HENRY DUFRESNE
On a wonderfully warm, summer-like May morning an automobile, coming
from the West Station, drove up before the Hotel Bristol, depositing
there an elegant, slender, dark-haired man. With an experienced
glance the hotel manager appraised first the heavy leather trunk and
hand baggage, and then the stranger, whose short imperial beard and
turned-up mustache, twirled in a manner then unfashionable in Vienna,
lent something exotic to his appearance. “From the south of France,”
was the manager’s conclusion; by a rapid mental process he translated
French francs into kronen, and determined the price of a room in
accordance with the astonishing result. To the question, put in French,
as to whether a room was to be had, he replied, with an effort to
suppress an ironic smile:
“Surely, Monsieur--would you like a single room, or a suite with bath?
Looking out on the Ring, or to the rear?”
Amazed, the newcomer dropped the monocle he had held in his eye.
“Why, how’s this? It used to be impossible to get accommodations
anywhere without previous reservation!”
“My dear sir,”--the manager heaved a profound and sincere sigh--“it
must be a year and a half or more since you’ve been in Vienna. Much has
changed since then!”
The stranger understood immediately, nodded sympathetically, asked for
a room with a view of the Ringstrasse, and registered:
“Henry Dufresne, artist, from Paris, 29 years of age, Catholic,
unmarried.”
M. Dufresne bathed, changed his clothes, merrily whistling the latest
Parisian song-hit all the while, ordered an excellent breakfast to be
served in his room, and, about ten o’clock in the morning, left the
hotel, in a noticeably jovial mood.
The Frenchman with the little beard seemed to be quite familiar with
Vienna, for he swung himself on a tramway car without asking his way;
and he appeared to have an excellent command of the German language,
for it was evident that he listened with interest to the conversation
of those about him. When an old woman began to wail about the high
prices, and to revile the authorities in no uncertain terms, M.
Dufresne patted her shoulder and, in faultless German and with a
Viennese accent, tried to pacify her:
“How can you say such things, granny? We must all feel glad and happy,
now that we’re rid of the Jews.”
But granny now flared up in proper fashion.
“The Jews never done me no harm! They could ’a’ stayed in Vienna s’
far’s I was concerned. I had such a good place with a Jewish gen’l’m’n,
an’ whenever he brought home a girl an’ made a mess he give me a extra
bill. Live an’ let live, he always said--an’ he was right!”
There was laughter on the platform, and a jolly chap with a nose that
shone wine-red corroborated this testimony:
“Yeh, I guess a man c’n say th’t some o’ the Jews was real decent
folks.”
A peculiar smile played about the Frenchman’s mouth as he left the car
and strolled slowly along the Währingerstrasse, later turning into
the Nussdorferstrasse. Occasionally he stopped before a show-window,
shaking his head as he observed the prices marked on the goods
displayed. Finally he reached the Billrothstrasse, which eventually
leads into the vineyard-studded suburbs Sievering and Grinzing.
His attention was caught by a sign on the door of a modern apartment
house in the Billrothstrasse.
“For rent: Small, elegantly furnished apartment with studio; immediate
possession. Apply to janitor.”
Quickly making up his mind, M. Dufresne entered the house and sought
out the janitor, who, taking him up to the fifth floor by means of
an elevator, showed him the apartment. It consisted of a bed-room, a
parlor furnished as a den, and adjoining this, a large studio-like room
with a skylight. A bathroom was also included.
“How does this apartment happen to be vacant?”
“For heaven’s sake,” cried the janitor, “why, there are about twenty
thousand vacant apartments in Vienna today. An architect, a Herr
Rosenbaum, used to live here--but he had to leave with all the rest of
the Jews. The landlord bought his furniture, but hasn’t been able to
find a tenant because there’s no kitchen.”
Five minutes later a deposit in the shape of a five hundred
thousand-kronen bill was in the janitor’s hand, and M. Dufresne had
rented the apartment. Walking more rapidly, he proceeded on toward
Grinzing, gaily swinging his cane and saying to himself: “A good
beginning--I couldn’t have had better luck with the apartment.”
But the closer he came to Grinzing the more excited he became, his
cheek flushed, and his merry brown eyes grew feverishly bright. When
he had reached the Kobenzlgasse his steps became slower and almost
dragged--he seemed to be approaching a fateful moment. Drawing a deep
breath, he stopped before the house of Hofrat Spineder, and pulled his
broad-brimmed gray hat down over his eyes so that only his moustache
and beard remained visible. Apparently undecided, he walked back and
forth, at times looking nervously at his wrist-watch, whose hands
pointed to half-past eleven. Just as he stood before the green gate
again it opened to let out a maid. At this instant, while the gate was
open, M. Dufresne saw a girl come out from the door of the house, to
the left of the court--a young girl, dressed in white, her golden head
uncovered, a book in her hand; she walked toward the back, through the
court and up into the garden.
“Hurrah!” the man with the little beard said to himself--and his
plan of action was complete. To the right of the Spineder grounds,
separated from them by a wooden fence, lay a long empty lot that
had temporarily, since the war, been transformed into a large
kitchen-garden. It extended upward as far as the summer-house on the
highest point of the Spineder garden. The other edge of the lot was
separated by another wooden fence from a side street that opened on
the Kobenzlgasse; but this fence was in a dilapidated state, and had
broken down entirely in several places. The Frenchman crawled through
one of the holes and dashed up through the kitchen-garden, catching
up with and soon passing the blonde girl walking on his right. Now M.
Dufresne had reached the top; he swung himself over the fence into the
garden of Hofrat Spineder, and hid himself behind a massive linden-tree
that stood in the middle of the vineyard. A few minutes later the girl
reached the tree; but she was not able to see the man hidden behind it.
Not until, suddenly, something unexpected happened. M. Dufresne called,
_mezzovoce_: “Lotte!” And when Lotte Spineder, startled and confused,
stopped to look around, he called again: “It’s I, Lotte! For heaven’s
sake, don’t be frightened!”
The next moment the gentleman with the little beard had caught Lotte,
who had become white as a sheet and had begun to sway, in his arms.
Again and again he pressed his mouth to her cold lips, until the
color returned to her cheeks and, trembling all over, she clung to him
tightly, as if someone were trying to tear him away from her.
And now they sat in the summer-house, Leo Strakosch held Lotte on his
knee, and told his story hurriedly:
“Yes, Lotte darling, it’s I, and it’s for your sake that I grew this
horrible beard and mustache. I longed for you so much, I simply
couldn’t stay away any more; and when your father wrote me that he was
really worried about your health and that he thought it wisest for us
to stop writing to each other, as every letter opened the wounds in
your heart--then my mind was made up. I confided in a dear and good
friend, Henry Dufresne, who would go through fire for me; I grew a
little imperial beard like the one he wears, and got all his papers
from him: the certificates of his baptism, residence, and military
service, and his passport, duly viséed by the Austrian embassy in
Paris. The beard made us look very much alike, so that he could take a
chance on securing his passport with my photograph. And I did not forge
his signature, but he imitated mine. Of course this splendid fellow
told all his friends and acquaintances that he was going to Vienna,
while he actually went to his uncle’s estate, in the south of France,
where he will stay a year. And I can live in Vienna as Henry Dufresne
just as long as he remains there.”
Lotte wept and laughed in the same breath.
“I’m so unspeakably happy, Leo! But I’m so afraid for you! You know
there’s a death penalty for returning here--suppose they catch you?”
“Impossible, darling! The few friends I had are all Jews, and had to
leave the country when I did. Besides, the beard serves as an absolute
disguise, especially when I wear a monocle. And even if someone were
to come and declare that I’m Leo Strakosch, I’d simply deny it, and no
one could convict me, for my passport is genuine, and if anyone should
inquire of the Paris police he’d be told that Henry Dufresne has gone
to Vienna with a regular traveller’s passport.”
“But what about Papa and Mama?” asked Lotte, after a number of
whole-hearted kisses, which she found delightful, mustache and beard
notwithstanding.
“Of course they must not hear a single word about this, Lotte,” was
Leo’s grave reply. “Not that they’d report me. But your father is too
much of an official and a Hofrat not to be angry with me for this
masquerade; and, besides, he would never permit us to meet, but would
adjure me to go away again. This way, however, we’ll see each other
every day, won’t we, Lotte?”
And Leo told her of the cozy little apartment he had just rented, and
described how they could spend a few hours together there every day--as
much time as Lotte would be able to have to herself. At this Lotte
blushed to the roots of her hair; but when she looked into the frank
and sincere eyes of her lover she knew that she would be safe with him
even if they were all alone.
Leo had to go now, for someone might look for Lotte in the garden any
minute. But before they bade each other farewell the girl’s white
forehead clouded again.
“But now you’ve given up your splendid career in Paris, Leo! And what
will you do to support yourself here in Vienna, with this terribly high
cost of living that even Papa is beginning to complain about?”
Leo laughed so merrily and boisterously that Lotte, frightened, put
her hand over his mouth. Which he construed as an invitation to kiss
the rosy little fingers. He did this to his heart’s content before he
answered:
“What’ll I do here, darling? Work, and work hard; and I’ll save
an enormous amount of money, for when they are reduced to francs
these high Viennese prices are ridiculously low. You see, I’ve been
commissioned by the biggest publishing house of Paris to illustrate
a new edition of the collected works of Zola. And the terms are
marvellous, I’ll tell you. Sixty thousand francs, half of which I got
when I signed the contract. I’ll get the other half when I deliver the
two hundred drawings--and that must be in a year. So you see again that
we Jews are a wily race, and know on which side our bread is buttered.”
Leo climbed back over the fence; and that very day M. Dufresne moved
over to the Billrothstrasse. Hofrat Spineder and his wife, however,
noted with great satisfaction that for the first time in more than a
year their little girl was in good spirits, and hummed a gay song to
herself.
“You’ll see,” the Hofrat said to his wife, “by and by Lotte will forget
all about this deplorable business. I feel sorry for the poor fellow,
but it’s better this way. Besides he wrote me quite a sensible letter
in which he promised to give up corresponding with Lotte.”
Frau Spineder shook her head in amazement, and thought: “How different
girls are nowadays! If I had been in Lotte’s place I’d never have
overcome my love!”