall all the faces I loved as distinctly as if I had a pair of perfect eyes in my head--" he felt for the hand of the blushing girl and pressed it to his lips. "And now," he said, "enough about my respected self. Since we last saw one another the most wonderful events have come to pass. The German empire and the German emperor! Good God, we praise Thee! Do you know, since all this happened I have begun to have some hope for the German stage again?"

"At all events, your colleagues have learned how to play the rôle of heroes respectably well, without opening their mouths wide, rolling their eyes, and sawing the air with their arms and legs."

"No, but seriously, do you remember our first conversation on this subject, my dear baron? Now just see whether I haven't cause for hope. Our want of unity was chiefly to blame for the wretched state of our stage. Imagine thirty-six court-theatres fighting with one another for the few actors who really have talent. Now, my idea is that, when they have become a little sick of military spectacles up there in the imperial capital, they will arrive at the conclusion that a great nation also needs a national theatre; not one in name, but one which shall really unite all the best talents. A model manager, a model repertoire, and model performances, not given oftener than, at the most, two days running; and not with one eye on Melpomene and Thalia, and the other on the cash-box, so that a miserable clap-trap piece will be allowed to remain on the desecrated boards thirty consecutive nights, merely because a few actresses change their dresses seven times in the course of the performance. Only the very choicest pieces must be selected, from the classical and modern stock, and the parts must be filled only by the strongest actors. All real talent must be engaged at any price, though there should be three Franz Moors and Ophelias playing against one another at the same time; and the whole must be emancipated from all court influence, and regarded as an imperial affair under the charge of the Minister of Culture, who should be responsible to the nation. What do you say to such a stage?"

"That it will continue to be too fine for this world for some time to come," answered Schnetz. "But who knows? Even this world can improve; we have seen how it has done in other fields. I only fear that, even under the most favorable circumstances, the other Germans will respectfully decline to give money, in majorem imperii gloriam, for a theatre of which the Berliners alone will reap the benefit."

"Naturally," cried Elfinger, gesticulating excitedly; "and they would have a perfect right to do so. For that very reason my plan is to make this model stage accessible to all the empire. What else do we have railroads for, and the gala-performances that have been attempted here and there? All that is necessary is that it should be made a regular institution. Six winter months in Berlin, a month's vacation, four months' of triumphal progress of the imperial actors through all the cities of Germany in which a worthy temple of the muses can be found, then another month of rest, and so on with grace in infinitum. Don't say a word against it! The thing has its difficulties, but, when we shall have gotten our theatrical Bismarck, you will see how well it will work, and then everybody will wonder why it was not thought of long before. Isn't it natural that the talent for impersonation should also grow richer among a people who have finally won self-respect, who have learned how to walk, and to stand, and to talk as well as the rest of the world? I--of course, I have retired from the scene. But, nevertheless, I can work for it. I will give instruction in declamation; I will open the minds of the young actors; I will show them how to recite verses and bring style into their prose--you know rhapsodists always have been blind from time immemorial--and with the aid of my little wife here, and of my tremendous memory--"

At this moment the young doctor came in. He had heard Elfinger's earnest speech outside in the corridor, and came to warn him not to over-excite himself. His friends took leave at once.

"I hope you won't leave Munich without having seen Angelica again," said Rosenbusch. Felix, though he would greatly have preferred not to look up any one else, had to promise that he would call on her. He did not notice the peculiarly sly look which the painter bestowed upon Schnetz. Still, although he believed he should not see these two good friends again, he left them with a comforted feeling. He knew that each, after his own fashion, had attained the goal of all his wishes.

CHAPTER VIII.

Outside, they were swallowed up again in the roaring and surging human stream, and borne toward the city. The old countess drove past them in a very elegant open carriage, her daughter by her side, and her son and son-in-law on the back seat, both in uniform and decorated with medals of honor. The happy old woman, who was taking the fresh glories of her family out for a ride, and gazing around her with proud eyes, recognized Schnetz immediately, and nodded to him with amiable familiarity. She looked at his companion through her eye-glass, but did not appear to know him.

"Brave youngsters," muttered Schnetz. "Whatever else you may say of them, they certainly fought well. But now let's take a drosky. Of course, our young husband lives outside there where the last houses are."

As they drew up before Rossel's quarters--a plain little house in the Schwanthalerstrasse--they caught sight of a woman's head at the flower-framed window above; but it was instantly drawn in again.

"Madame is at home," said Schnetz, with a smile. "Of course, she has been expecting your visit, and has probably arrayed herself in great style. Hold on tight to your heart, triumphator!"

Upon arriving up-stairs, they were not received by the lady of the house herself, as he had expected, but by a servant-girl, who conducted them into the studio. In comparison with the luxuriously-furnished room in which their friend used to recline on his picturesque bear-skin in his own house, this one was very scantily decorated. There were no costly Gobelin tapestries, beautiful bronze vases, and brilliantly-polished pieces of furniture in the style of the Renaissance. But on some of the easels stood pictures in various stages of completion, and the artist himself advanced to meet them, in his shirt-sleeves and with his palette on his arm.

"So here you are again!" he cried. "Now thanks be to all the gods that you have come back with sound limbs and unscratched faces! You have a fine piece of work behind you. Nor have we stay-at-homes been lazy in the mean while; and though not fighting for emperor and empire, we can at least say of ourselves that we have been working pour le roi de Prusse. But it makes no odds, let us hope for better times; in the mean while I am trying to drive away the blues with this daubing. For Heaven's sake, don't look at the things; they are wretched efforts, merely made in order to try my brush again. For that matter, you mustn't look about you here at all--quantum mutatus ab illo! Of all my household goods, I have retained nothing but my Boecklin; a thing of that sort is like a tuning-fork when one has lost the key-note. Neither must you inspect me too closely. I am reduced, my dear fellows, very much reduced. You see I have shrunken to unnatural proportions; what has become of my rounded form? But, what could be expected when a man gets to work by eight o'clock every day, and so violates his holiest principles? But wait, I will go and call my wife. She is the thing best worth seeing in the whole house."

He made his friends sit down on a small leather sofa that bore little resemblance to the celebrated "West-easterly" divan of former days, and ran out calling for his wife. In the mean while, they had time to look around. So much that was excellent met their view on all the canvases--such clearness, and simplicity in form and color--that they were moved to sincere enthusiasm, and eagerly expressed their delight to one another.

"You are too good," Rossel's voice rang out behind them. "It is possibly true that, in the course of time, I have become a passably good colorist. It isn't for nothing that a man refrains from his own sins for ten years, and has no other thoughts than to get at the secrets of the great. But so long as no one cares a rap about it, it remains a barren, private delight, and finally withers like a plant in a cellar. Who cares, nowadays, whether human flesh like this looks fresh, or as if it had been tanned? The subject, the idea, and now, to cap the climax, the patriotic sentiment--no offense, my heroes! Even in that way we can drag ourselves out of the slough; of course, upon condition that we give that nixie there a petticoat, and provide that fisher-boy with a pair of swimming-trousers at the very least."

"Amid all these profound remarks we have wandered from the main point again," said Schnetz. "Where is your wife?"

"She asks to be excused--says she is engaged--and won't show herself at any price. I told her to her face it was only on account of the Herr Baron. 'Of course,' she answered, 'I wouldn't mind the first-lieutenant at all.' Oh, my dear friends, if I only were not so hen-pecked! But I can assure you, much as I have always raved about women without brains, I now see clearly that they are the very ones who know how to succeed in having their own way. However, in the present case, it has turned out to my advantage. For no matter how free from prejudices one may be, he can't help making a wry face when he sees his wife blush slightly in saying good-day to her first and only love. Won't you come and dine with me to-morrow? Little, but cordially offered--un piatto di maccheroni, una brava bistecca, un fiasco di vino sincero. I think the lady of the house will make her appearance too--"

Felix excused himself by saying that he was to leave on the following day. Old Schoepf now entered, looking a little more dried up than of yore, and with his dark face almost completely covered by his snow-white hair and beard. He was in the best of spirits, and inquired eagerly about the campaign experiences of his friends. When the conversation turned upon Kohle, the old man declared that they must certainly go out and visit him at the villa, to see the frescoes he had already finished. He had only allowed himself a half-holiday, and had hurried back again as soon as the entrance of the troops was over, to add the last touches to the paneling. When Felix had to decline this invitation likewise, the old gentleman bestowed a look of questioning surprise upon his grandson-in-law; but he refrained from pressing the young man any further, who acted as though the ground of Munich burned under his feet.

Felix was obliged to tell his friends about the position that awaited him in Metz. On more than one occasion he had attracted attention at headquarters, and his judgment and energy, the fact that he was acquainted with the French language, and, perhaps, the wish to have some one who was not a Prussian connected with the administration of the conquered province, had united in causing him to be made aide to the new governor of the frontier fortress. To carry out properly a task which combined such difficult and untried elements, fresh minds were required--such as had not merely acquired experience under existing well-regulated forms of government, but such as had been schooled in real life, and, fitted with the necessary mental quickness, were also equipped for unforeseen contingencies.

The grave face of our young Baron lighted up a little as he spoke of the life of activity before him. But an expression of settled resignation could be detected in every word he spoke. The others, however, apparently paid no attention to this; and, as he went down-stairs, Rossel shouted "Au revoir!" after him, just as in the old times when they were certain of meeting again within a few days.

As they stepped into the street, Felix heard his name called from one of the windows above. He saw young Frau Rossel standing among the evergreens, cheerfully nodding and waving her hand to him. Her delicate coloring looked even brighter than in the old days; and a little morning-cap, which she had coquettishly placed a little on one side on her golden-red locks, gave her round face a most charming appearance of housewifely dignity.

"You are not to suppose I don't care anything more about my old friends!" she shouted down to them. "At the entrance of the troops I threw a whole lot of flowers at you; and you, proud sir, didn't deign to look up once. Well, this time, at all events, you have turned to look at me. Your uniform doesn't become you half as well as citizen's dress. You don't look so distinguished in it. As for me, I couldn't think of letting you see me. But in six or eight weeks from now--you must come to the christening--do you hear? My husband will write to you about it. And, now, good-by, and good luck to you. I'm sure I wish it you with all my heart. You have certainly worked hard enough to deserve it."

With this the laughing face disappeared from the window, without leaving the men time to say a word in reply.

CHAPTER IX.

"And now to Angelical," said Schnetz. "You haven't far to go, and she is certain to be at home."

Felix stood still.

"Let me off from this visit," he said, his face suddenly darkening. "Help me think of some excuse, so that I shan't offend the good girl. You know how much I esteem her; but she is the only person who, I have reason to believe, knows all. The others may have been satisfied with that fiction about the duel; but she, Julie's best friend--"

"No matter what she knows or doesn't know--nonsense! You can be as brief as you want. Come, give me your hand on it. Good! And there's her house there. I will say adieu to you here; I have some business to attend to; and I will call for you this evening at the hotel, and we'll go and see the illumination together."

"They are all so kind!" cried Felix, when he was alone; "they all want to help me to bear what is bitter and irremediable. But it is high time for me to try a change of air. Here--where they are all going to lead such happy and comfortable lives, and where every one breathes more freely and more healthily now that the storm of war has swept away the old mists and fogs--for me alone to go about with such a face among these good, contented people--no! I must go away from here, and the sooner the better. If I leave this evening, travel all night--to-morrow I can be deep in my work. I will beg Angelica to excuse me to Schnetz. She will be the first to understand that I am in no mood for illuminations."

He had no sooner formed this resolution than he drew a long breath, and hastened his steps toward the house which Schnetz had pointed out to him. The gloaming had already come, and the first candles of the illumination were glowing in a few of the windows; but those at Angelica's house were dark. Up-stairs the door was opened for him by the old landlady, of whom Angelica hired her lodgings. The Fräulein was at home, she said, pointing to the nearest door. He knocked with a beating heart, of which he felt fairly ashamed. A woman's voice called out "Come in." As he entered the dusky room, a slender figure rose from the sofa, on which it had had been idly sitting as if waiting for him. "Is it permitted me to come so late, my dear friend?" he said, advancing hesitatingly. The figure tottered forward to meet him, and now for the first time he recognized the features of the face--"Irene! Good God!" he cried, and involuntarily stood still; but the next moment he felt two arms encircling him, and burning lips pressed to his own, stifling every word and plunging his senses into a whirl of delirious joy. It was as if she wanted never to let him recover his speech again; as if she feared he might vanish from her arms forever, the moment she let him go. Even when she finally removed her lips from his and drew him, bewildered and trembling, upon the sofa at her side, she went on talking alone, as if any word that he might throw in would destroy the spell that had at last led the loved one to her side again. He had never seen her thus before; the last bar had fallen from her virgin heart; and a yielding woman, laughing and weeping in the sweetness of passion, lay upon his breast, with her arms around his neck.

Not a word was said about that which had kept him from her so long. It was as if the war had called him from her side, and now at last he had returned and all would be well again, and far more beautiful than it could ever have been without his youthful heroism and his honorable scars. He had to listen to many tender complaints and reproaches for not having given her any news about himself in all this time. But the moment he tried to say a word in his own defense, she closed his lips with impassioned kisses.

"Be still!" she cried. "It is true you are a great sinner, my darling hero, but I--what wouldn't I forgive you on this day, this glorious day of festival and joy! And, you see, it did not help you any after all. You imagined you were safe from me, and thought you could march in here with the rest without any one's being the wiser, while I sat and sulked in my old-maid's cell on the Lung' Arno. But this is the time of miracles! I cast aside my pride of birth, and all the good training I owe to myself, as if they had been old rags, and went to uncle and said to him: 'If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain. That wicked Felix would like to be rid of me; but it takes two to do that. Come, uncle, let us go to Munich. I must see my lover ride in through the gate of victory, Schnetz writes that he looks nobly in his uniform, and I can't help it even if the old countess doesn't think it proper for me to run after this faithless man. He ran after me long enough, and we ought to exchange rôles for once.' And so here I am, and have been sitting here on the very same spot for three hours, waiting for a certain youthful hero, and scolding terribly at Schnetz, who had promised me that he would entice him into this love-trap just as soon as he possibly could. And now it has actually sprung upon you, and you sha'n't be let out again as long as you live."

The lights in the streets outside had long been blazing in full brilliancy, and under the windows a joyous crowd of happy people streamed past toward the centre of the city, where the illumination was said to be the finest. But the two happy lovers had forgotten all else in the bliss, so long deferred, of gazing into one another's eyes and seeing the flame of inextinguishable love and devotion glowing there. She asked after the companions who had been with him through the war, and he after the friends she had left behind in Florence. But neither paid much attention to what the other answered; all they cared for was to hear each other speak, and to assure themselves by the sound of their voices that they were once more united.

An hour may have passed in this way, when some one knocked softly. The knock was repeated three times before they heard it, and Irene ran to open the door. Angelica came flying in, the two girls fell on one another's necks, and good Angelica's voice was so stifled by suppressed tears that it was a long time before she could speak.

"Of course I have come too soon," she said at last; "but when wouldn't it have been too soon? A thousand congratulations, my dear Felix--pardon me, the Herr Baron doesn't come glibly to me to-day--and now, make haste, so as to see a little of the illumination--it is magnificent--we have just come from it, and Irene certainly didn't travel five hundred miles just to sit here in the dark while all Munich swims in a sea of light. Besides, she saw very little of the review this morning, for she only had eyes for a single defender of the Fatherland. You will have seen all you want to in half an hour, and then I invite the ladies and gentlemen to assemble once more under my humble roof and partake of a modest cup of tea. Schnetz will also appear, and your uncle, the baron, has solemnly pledged me his word not to let himself be dragged into any champagne-supper to-day. It's a pity Rosenbusch isn't well enough yet! The poor fellow has only a lame leg, and an elderly girl as a wife, as a reward for all his bravery. But don't you think he bears his lot with incredible fortitude?"

The lights of the festival had long been extinguished, and the last joyous echo of this happy day had died out, when Felix entered the little room, which was the only one still to be had in the whole great hotel. Even now he could not think of such a thing as sleep. He sat down on the bed and drew from his pocket a letter which Irene had given him when he parted from her before her hotel, and gazed--with what overmastering emotion!--upon the handwriting of the friend whom he had believed to be lost to him forever, and whom this day restored to him again, to add to all its other unexpected blessings. He read the following lines:

"Let this letter bear you our congratulations, dear old friend. When it comes into your hands the last shadow will have been lifted from your life. You will hear enough about us from the lips of your beloved, to satisfy you of our happiness. But, possibly, there may be one subject concerning which she may feel a delicacy about speaking; our happiness is now secure from all external interruption. A few weeks ago a legal divorce was effected, and our union, which certainly stood in no need of a certificate to cement it closer, has now, for the children's sake, received the sanction of the law. The unhappy woman herself lent a hand in bringing this about. She is in Athens, where a rich Englishman has been paying his court to her. The last spark of ill-will toward her has been extinguished in me. I can think of her as of one dead. May she find peace in the sphere she has voluntarily chosen--as far as such a being ever can find or bear peace.

"And now let us at least hear from you again, my dear old boy. All we have heard about you has rejoiced our hearts. You are about to enter upon a new phase of life, and to put in order that part of the world which has been assigned to you. I wish you all success. After all, it is your proper calling; and if the wise saying of our friend Rossel is correct, that real happiness is merely that condition in which we are most keenly conscious of our individuality, you certainly must be esteemed happy, and will make happy the noble heart that has surrendered to you. Dear old fellow, what a splendid prize each of us has drawn! That we had to work hard to deserve it, is all the better. All that is not deserved humiliates. And we still have an excess of happiness given us by the gods, whom we ought not to be too proud to thank.

"But here I am talking about our own fates, and passing by, without a single word, the great and mighty event in the world's history which has just been concluded. Though, to be sure, there are no words capable of expressing its greatness and importance. In the consciousness of this dumb amazement the feeling can scarcely be avoided that the Muses, who are usually silent mid the clash of arms, will not recover their voices very soon. You men of action have the lead for some time to come; for the revolution that has taken place in the public mind, and the movement which has extended to all conditions of life and of civil society, is far more wonderful, far more pregnant with consequences than you, who took an active part in it, can appreciate in the first pause after your final blows. We who are lookers-on are in a position to get a more comprehensive view, for we can also see how the recoil, of whose force you can have no conception, acts upon our neighbors.

"The truth is, this is a period of reconstruction of all political and social conditions; whatever is essential asserts itself, and whatever is real clamors everywhere for the place that belongs to it by nature. Consequently, those who are called upon to rearrange our new life have the first and last word; while those who, like us artists, have to do with dreams, stand aloof and thank fortune if their names are still mentioned now and then. You know that, with all due respect for politics, I cannot regard them as belonging to the highest problems of the human mind. The possible and the useful, the expedient and the necessary are, and must ever be, relative aims; it should be the task of the statesman to make himself less and less necessary, to educate the public sense of justice so that the greatest possible number of free individuals can live in harmony with one another; and each, alone or in conjunction with some fellow-workman, can occupy himself with the eternal problems. Shall we live to see the time when the arts which have heretofore flourished like wild flowers upon ruins, shall adorn the symmetrical, inhabited, and solid walls of the new structure of the state with their foliage of undying green? Who can say? Mankind lives quickly in these days. In the mean while let each one do his best.

"Farewell, and make up your mind to live, and to let your fellow-men know that you live. I wish you could all--dear, good, and faithful friends--wrap yourselves in the mantle of Faust and be set down among us at this very moment. I am writing this letter in a villa on the slope of the splendid hill that bears upon its summit old Fiesole. Julie is walking up and down the garden carrying our Bimba in her arms, while little Frances walks by her side, busily studying her lesson. How beautiful the world is all around me! And with what still, pure, silent joy do I think of you, dear friends! Come and give us a sight of your happiness, and rejoice with us in ours!

"And then we will make the old 'Paradise' to live again under another heaven and on a new soil."

THE END.

REMORSE.

From the French of TH. BENTZON.

(Forming Number 13 of the "Collection of Foreign Authors.")

16mo. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

From Lippincott's Magazine.

"'Remorse,' which appeared recently in the Revue des Deux Mondes, is a novel of great power. The author, who writes under the name of 'Th. Bentzon,' is Madame Blanc, a woman of great intelligence and the highest character."

From the New York Sun.

"The story entitled 'Remorse' attracted much attention from the grace and vivacity of its style, and from the singular vigor evinced in the portrait of a literary personage whose successive love-affairs were turned to the account of his poetry and novel-writing. The essential shallowness and meanness of such a nature are strikingly contrasted with the earnest and genuine character of the heroine, and the elements of a tragical situation are evolved with much ingenuity out of this antithesis. There is in these figures a certain crispness and vividness, as if the author had studied their counterparts In real life."

From the New York Graphic.

"Told with such grace and delicacy as to render it intensely interesting. It belongs to the best class of modern French fiction, which embraces the finest representatives of literary taste and skill."

From the New York Evening Post.

"Th. Bentzon is a novelist of no mean gifts, even in the art of apt narration, while her handling of strong passion is at times very fine. 'Remorse' is a tale of considerable power."

From the Boston Courier.

"'Remorse' is a book of positive grasp, and penetrates the senses with a keen, steady point, like that of a rapier."

From the Boston Gazette.

"'Remorse' has strong dramatic power in its plot, which is treated in a manner that makes it interesting. It is a story of self-sacrifice spiritedly told, and showing both thought and care in its delineation of character. Some of the more passionate scenes are full of intensity, and the interest is fully sustained to the end."

From the Utica Morning Observer.

"It is sparkling and brilliant, full of that nameless element which makes the society novels of the French so attractive and so sensational."

From the Washington National Republican.

"This is a highly interesting tale. It is well written; its characters are delineated with an artistic touch; its theme is well developed, and its incidents are of startling interest."

D. APPLETON & CO., 549 & 551 Broadway, New York.

AMERICAN PAINTERS:

Biographical Sketches of Fifty American Artists.

WITH EIGHTY-THREE EXAMPLES OF THEIR WORKS,

Engraved on Wood in a perfect manner.

Quarto; cloth, extra gilt   Price, $7.00: full morocco, $13.00.

The painters represented in this work are as follows:

The publishers feel justified in saying that the contemporaneous art of no country has ever been so adequately represented in a single volume as our American Painters are in this work, while the engravings are equal in execution to the finest examples of wood-engraving produced here or abroad.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

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"The volume gives good evidence of the progress of American art. It shows that we have deft hands and imaginative brains among painters of the country, and it shows, moreover, that we have publishers who are liberal and cultured enough to present their works in a handsome and luxurious form that will make them acceptable. 'American Painters' will adorn the table of many a drawing-room where art is loved, and where it is made still dearer from the fact that it is native."--New York Express.

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"One of the most delightful volumes issued from the press of this country."--New York Daily Graphic.

"Outside and inside it is a thing of beauty. The text is in large, clear type, the paper is of the finest, the margins broad, and the illustrations printed with artistic care. The volume contains brief sketches of fifty prominent American artists, with examples from their works. Some idea of the time and labor expended in bringing out the work may be gathered from the fact that to bring it before the public in its present form cost the publishers over $12,000."--Boston Evening Transcript.

"This book is a notable one, and among the many fine art books it will rank as one of the choicest, and one of the most elegant, considered as an ornament or parlor decoration. The engravings are in the highest style known to art. Mr. Sheldon has accompanied the illustrations with a series of very entertaining biographical sketches. As far as possible, he has made the artists their own interpreters, giving their own commentaries upon art and upon their purposes in its practice instead of his own."--Boston Post.

"'American Painters' consists of biographical sketches of fifty leading American artists, with eighty-three examples of their works, engraved on wood with consummate skill, delicacy of touch, and appreciation of distinctive manner. It is a gallery of contemporary American art."--Philadelphia Press.

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D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 549 & 551 Broadway, New York.