“I can’t allow you to see Eugenie any more,” said the irate father
brusquely.
“But——”
“I want no arguments,” M. Chauraux resumed harshly. “And no
letters—they won’t be delivered to her—no more clandestine
rendezvous—you hear? I have had enough trouble with the police and want
no controversy with your banker uncle.”
And without further explanation he entered the house and slammed the
door.
Albert walked away, and reaching the gate turned around and looked at
the window but he only saw the reflection of the gray autumn sky in the
panes. He turned into the road and walked slowly back, with measured
steps, striking with his cane at the wilted leaves on the ground and at
the little stones by the wayside. Was there ever an Adam who was not
driven out of the Garden of Eden on some pretext or other, Albert mused
bitterly. What was his alleged sin? He could not tell, he could not
divine. What had suddenly turned M. Chauraux against him? Albert could
not account. He did not doubt Eugenie’s love. When he reached the grove
he paused. Every tree, every grassy spot was full of sweet memories. He
sighed. Sweet memories belong to old age, they are the white mile-stones
long passed and glistening in the distance. For the moment he felt aged,
an unfortunate Atlas, with the world of sorrows on his back——
“_Ich Unglücksel’ger Atlas! eine Welt,_
_Die ganze Welt der Schmerzen, muss ich tragen._”
Yes, he felt as if the whole world of sorrows was on his back, bearing
the unbearable, with a mortifying pain in his heart. He had insisted
upon either eternal bliss or endless misery—no compromise—and since
eternal bliss was denied him misery was the only alternative. He settled
upon a tree stump nearby lost in brooding reflections. He felt the
weight of life heavily upon him, it was crushing him. He could not think
of life without the sweetness of love, and that seemed to have been
taken away from him for ever. All events seem final to youth.
Time was passing. He could not tear himself away from this place, from
where he could see the straw-thatched roof in the midst of a cluster of
leafless trees. He could see the path daily trodden by her feet, the
underbrush that touched her skirt. How could he go on living without the
lustre of her eyes, without the clinging contact of her hands, without
the sweet warmth of her breath?
Before he realized darkness had come and the moon and stars appeared. He
had never seen the lights of heaven look down so sadly. Were they, too,
lovelorn?
With sudden determination he rose and walked back to the farmhouse,
nothing definite in his mind. The gate was ajar and there was no light
in the house, the pallor of the moon falling upon the window-panes. The
window to the left was her window, a few feet away from her bed. Here he
stood, gazing lovingly upward. He rose on his tip-toes and his face was
on a level with the bottom pane. He gently tapped on the glass but no
one stirred within.
“Eugenie,” he murmured, “Eugenie!”
No one appeared at the window, no one but the moonlight over his
shoulder.
He removed his diamond ring—his mother’s heirloom—and scratched on the
pane before him, “_Moi je n’existe que pour vous aimer_.”
He paused, a sad smile on his face, and turned to the road.
A peasant was driving by. Albert asked for a lift. “Hop in,” said the
peasant hospitably, “I am going all the way to the city.”
An hour later Albert was on the Jungfernstieg. The lane was crowded with
promenaders, the moon seemed to shine more cheerily here, the stars
twinkled brighter. With his head lifted there was abandon in his gait.
Girls walked past him with luring glances but he only smiled and walked
on. Presently he was in front of the Apollo Hall, ablaze with a thousand
candles, astir with a thousand voices. The Apollo was a gay place. The
blowing of trumpets reached his ears, the rattling of drums, the sounds
that stir the blood of youth. His steps halted.
“Do come in for old times’ sake!”
Some one had arrested his arm.
And from the Apollo came the blowing of trumpets, the rattling of drums,
the sounds that stir the blood of youth . . .