The candle was burning fast; the wick was charred; the wax was all but
melted; the dying flame leaping upward from the depth of the overheated
sconce. Darkness, and yet again the candle flame shot up.
No one knew better than Albert that his life was spent, that the fire
within him was licking the last vestige of life-grease, that he was
emitting the last flicker. He did not wish to crepitate and flutter at
the end. Let a tongue of red flame be the last memory of the
extinguished light.
Save for the Butterfly and his faithful physician, Albert was quite
forsaken in his last days. But rarely did visitors drop in and now and
then a distant admirer—usually a woman of high rank—from Germany, from
England, from Russia, came to pay homage to his genius. His sister had
come and gone, but his good mother was obliged to stay away. The poor
woman was too old to make the journey. Besides, she was wondering why
her son, being the younger, did not make the trip to Hamburg. For he had
succeeded in keeping up the pious deception that he was only troubled
with his eyes and could therefore not write to her with his own hand.
The Butterfly came daily (except when he bade her stay away, because of
his excessive suffering) read to him, and attended to his
correspondence. She took the place of his secretary. In order not to
fatigue her he frequently paused and chatted. He loved to ramble, to
skip from subject to subject, to rake up the dead leaves of the past.
His mind constantly reverted to his youth, to reminiscences of Gunsdorf,
of Bonn, of Goettingen, to the days when love was in his blood instead
of in his brain. He knew he was deluding himself, yet found consolation
in the delusion. He persuaded himself that he was in love with the
mysterious stranger by his bedside—and what love is not a
self-persuading delusion?—and clothed her with all the charms of his
rich fantasy, permitted himself to be convinced that the love fever of
youth was in his veins.
Indeed, he babbled deliriously the sweet syllables of feverish youth:
“My sweetest kitten,” “Soul of my life,” “My maddening love”—red flares
from the dying candle! He was again under the warm skies of Italy, his
beloved Italy—Ah, Italy! he had hoped in vain to see it again—he was
living over again the Florentine Nights with their thousand charms; he
met again those black-eyed maidens of his fancy, those ethereal
creatures of his dreams—the dreams he invented.
In the young woman by his bedside all the beauties of his dreams were
blended. With his eyes sealed, his hand fondling her slender fingers, he
was playing the youth again—the make-believe youth. And when she failed
to come one day he was feverish with anguish and scrawled love notes to
her.
“My Good, All Gracious, Sweet Butterfly,” he wrote entreatingly, “come
and flutter your beautiful wings! I know one of Mendelsohn’s songs with
the refrain ‘Come Soon!’ This song is running continuously through my
head. ‘Come soon.’”
“I kiss both your dear little hands, not both at once, but one after the
other.”
And before there was time to hear from her he dispatched another note:
“My dear Girl:
“I am very ill and do not wish to see you today. But I hope that you’ll
be able to come tomorrow. Drop me a line if you can’t come before the
day after tomorrow.”
An hour later he scribbled another love note, his amorous fever
increasing, the restlessness of adolescence in his brain.
“My Dear, Gracious Kitten:
“No, I don’t want to see you tomorrow. I must see you today. Can’t you
come today—at once—upon receipt of this note? I am afraid I won’t be
able to see you tomorrow because I feel my headache is coming on. I must
see you this afternoon and feel the tender caress of your sweet hand,
the impress of your lips, the touch of your _Schwabengesicht_, and
listen to the sound of your voice. Ah! if I could press my precious
flower to my breast! But, alas! I am only a ghost, a spirit.
“But do come at once, my dear, sweet child, and let me kiss your dear
little hands and let my lips graze the strands of your fragrant hair.
Madly yours,
A. Z.”
He forwarded the last note as if it were of momentous import, and became
restive. Marguerite did not understand the cause of his restlessness and
irritated him by her constant inquiries. She detested the Butterfly. The
wife was suspicious of the intruder, and kept telling Albert that the
stranger must be a spy and he ought not to let her read and talk to him
and attend to his correspondence.
Yes, Marguerite was positive this Mademoiselle was a German spy and she
had roguish eyes and a coquettish look and was “as thin as a rail.” No,
no, she was not jealous of her—indeed, not! Marguerite’s fat chin
trembled as she emitted a little forced laugh She jealous of the
insignificant, plain German girl! It was laughable! While she,
Marguerite, may not be as pretty as she had been, but could still hold
her own——
“You remember, Albert, what you called me in those days? ‘My sweetest
little kitten,’ ‘My translucent sunbeam,’ ‘My fragrant wild flower;’
(Albert tossed his head with evident annoyance)—she emitted another
forced little laugh—“Indeed, even if I am not as pretty as I used to
be, a flat-chested little hussy like that German vixen could not make me
jealous, but I have warned you, and I am warning you again, that she is
a dangerous person. She is——”
“I have a terrible headache,” he pleaded, with a grimace on his face.
“You always get a terrible headache when I make mention of this little
German intriguer——”
“Can’t you get some other subject to talk about?” he groaned helplessly.
“Some other subject!—and that intriguing woman trying to steal your
love right under my nose! This is what I get for my years of devotion!
Go ahead and change your will—leave
everything—to—this—German—spy——”
She was sobbing, the parrot was calling “_au revoir_,” Mimi, the little
poodle, was barking in a falsetto voice, and Albert was beside himself.
At first he begged her to cease torturing him, then grew angry and
commanded her to stop, and finally was seized with a fit of convulsive
coughing which choked his breathing. Then the nurse appeared on the
scene and, with an angry look at Marguerite, took Albert in her
arms—his body was so wasted that it weighed no more than that of a
child—and laid him on the sofa, which was usually reserved for
visitors. The nurse’s arms seemed to have a strange soothing effect upon
the invalid. Covered with a white sheet he rested on the sofa until he
was himself again.
Marguerite, her arms folded, sat in a chair and wept silently. No, she
did not mean to irritate him; she loved her Albert as the apple of her
eye; she loved him as much as she did when he used to take her to the
opera and to the finest restaurants in Paris . . .
“Marguerite—Marguerite——”
She wept more quietly, her fat reel cheeks tear-stained.
“Marguerite, dearest!” His voice grew tender. “Come and sit by me.”
He drew his right hand from under the white sheet and extended it toward
her.
“My sweetest kitten—my fragrant wildflower—my poor faithful wife—”
His voice was husky now, tears of tenderness in his throat. “I have
always loved you as I loved no other—Come, my guardian angel——”
Presently Marguerite was beside him on the sofa, kissing his broad,
cadaverous forehead, pressing her lips against his lips that felt not,
and murmuring the endearing terms of years gone by . . .