As most people in sorrow and affliction turn to prayer Albert turned to
love. He could be without friends, he could endure mental anguish, but
he could not bear life without love.
Of late many things had troubled him. His father was making preparations
to leave Gunsdorf and his mother’s letters lacked the usual ring of
cheer. His sister, too, seemed weary of the life in her native town and
frankly hinted that she would welcome a change. He had gradually become
estranged from Uncle Leopold’s house and from the class of people that
visited there and shunned all other associations, save the dilettantes
in the Swiss Pavilions who sat all day drinking beer and talking
grandiloquently of art and literature. But before long he tired of
these, too. He fathomed their depth. He was lonely and craved affection,
and his thoughts turned to Eugenie. He had not seen her for some time,
as her father had moved to a farm about five miles from Hamburg, and her
visits at Frau Rodbertus’ were rare. He now yearned for Eugenie and
reproached himself for his neglect of her in the past. He knew Eugenie
had loved him and wondered if she still loved him.
One summer day he took a stroll on the road between Winterlude and
Ohlsdorf. He was going to find her and yet sauntered along the road as
if he were just walking aimlessly for the sheer pleasure of movement. It
was a warm day and the road was white with dust. A dog barked. Albert
turned around and saw a large dog harnessed to a small cart, barking as
he pulled his load. Alongside the cart, on which stood a large empty
milk can, was a girl, with a kerchief overhead arranged in the shape of
a hood. The girl turned around when the dog began to bark, glanced in
Albert’s direction, and proceeded on her way. The next moment she turned
in his direction again and he saw a pair of large brown eyes under the
hood-like kerchief. His heart fluttered, noisy crickets chattered in a
nearby field. A bird called from a clump of bushes not far off. The
muffled beats of flails came from a barn close to the roadside. The girl
did not turn her head but plodded on alongside the little cart. Soon the
road forked off to the left and the girl turned her head again toward
him.
“Eugenie,” he called.
The dog emitted a loud, hollow bark and the empty can rattled against
the sides of the little cart.
The girl hesitated, paused, and turned around, the dog hurrying ahead of
her toward the farmhouse.
“Eugenie!”
Albert’s voice was jubilant, ringing with surprise, as if the meeting
was wholly accidental.
With a quick movement of her left hand she jerked off the handkerchief,
facing him with dilated eyes in which was a strange light.
She did not extend her hand to him.
“Frau Rodbertus had told me you were on a farm,” he broke the silence,
intimating that it was not chance that had brought him here.
A softer light stole over her face, her protruding lip curled upward,
disclosing her longish white teeth.
“I haven’t seen Frau Rodbertus in months,” Eugenie said, standing before
him with her arms hanging on either side of her, the kerchief in her
left hand.
Albert studied her a moment. The freedom of bygone days was gone. He
felt constraint and sensed her constraint.
The dog had reached the gate of the farmhouse and stopped, barking, his
head turned in the direction of Eugenie.
“You see, he is scolding me for lagging behind,” she said, indulging in
a spontaneous smile.
“He is scolding you for your failure to offer hospitality to the weary
wayfarer,” Albert answered in kind.
They both laughed.
“All wayfarers, weary or otherwise, are welcome at our house,” she said,
turning into the passage that led to the farmhouse.
When they reached the house, Eugenie’s father, with rake in hand, was
cleaning up the rubbish in front of the house. He was a little man, with
a round face, a small tuft of hair under his lower lip, and a soft look
in his round eyes such as only Frenchmen possess. He halted and glanced
up suspiciously at the young man who followed his daughter into the
yard. M. Chauraux was suspicious of all Germans, in spite of his sojourn
there for many years.
Eugenic introduced Albert to her father, who acknowledged the
introduction grudgingly. He showed only such cordiality as his native
manners and politeness compelled, mumbling a few words in broken German.
“The gentleman speaks French, papa,” Eugenie struck in cheerfully, “and
he loves the Emperor as much as you do.”
The Frenchman’s eyes turned with a bright flicker and, forgetting that
he had just shaken hands with the stranger, clasped his hand once more.
Then a mist appeared in the little man’s eyes and he sighed, muttering
under his breath, “The Emperor!”
“No one loves the Emperor more than I do,” returned Albert.
“Have you ever seen him?” There was ecstasy on the Frenchman’s face.
“I see him now—I see him all the time—” cried Albert with boyish
rapture. “I see him seated on a small white horse, holding the reins in
one hand and gently stroking the horse’s neck with the other, riding
slowly along the linden-flanked lane of the Hofgarten in my native
town—Ah, the Emperor!” Mist also appeared in Albert’s eyes.
Saddened silence. Two speechless individuals with drooping heads. The
Emperor was a captive on a barren island far removed from his
worshippers.
Eugenie did not think of the Emperor. She was too happy to think of
anything save of the cordiality between her father and Albert. Her
father was very strict and never permitted her to form any friendship
with young men. When the “time” would come he would find the proper
“parti” for her, was his way of thinking. And he guarded jealously the
most trivial flirtation on her part. He knew nothing of what had passed
between his daughter and this young man beyond the fact that he was a
lodger whom his daughter had once met at his relative’s home and that he
happened to meet Eugenie on a chance stroll in this vicinity.
It was about two o’clock and Albert was invited to have a meal with
them. There were very few words exchanged between Albert and Eugenie.
All the talk was between her father and Albert—about the Emperor.
M. Chauraux did not mind his daughter’s accompanying the young man for a
little distance. They had had a bottle of Burgundy between them and the
young man admired the Emperor. The Frenchman had become quite loquacious
and invited Albert to come again—any time whenever he could spare an
hour from his business. Who could tell? The young man talked so well,
seemed so prosperous, and loved the Emperor so much!—Who could tell? He
might be a proper _parti_.
M. Chauraux’s regard for Albert increased when, several days later, the
young man read to him a poem about Napoleon. The Frenchman did not quite
grasp the verses in German but when Albert gave him the substance of it
in French and then read the original to him, with unshed tears in his
eyes, he even understood the German.
The young poet declaimed his verses with passionate abandon, music in
his voice, tears in his eyes. The eyes of M. Chauraux, too, were
clouded, the tuft of hair under his lower lip quivered, and he shook his
head and sighed and murmured “_Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!_”
M. Chauraux wiped a tear away. Who could tell? This young man, though
not French, certainly loved the Emperor, and was evidently not averse to
Eugenie—yes, he might be a proper _parti_ for Eugenie.
One day, when Eugenie came into the house, having escorted Albert down
the road, her father was seated at the table—there was only one table
and one room which served as dining and living room—his arms resting
upon it, as was his wont; his bushy eyebrows frowning as if he were
working on a hard puzzle; his eyes staring in front; his short, stubby
fingers drumming absently upon the table. He glanced at his daughter and
noticed the expression of exultation on her face.
“A talented young man, hein?” said the father, without removing his arms
from the table, and looking directly at her.
“Yes, he is,” Eugenie replied demurely, as was becoming a virtuous girl
when her father makes reference to a young man.
“Very talented—very,” he repeated and turned in the direction of the
window to his left. “Not a bad sort.”
Eugenie was silent and began busying herself with some household duties.
“_Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!_” hummed M. Chauraux, nodding his
head sorrowfully and lightly tapping the table with the tips of his
fingers.
“He might make a good husband for some nice girl,” the father said
apropos of nothing a little later.
Eugenie was scouring a copper kettle and her head lowered as she applied
herself to the utensil with more determination, without making any
comment.
A girl should not be too frivolous, mused M. Chauraux, but still Eugenie
ought not to be that bashful. She could at least encourage the young
man, he said to himself, and take a little interest in him when he comes
to the house. So far the conversations in the house were invariably
carried on between the men, and always about the Emperor.
“You are past eighteen, my child,” he presently addressed his daughter,
“and if the right young man would come along I should like to see you
married.”
He rose from the table and came close to her. Eugenie, her face
reddening, did not raise her eyes.
“You like Monsieur Zorn—hein?”
The scouring sound was the only reply.
M. Chauraux was puzzled. He could not quite reconcile her blushes with
her silence. She never did care for the German young men, he said to
himself.
“He is so different from the other Germans,” the father pursued the same
object, flattering himself on his ingenious probing.
“Yes, he is different.”
M. Chauraux walked out of the house in a reflective mood. When a girl
thinks a young man different from other young men she might be in love
with him. Yes, he might be a good _parti_.