Albert Zorn now found himself attacking, and attacked by, the
reactionaries in the Fatherland and the extreme radicals in Paris. At
last the _Junkers_ and the _Jacobines_ joined hands to down him, their
common foe. The pension granted by the king was the peg on which they
hung their calumnies. And helped by the Prussian _High Diet_ he was even
denied the right to defend himself against this fabricated charge of
disloyalty. However, this did not muzzle the valiant fighter. Screened
by a pseudonym he returned blow for blow. Before the censor had become
aware of his identity, his devastating irony was again felt in Germany.
And in spite of the growing paralysis of his left hand he worked
indefatigably. He penned poems, critical essays, satires, political
tracts, with the same spirit running through them all; the emancipation
of the enslaved Prussian mind from the influence of the _Junkers_.
One day a compatriot challenged him to a duel. His compatriot had taken
exception to an insinuation against a close friend of his in one of
Albert Zorn’s recent books. True, Albert did not believe in the barbaric
custom of duelling but he would not have any one charge him with
cowardice, moral or physical. Indeed, he was ready to meet his adversary
with any weapons he might choose.
The only thing that distressed him was Marguerite’s condition, should
the duel prove fatal to him.
“Marguerite!—Marguerite!——”
Albert was calling her from the adjoining room. It was twilight, the dim
twilight of a summer day. His voice sounded softer, more kindly than
ever.
Albert was in the living-room. It was a small room, with a white marble
mantle over the fireplace and a large mirror above it. The open windows
opposite were reflected in the mirror. He was seated, an elbow on the
arm of his chair, his cheek against the palm of his left hand, his legs
outstretched, wistfully thinking, a strange melancholy in his
half-closed eyes. His usual impatience was lacking.
Presently Marguerite appeared. She seemed unusually pretty. Her plump
figure had never looked so comely and her eyes never sparkled with more
vivacity. She paused for a moment coquettishly, inviting inspection.
Should she make a light? No, he did not care for a light. He could see
how beautiful she was even in the dim light of the setting sun.
He languidly stretched out his right hand and she came closer to him and
placed her hand in his. Ah! she knew how to humor her Albert when he was
in a melancholy mood, and her Albert was never more amiable and kind
than when in this mood. Though jocular he could not hide his melancholy
the past few days, and though he might think her a fool, and without
much brains, she understood every passing mood of his. No, indeed, all
his friends were telling her what a great man Albert was, and how subtle
and profound he was, but she knew better than any of them. She knew he
was as simple minded as a child. Albert often called her his child—a
lot he knew! It was he who needed mothering from his Marguerite.
The next moment she was on his knees, her lips against his forehead, a
hand through his soft hair. He responded quickly to tenderness and
pressed his lips against her fingers. There was mist in his eyes. He had
been thinking very much of her the past few days; in fact, all his
thoughts were of her. He had just come from a notary and made his will,
leaving everything he possessed to her.
They were seated in silence for a short space, the clock on the mantle
ticking strange melodies. Albert often heard this French clock tick
German folk songs. He often wondered why Marguerite could not hear these
songs—the only one she could make out was _La Parisienne_, and even
this one only when Albert hummed it and used his hand as a baton.
“We are going to get married, Marguerite,” he suddenly announced.
Her hand gripped his involuntarily and for a few seconds she made no
sound. Her brain could not quite comprehend his statement. She had never
asked him to marry her legally and he had never spoken of it.
“Are you ill—What is troubling you?” she was almost breathless with
anxiety.
“No, my kitten,” he made an effort to talk in a light tone and encircled
her waist with his arm. “It has just occurred to me that in case
anything should happen to me—in case I die—you understand——”
“But what put dying into your head all of a sudden?” There was terror in
her voice.
“Nothing—nothing particularly—” he was forcing an indifferent
tone—“the thought occurred to me today as I was passing the Boulevard.
A horse slipped and fell and hurt a pedestrian. One thought brought
another—don’t you see, I was thinking an accident might happen to
me—what would become of you?”
Her eyes quickly filled with tears and there were tears in her voice.
She did not want her Albert to die and if he died she might as well die,
too. Marriage or no marriage, it made no difference to her. Many men had
flirted with her and tried to win her away from him—yes, even a few of
his friends—yes, all men were alike. Whenever they saw a pretty young
woman, they wanted to appropriate her, be she a friend’s wife or
mistress. No, indeed, it made no difference to her. She had gone to live
with him because she loved him and would never leave him, marriage or no
marriage.
“_Apprends donc_,” she was saying, “_que jamais je ne te quitterai, que
tu m’aimes on non, que tu m’epouses ou non, que tu me maltraites ou non,
jamais je ne te quitterai. Entends-tu bien? Jamais! jamais!_”
No, indeed, it made no difference to her, marriage or no marriage,
whether or not he loved her, whether or not he’d ever ill-treat her,
she’d never leave him—never! never! never! If he was proposing marriage
to her because perchance he was jealous for a moment and thought some
one might wean her away from him he need have no fear on that score.
He kissed her fingers in silence; there was ecstasy in his soul. He
remembered the speech of Ruth when Naomi counselled her return to her
people.
Presently Marguerite was sobbing on his breast. Her Albert was speaking
and acting strangely. Had he been to see a physician, who had told him
he could not live long? What did physicians know—indeed, what did they
know? Her Albert would outlive them all. And she would take care of her
Albert better than all the nurses in Paris and she would always be
faithful to him. Oh, her poor Albert! What had put such foolish thoughts
into his brain?
He cleared his throat, wiped the tears out of the corners of his eyes,
and spoke light-heartedly. No, he had seen no physician and his health
was good and he did not expect to die. He wanted to marry her for her
own sake; he wanted no one ever to cast reflections upon her
relationship with him. How would she be married—would she like to have
a religious marriage? Yes, indeed, he would marry her in any manner it
pleased her.
Since Albert insisted upon a legal bond, she wondered if he would mind
going with her to the priest at the church of St. Sulpice. She had been
“confessing” to him since she came to Paris.
“No, indeed, my kitten!” Albert’s voice was almost jubilant. “By all
means let us be married by a Catholic priest. When the Church of Rome
binds no one can tear asunder,” he added with a mysterious twinkle in
his eyes.
* * * * *
Eight days later Albert was brought home slightly wounded. The duel had
taken place in the Valley of St. Germain.
During his convalescence a friend dropped in.
“You have made thousands and thousands of friends,” the visitor was
saying enthusiastically.
“Ah, yes, I understand,” jested Albert, “Drawing blood—especially an
enemy’s blood—always relieves one’s pain. If I had been killed the kind
Jesuits would have named the day of the duel a Saint’s Day.”
Marguerite, who sat by his bedside, begged him to stop laughing, as the
physician had told her his constant laughing and joking irritated his
wound.
“The doctor is mistaken,” Albert retorted. “My joking and laughing
irritates the wounds of my enemies.”