Weeks passed on, happy weeks for Albert. His stock was dwindling, so was
his money, but what did he care? M. Chauraux made no objections to his
frequent visits at the farm and at intervals Eugenie, on the pretext of
visiting her relative, came to the city and met Albert. Eugenie, too,
was happy. They were now avowed lovers, and nothing else mattered. The
fact that her love was clandestine added zest to her passion. For while
her father approved of Albert as a suitor properly chaperoned by
himself, she realized what would happen if he learned of their intimacy
in his absence. And when Albert and Eugenie were alone they never
discussed the future. The present was enough for them.
But Albert’s happiness never did continue long.
One day Aaron Hirsch—the faithful Aaron—entered the private office of
his master, with a woe-begone expression on his countenance and emitted
a half-stifled sigh.
“Herr Banquier,” he addressed the banker, with a wave of his hands,
“something must be done before it’s too late—I mean about your esteemed
nephew. I have kept my eye on him as I was bidden but now I am obliged
to bring to you a matter of grave importance.”
“What is the young scamp up to now?”
“A young scamp he is not, Herr Banquier.” Aaron gave a soft laugh and
rubbed his hands obsequiously. “But a young man is a young man and his
mind naturally turns to girls as the sunflower turns to the sun.” He
emitted a cackle and wiped his lips with the palm of his right hand.
“What is it?” Mr. Zorn was impatient.
“It’s still the matter I spoke to you about some time ago. The
Frenchman’s daughter. Well, Herr Banquier, a young man is a young man
and a girl is a girl—a—you see—a—it might be too late—” He gave a
helpless shrug of his shoulders.
“Does her father know of this?”
“This is what I have come to tell you, Herr Banquier. The other day I
drove down to Monsieur Chauraux’ farm on the pretext of selling him a
lottery ticket and incidentally pumped him about his daughter’s
relations with your worthy nephew. He thinks the young man is going to
marry his daughter—”
“Why didn’t you tell him Albert is living on my charity?” burst out
Leopold Zorn.
“Yes, Herr Banquier, I did hint to him that the young man has nothing
beyond that his philanthropic uncle sees fit to give him. Perhaps I
should have alluded to the difference in their religions.” Aaron looked
up at his master inquiringly.
“Religion or no religion, the scamp has no intention of marrying her. Go
and tell him that.”
“I hope it’s not too late.”
“Then don’t stand jabbering here. Go over at once and see the Frenchman
again.”
“Yes, Herr Banquier, I know where I can get a vehicle and can go at
once—I hope it’s not too late—I saw him with her at the Swiss Pavilion
yesterday—Yes, Herr Banquier, I can get a vehicle around the corner and
go at once,” Aaron repeated as he humbly bowed out of the banker’s
presence.
A few days later Albert approached the farmhouse with bouncing joy in
his heart. He had told Eugenie at their last rendezvous in the city what
time he would get to the farm and she was to meet him at a little grove
about half a mile from the house. Eugenie was still feigning bashfulness
in her father’s presence.
It was early autumn, heaps of dead leaves in the grove. Albert pondered
at her absence. On other occasions he had found her standing near a
silver birch waiting for him or concealed in a clump of underbrush
playing hide and seek with him. He loved those tantalizing moments,
running this way and that, punctuated by her silver laughter, and when
he would catch her, panting and out of breath, he would clasp her in his
arms and kiss her throat and lips and hair. The partly denuded trees now
disclosed her absence at a glance. He stood still and waited. Then he
stepped out in the open and looked down the road but she was not in
sight. His eagerness made him nervous. She had never failed in their
appointments. When he had approached the grove blissful expectancy was
in his breast, and the disappointment was doubly provoking. Then fear
possessed him. She might be ill.
After a space he strode toward her home. It was a one-story,
straw-thatched cottage, and as he entered the little yard he looked at
once at the door and at the two little windows on either side. No one
seemed around.
Albert rapped on the door. He heard a voice within. It was M. Chauraux’s
voice; his voice in anger.
He rapped again.
Silence.
Albert’s heart throbbed with misgivings.
Again he knocked.
The door soon opened with a rapid movement, M. Chauraux on the threshold
with a forbidding look in his round brown eyes.
Albert greeted him with his usual cordiality but with a fast-beating
heart.
M. Chauraux’s eyes moved from side to side, the tuft under his lower lip
projecting ominously.
“Is—is Mademoiselle Eugenia unwell?” Albert stammered.