Low as these words had been spoken, Elise had seized their purport,

and they touched her to the quick. "What do you wish?" she continued.

"Nothing!" said he, despondently. "I have made a mistake. I expected

to find a faithful heart, a woman like an angel, ready in the hour of

meeting to forget all else, and take refuge in this heart; to forgive,

and, with her blessing, to wipe out the curse of my existence. This is

what I sought. But God is just, and I did not deserve such happiness.

I submit."

"Oh, my God!" said Elise to herself, "it is the same voice which once

charmed me." She no longer found strength in herself to bid him go.

She would have given her life blood to be able always to be thus near

him.

"This time, young lady," said Feodor, "I come only as a messenger, the

executor of the will of one who is dead." He took a letter from his

bosom and handed it to Elise. "I bring you," he said solemnly, "the

last will of my wife, Countess Lodoiska."

"She is no longer alive?" cried Elise, and involuntarily an almost

joyful tone pervaded her voice.

This did not escape the prince. "I will win her," said he to himself.

His eyes shone brighter, his countenance looked prouder, and his heart

beat higher with triumphant joy. Elise had taken the letter, and still

held it in her hand. "Will you not read it?" asked he, gently, and

her heart trembled at the pleading tone of his voice.

"Yes, I will read it," she answered, as if awaking from a dream, and

breaking the seal hastily.

The prince fixed his sharp, piercing eyes on her, and seemed to wish

to read in her looks her inmost thoughts, and feeling them favorable

to him, he approached still closer to her.

The letter was short and hastily written, but every word entered her

soul and brought tears to her eyes. It ran thus:

"My dear Elise, when you receive this letter I shall be no more, and

the heart which has suffered so much will be at rest. But when I have

found repose in the grave, do you fulfil my trust. I leave you the

dearest legacy that I possess. I give you back your property, the

heart and love of Feodor, which never ceased to belong to you. I never

have been able to win this love to myself. He gave me his hand, his

heart remains yours, and that is killing me. Take it then, it is my

legacy to you; and if you accept it my purified spirit will bless your

reunion.

LODOISKA."

The letter dropped from her hand; completely overpowered by deep and

solemn emotions, she sank in her chair, and hid her tears with her

hands. Feodor felt that she was again his, that he had regained

his sway over her. He rushed toward her, falling at her feet, and

passionately snatching her hands from her face, he exclaimed, "Elise!

in this moment her spirit is hovering over us. She blesses this love

which she has already forgiven. Oh, if you only knew what I have

suffered for you, you would, at least, not be angry with me. You would

pardon me for the sake of what I have undergone."

"Have I then not suffered also?" she asked, turning her face, covered

with tears, toward him.

"Oh! leave me here at your feet," he continued. "Look upon me as

a poor pilgrim who has wandered to the holy Sepulchre in order to

cleanse his heart of its sins at the sanctuary by sincere repentance

and prayers for forgiveness. You are my sanctuary, to you my heart

bends; the poor pilgrim has come to you to confess and be shrived

before he dies. Will you, my Madonna, hear him? May I tell you what I

have endured, how much I have suffered?"

"Speak," she said, half conscious, but eagerly listening to the music

of his voice. "Tell me what you have suffered, that I may forget my

own sufferings when I gave you up."

"Oh!" he continued, with a shudder, "I shall never forget that fearful

moment when I became aware of the deception, and discovered that it

was not you, but Lodoiska, whom I held in my arms. A raving madness

seized me, which threatened my own life. Lodoiska turned aside the

dagger, and pronounced your name. That name recalled me to life, to

the knowledge of my crime. I submitted to the punishment which I had

merited, and which you had imposed upon me. I led Lodoiska to the

altar, at which I had hoped to see you. I made her my wife, and my

heart pronounced _your_ name, while my lips bound me to _her_. It was

a terrible hour, a fearful agony raged within me, and it has never

left me since. It was there, when Lodoiska pressed me to her heart. It

was present in the tumult of battle. Then, however, when death raged

around me, when destruction thundered from the enemy's cannon, then

I became cheerful, and the pang left me as I rushed amid the enemy's

ranks. But even death itself retreated before me--I found on the

battle-field only honor and fame, but not the object for which I

fought, not death. I lived to suffer and to expiate my crime toward

you, Elise. But one hope sustained me, the hope one day to fall at

your feet, to clasp your knees, and to sue for forgiveness."

Completely overcome by his own passionate description, he bowed his

head on her knees, and wept aloud. He had succeeded in rousing his own

sympathy; he believed in his own grief. He had so feelingly played

the part of a repentant sinner, an ardent lover, that for a moment

probability and reality had become blended in one, and he felt himself

thoroughly possessed by crushing repentance.

But Elise believed in him. His voice sounded like music in her ear,

and every fibre of her heart thrilled and quivered. The past with its

griefs and sorrows was gone forever, he was once more there, with no

stranger to come between them, and she only felt that she loved him

without bounds.

He embraced her knees, looking pleadingly up in her face. "Elise,

forgive me," cried he; "say but one word, 'Pardon,' and I will go away

in silence, and never again dare to approach you."

Elise had no longer power to withstand him. She opened her arms, and

threw them with passionate tenderness around his neck. "Feodor, love

does not forgive, it loves," she cried with unspeakable rapture, and

tears of delight burst from her eyes.

Feodor uttered a cry of joy, and sprang up to draw her to his breast,

to cover her face with kisses, to whisper words of delight, of

tenderness, of passionate love, in her listening ear. "Oh! now all is

right again--now you are again mine. These four years are as if they

had not been. It was all a mournful dream--and we are now awake.

Now we know that we love each other, that we belong to each other,

forever. Come, Elise, it is the same hour which then called us to the

altar. Come, the priest waits. For four long years have I hoped for

this hour. Come, my beloved."

He threw his strong arm around her and raised her to his breast

to draw her forth with him. As Elise drew herself gently back, he

continued still more passionately: "I will not let you go, for you are

mine. You have betrothed yourself to me for life or death. Come,

the priest is waiting, and to-day shall you be my wife. This time no

unfriendly hand shall impose itself between us, and Lodoiska no longer

lives."

"But my father lives," said Elise, as earnestly and proudly she freed

herself from Feodor's arms. "Without his consent I do not leave this

threshold. It was for that the Lord punished us. My father's blessing

was not upon our love, and I had sinned grievously against him. Now,

it is expiated, and Fate is appeased. Let us go hand in hand to my

father, and ask his blessing on our love, that love which has remained

undiminished through so many years of grief."

"I submit to you. I will obey your will in every thing. But will not

your father reject me? I feel that he must hate me for the tears I

have caused you to shed."

"He will love you when he sees that you have taught me to smile once

more," said she gently. "Come to my father."

She wished to draw him along with her. But his consciousness of guilt

held him back. He wanted the daring courage to face this man whom he

had been sent to ruin; and involuntarily he shrank back from his own

deeds. "I dare not go before him so suddenly and unprepared," said he

hesitatingly.

"Then allow me to prepare him for your presence."

"And if he denies his sanction?"

"He will not do it."

"He has sworn never to allow you to marry a Russian."

"Oh, that was long ago," said she, smiling, "when Russia was our

enemy. Now we are at peace. The bloody streams of discord are dried

up, and an angel of peace rules over all countries. Even my father

will feel his influence, and make peace with you and me."

Feodor did not answer immediately. He stood thoughtful and

contemplative, weighing the necessary and unavoidable, and considering

what he should do. One thing only was clear. Neither Elise nor

Gotzkowsky must be allowed to suspect on what extraordinary mission

his empress had sent him thither. Only when Elise was irrevocably

bound to him, when she was his without recall, when Gotzkowsky had

given his consent to their union, then would he dare to disclose it to

him. It was necessary, above all, to postpone the negotiations about

the Russian demands for a day, and therefore he only gave his agents

his instructions, and imposed on them silence and inactivity for a day

longer. The principal thing, however, was to convince Elise and her

father that their union should suffer no delay, because he was only

allowed to remain a few hours. He put his arm around Elise's slender

waist and pressed her to his heart. "Listen to me, my beloved; my time

has been but sparingly dealt out to me. I have come on with courier

horses, so as to allow me more leisure on my return with you. But

to-day we must leave, for the army is on the frontier, equipped and

ready for war. Only out of special favor did the empress allow me a

short leave of absence, to fetch my wife. In her clemency she has

done what she was able to do, and I must now obey her orders to return

speedily, if I do not wish to bring her anger down upon me. That

nothing might prevent or delay us, I have brought a chaplain of our

Church with me, to bless our union. You see, my beloved, that every

thing is ready, and all that is wanting is the wreath of myrtle in

your hair."

"And the blessing of my father," she replied solemnly.

Feeder's brow darkened and an angry expression flashed across

his countenance. Elise did not perceive it, for, in her noble

forgetfulness of self, she had leaned her head on his breast, and all

doubt and distrust were alien to her free and confiding love. The love

of a woman is of divine nature; it forgives all, it suffers all; it is

as strong in giving as in forgiving. Every woman when she loves is

an inspired poetess; the divine frenzy has seized her, and poetic

utterances of ecstasy issue from her trembling lips. This poor girl,

too, had become inspired. Confidingly happy, she reposed on the breast

of the man whom she had never ceased to love, whom she had blest in

the midst of her bitterest tears, whom she had prayed for, earnestly

entreating God to have mercy on him.

"Do you go to your father," said Feodor, after a pause. "Pray for

his consent and his blessing on both of us--I hasten to prepare every

thing. Tell your father that my whole life shall be spent in the

endeavor to redeem every tear you have shed for me with a smile; that

I will love him as a son to whom he has given the dearest treasure of

life, his Elise."

He pressed her to his heart and kissed her forehead. Elise raised her

face from his breast, and smiled on him with loving emotion. But he

placed his hands over her eyes; he was not callous enough to be able

to bear those innocent, yielding, tender looks.

"I must be gone," he said. "But this shall be our last separation,

and when I return, it shall be to lead you to the altar. In an hour,

dearest, you must be ready. At the end of that time, I will come to

take you to St. Petersburg, and present you at the empress's court as

my bride, the Princess Stratimojeff."

He looked down at her with an air of triumph, to see what impression

his words would have on her. He had expected to prepare a pleasurable

surprise for her with the princely title--to see her blush with proud

satisfaction. But Elise felt neither elevated nor honored by the high

rank. What did she care whether Feodor was a prince or a poor officer,

so that he only loved her, and would never again forsake her?

She replied, with some surprise, "Princess Stratimojeff! What does

that mean?"

"For three months," said he with a proud smile, "I have been Prince

Stratimojeff. The empress gave me this title. The world calls me

prince, but you--you will call me your Feodor?"

"Oh," said she feelingly, "my heart called you so when you did not

hear me."

"Well, then, go wind the wreath of myrtle in your hair, and wait for

me. In an hour I will return."

He hastened to the door, but on the threshold he turned to send a

farewell greeting to her. Their eyes met and rested on each other,

and suddenly a deep, indescribable feeling of grief came over him. It

seemed to him as if he would never see her again; as if the threshold

once crossed, Elise was lost to him forever. Once again he returned,

and folded her passionately in his arms, and, completely overpowered

by his painful presentiments, he bowed his head on her shoulder, and

wept bitterly. He then tore himself loose. "Farewell!" he cried,

but his voice sounded hoarse and rough--"farewell! in an hour I

will return for you. Be prepared, do not keep me waiting in vain.

Farewell!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER X.

THE MAGISTRACY OF BERLIN.

Gotzkowsky had conquered his proud heart; he had left his house to

apply to those whom he had benefited and saved in the days of their

need and distress, and who had then avowed him everlasting gratitude.

He resolved now, reluctantly and with deep humiliation, rather to

remind them of those days than to ask of them any favors or assistance

beyond the payment of their debts to him.

First he went to the ober-burgomaster, President Kircheisen; to the

man whom he had saved from death, who had clung to him, and, when

he had found his speech again, had vowed with tears that he would be

forever grateful to him, and would bless the arrival of the hour in

which he could prove it to him by deeds.

This hour had now arrived, but Herr von Kircheisen did not bless it;

on the contrary, he cursed it. He was standing at the window of his

ground floor when Gotzkowsky passed by. Their eyes met. Gotzkowsky's

were clear and penetrating; Kircheisen's were cast down, as he stepped

back from the window. He only had time to tell the servants that he

was not at home for any one, whoever it might be, when the bell rang,

and Gotzkowsky inquired for Herr von Kircheisen.

"Not at home, sir."

"Not at home! but I saw him just this moment standing at the window."

"It must have been a mistake, sir. The president has just gone to the

Council-chamber."

"Very well. I will go to the town-hall," said Gotzkowsky, as he left

the house.

Passing by the window he looked in again. This time, however,

Kircheisen was not standing before the sashes, but at the side,

ensconced behind the curtain, he was spying Gotzkowsky through the

window. As he saw him passing by, pale of countenance, but erect and

unbent, he felt involuntarily a feeling of remorse, and his conscience

warned him of his unpaid debt toward the only man who came to his

rescue. But he would not listen to his conscience, and with a dark

frown he threw back his head with contempt.

"He is a bankrupt--I have nothing to do with him!" So saying, he

retired to his study, and in obedience to a natural instinct, he

opened his strong box, and refreshed himself with a look at the

thousands which he had earned from Gotzkowsky as "detective and

informer." And now his conscience no longer reproached him; the sight

of the shining money lulled it into a gentle slumber.

In the meanwhile Gotzkowsky continued his toilsome and humiliating

journey. He met men who formerly bent humbly to the earth before him,

yet who scarcely greeted him now. Others, again, as they passed him,

whispered, with a malicious smile, "Bankrupt!" As he came to the corner

of a street, he met the valiant editor of the _Vossian Gazette_,

who was coming round from the other side. As they met, he jostled

Gotzkowsky rather roughly, yet Mr. Kretschmer did not think it worth

while to excuse himself, but pulling his hat over his face he walked

on with a dark and scornful look. As Gotzkowsky passed the houses, he

could hear the windows rattle, and he knew that it was his former

good friends, who were drawing back when they saw him coming, and who,

after he had passed, opened the windows again to look after him, to

laugh at and mock him. It was an intellectual running of the gantlet,

and Gotzkowsky's heart bled from the blows, and his feet were tired

to death. What had he then done to burden himself with the cruelty and

contumely of the world? Had he not been benevolent and kind, full

of pity and humanity, obliging to every one? Had he not always shown

himself ready to serve every one, and never requested nor desired

services in return? Therein lay his fault and his crime.

He had been independent. He had never sought the favor of any

man, but, trusting solely to himself, had always relied on his

own strength. And now mankind wished to make him feel that he had

mortified them by his self-sufficiency--for small natures never

forgive one who dares to be independent of others, and finds his

source of honor in himself. And this crime Gotzkowsky had been

guilty of. What he was, he had made himself. He had owed nothing

to protection, nothing to hypocrisy or flattery, eye-service, or

cringing. Only by the strength and power of his own genius had he

elevated himself above the world which he ruled.

And now that he was down, it was but natural that the world should

fall upon him, tear him to pieces with its venomous fangs, to enjoy

his torture, and joyfully to witness the lowering of pride and

independence. Gotzkowsky arrived at the town-hall and slowly ascended

the steps. How often had he gone this same road in answer to the

pressing cry for help which the magistrate would utter in his

distress! How often had he mounted those steps to give his advice, to

lend his energy, his money, and his credit to these gentlemen of the

Council!

This day the doors were not thrown open to him the beadle did not bow

down to the earth before him, but proudly and with erect head stepped

up to him and bade him wait in the antechamber until he had announced

him to the assembled Council. He had to wait long, but finally

the doors opened and he was admitted. There sat the aldermen and

councillors, and the burgomaster, just as they had when, in their

need and distress, they had appealed to Gotzkowsky for advice and

assistance--just as they had when, in solemn session, they

determined to present him with a silver laurel-wreath as an honorable

testimonial.

Only the chief burgomaster was absent. Herr von Kircheisen was at

home, enjoying the sight of the money he had won from Gotzkowsky. This

day they did not receive him as a counsellor or friend, but more like

a delinquent. No one rose to greet him--no one offered him a seat!

They knew that he came to ask for something. Why, then, should they be

polite to him, as he was only a petitioner like all other poor

people? In the mean time Gotzkowsky did not seem to be aware of the

alteration. Smiling, and with a firm, proud step he walked to a chair

and sat down.

After a pause the burgomaster asked him churlishly what his business

was. He drew out a parcel of papers, and laying them on the table,

said, "I have brought my accounts."

A panic seized the worshipful gentlemen of the Council, and they sat

petrified in their seats.

"Your worships have forgotten my claims," said Gotzkowsky quickly.

"However, that I can easily understand, as the accounts are somewhat

old. It is now four years since I have had the honor of having the

Council of Berlin as my debtor; since I thrice performed the perilous

journey to Königsberg and Warsaw in order to negotiate the war

contribution in the name of the town. At that time, too, I was

obliged, in the service of the Council, to take with me many valuable

presents. I may enumerate among them the diamond-set staff for General

von Fermore, and the snuff-box, with the portrait of the empress,

surrounded by brilliants, which I delivered to the General

Field-Marshal Count Butterlin, in the name of the magistracy and town

of Berlin. But, gentlemen, you will find the accounts of all these

things here."

The gentlemen of the Council did not answer him; they seized upon the

papers hastily, and turned them over, and looked into them with stern

and sullen eyes. Not a word was said, and nothing was heard but the

rustling of the papers, and the low muttering of one of the senators

adding the numbers, and verifying the calculation. Gotzkowsky rose,

and walked to the window. Raising his looks to heaven, his countenance

expressed all the pain and bitterness to which his soul almost

succumbed. Ah! he could have torn the papers out of the hand of this

miserable, calculating, reckoning senator, and with pride and contempt

have thrown them in his face. But he thought of his daughter, and

the honor of his name. He had to wait it out, and bend his head in

submission.

At last the burgomaster laid the papers aside, and turned scowlingly

toward Gotzkowsky. The latter stepped up to the table with a smile,

making a vow to himself that he would remain quiet and patient.

"Have you read them, gentlemen?" he asked.

"We have read them," answered the burgomaster roughly, "but the

Council cannot admit that it owes you any thing."

"No?" cried Gotzkowsky; and then, allowing himself to be overcome by a

feeling of bitterness--"I believe you. Those in authority seldom take

cognizance of what they owe, only what is owing to them."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the first councillor with solemn dignity, "we

know very well that we owe you thanks for the great services you have

rendered the town."

Gotzkowsky broke out into a loud, ironical laugh. "Do you remember

that? I am glad that you have not forgotten it."

"It is true," continued the councillor, in a tone of conciliation, "at

the request of the magistracy you took charge of the affairs of the

town. You travelled to St. Petersburg to see the empress; twice did

you go to Warsaw to see General Fermore, and twice to Saxony to visit

the king. You see the Council knows how much it is indebted to you."

"And we are cheerfully willing to be grateful to you," interrupted

the burgomaster, "and to serve you when and in what manner we can, but

these debts we cannot acknowledge."

Gotzkowsky looked at him in dismay, and a deep glow suffused his

cheek. "You refuse to pay them?" he asked, faintly.

"It pains us deeply that we cannot recognize these claims. You

must abate somewhat from them if we are to pay them," answered the

burgomaster rudely.

"Do you dare to propose this to me?" cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes

flashing, his countenance burning with anger and indignation. "Is

this the way you insult the man to whom four years ago on this very

spot you swore eternal gratitude? In those days I sacrificed to you my

repose, the sleep of my nights; for, when the town was threatened with

danger and alarm, there was no Council, no authority in existence, for

you were base cowards, and abjectly begged for my good offices. With

tears did you entreat me to save you. I left my house, my family,

my business, to serve you. At the risk of my life, in the depth of

winter, I undertook these journeys. You did not consider that Russian

bayonets threatened me, that I risked health and life. You thought

only of yourselves. I have not put down in the account the sleepless

nights, the trouble and anxiety, the privation and hardships which I

suffered. I do not ask any money or recompense for my services. I only

ask that I may be paid back what I actually expended; and you have the

assurance to refuse it?"

"No, we do not," said the burgomaster, quite unmoved by Gotzkowsky's

noble excitement. "We do not refuse payment; we only desire a

reduction of the amounts."

"You wish to cheapen and bargain with me," said Gotzkowsky with a

hoarse laugh. "You take me for a chapman, who measures out his life

and services by the yard; and you wish to pay me for mine by the same

measure. Go, most sapient gentlemen; I carry on a wholesale trade,

and do not cut off yards. That I leave to shopkeepers, to souls like

yours."

The burgomaster rose up proud and threateningly from his seat. "Do you

dare to insult the Council?"

"No, the Council of Berlin insult themselves by their own deeds. They

dare to chaffer with me!"

"And they have a right to do so," cried the burgomaster, quite beside

himself with rage. "Who asked you to play the great lord in our name,

and distribute royal presents--diamonds and gold snuff-boxes?

You could have done it much more cheaply. The Russian is not so

high-priced. But it was your pleasure to be magnificent at our

expense, and to strut about as a bountiful gentleman."

"Silence!" cried Gotzkowsky, in such a commanding tone that the

burgomaster was struck dumb, and sank back in his chair. Gotzkowsky

said no more. He took the accounts from the table, and, casting a

look of anger and contempt on the worthy gentlemen, tore the papers

in pieces, and threw the scraps at their feet. "I am paid!" he said,

proudly, and turned to leave the room.

One of the town councillors hastened after him, and held him back.

"You are too hasty: we may yet agree."

"No!" said Gotzkowsky, striving to free himself. "I do not chaffer and

bargain for my right."

The other held him tight. "But the Council are not averse to paying

you, if you--"

"If I will only traffic with you, is it not so?" interrupted

Gotzkowsky. "Let me go; we have done with each other."

"You will regret having repulsed the Council," said the burgomaster,

threateningly.

"I never regret an action when my honor is satisfied," said

Gotzkowsky, with proud contempt; and then, without honoring the worthy

gentlemen with another look, he left the hall, and returned into the

street.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XI.

THE JEWS OF THE MINT.

Herr Itzig was a very pious and devout Jew. He kept the Sabbath

strictly after the custom of his ancestors. He was charitable to the

poor; and no Jew beggar ever left his door without a gift.

He sat in his room, performing his morning devotions, and so deeply

was he immersed therein, that he did not hear a repeated knocking

at the door until a low, gentle voice whispered, "Good-morning, Herr

Itzig!"

Itzig first finished his prayer; for all the world he would not have

broken off before the end of it: "Be gracious and merciful to us,

Jehovah, and incline us to be compassionate and helpful to all who

approach us with supplication, even as we desire that thou shouldst

be to us." And now the pious Jew closed his prayer-book, and turned

slowly around.

That pale, bent man, who greeted him with a sorrowful smile--could it

possibly be--could it be John Gotzkowsky, the celebrated banker, the

honored and bright hero of the Exchange, the money-king before whom

all Europe bowed down?

An expression of malicious joy stole over Itzig's face; but he

suppressed it immediately, for the last words of his prayer still

floated around his lips, and somewhat purified them. "Ah!" said he, in

a friendly tone, as he stepped toward Gotzkowsky, stretching out both

his hands to him, "the great and powerful John Gotzkowsky does me the

honor to visit me. What joy for my humble house!"

Gotzkowsky did not allow himself to be misled by this seeming

politeness. He observed him with sharp and penetrating eyes, and then

proudly said: "Listen, Itzig; let us be candid with each other. You

know the reports which are current about me in the city and on the

Bourse."

"I know them, but do not believe them," cried Itzig, with an altered,

earnest mien. "Yes, I know these reports, and I know too what they

are worth. They are a speculation of Ephraim, that your notes may

be depreciated, that he may buy them in at a low rate. I know that

Gotzkowsky is a rich man; and a rich man has judgment, and whoever

has judgment is prudent--does not venture much, nor stand security for

other people."

"I have perhaps less of this judgment than you think," said

Gotzkowsky. "It may be that I have stood security."

"Then you will certainly know how to pay?" said Itzig, with a forced

laugh.

"But how if I cannot pay?" said Gotzkowsky, sadly.

Itzig stepped back, and gazed at him horrified.

"If I cannot pay," continued Gotzkowsky, impressively; "if I am

unable to pay half a million for Leipsic, another half million for the

Russian claims, after having lost the same amount yesterday by the new

treasury ordinance--what would you say to that, Itzig?"

Itzig listened to him with increasing terror, and gradually his

features assumed an expression of hatred and savage rage. When

Gotzkowsky had finished, he raised his clasped hands to heaven, as if

imploring the wrath of God on the head of the sinner. "My God! sir,

are you, then, going to fail?"

Gotzkowsky seized his hand, and looked into his quivering face with

an expression of intense anxiety. "Listen to me, Itzig. I may yet be

saved; every thing depends upon my obtaining a delay, that my credit

may not be shaken. You are rich--"

"No, I am poor," interrupted Itzig, vehemently. "I am perfectly poor;

I have nothing but what I earn."

"But you can earn a great deal," said Gotzkowsky, with a faint smile.

"I wish to effect a loan from you. Take my word of honor as security."

"Your word of honor!" cried Itzig, thrusting back his hand. "What can

I do with your word of honor? I cannot advance any money on it."

"Consider! the honor of my name is concerned--and this, till now,

I have kept unsullied before God and man!" cried Gotzkowsky,

imploringly.

"And if my own honor was concerned," exclaimed Itzig, "I would rather

part with it than my money. Money makes me a man. I am a Jew. I have

nothing but money--it is my life, my honor! I cannot part with any of

it."

But Gotzkowsky did not allow himself to be repulsed. It seemed to him

that his future, his honor, his whole life hung upon this moment. He

felt like a gambler who has staked his last hope upon one throw of

the dice. If this fails, all hope is gone; no future, no life is left,

nothing but the grave awaits him. With impetuous violence he seized

the hand of the rich Itzig. "Oh!" said he, "remember the time when you

swore eternal gratitude to me."

"I never would have sworn it," cried Itzig--"no, by the Eternal, I

never would have done it, if I had thought you would ever have needed

it!"

"The honor of my name is at stake!" cried Gotzkowsky, in a tone of

heart-rending agony. "Do you not understand that this is to me my

life? Remember your vow! Let your heart for once feel sympathy--act as

a man toward his fellow-man. Advance me money upon my word of honor.

No, not on that alone--on my house, on all that belongs to me. Lend me

the sum I need. Oh! I will repay it in a princely manner. Help me over

only these shoals, and my gratitude to you will be without bounds. You

have a heart--take pity on me!"

Itzig looked with a malicious smile into his pale, agitated face.

"So the rich, the great Christian banker, in the hour of his trouble,

thinks that the poor derided Jew has a heart; I admit that I have a

heart--but what has that to do with money? When business begins, there

the heart stops. No, I have no heart to lend you money!"

Gotzkowsky did not answer immediately. He stood for an instant

motionless, as if paralyzed in his inmost being. His soul was crushed,

and he scarcely felt his grief. He only felt and knew that he was

a lost man, and that the proud edifice of his fortune was crumbling

under him, and would bury him in its ruins. He folded his hands

and raised his disconsolate looks on high; he murmured: You see my

suffering, O God! I have done my utmost! I have humbled myself to

begging--to pitiful complaining. My God! my God! will no helping hand

stretch itself once more to me out of the cloud?"

"You should have prayed before to God," said Itzig, with cruel

mockery. "You should have begged Him for prudence and foresight."

Gotzkowsky did not heed him. He fought and struggled with his immense

suffering, and, being a noble and a brave man, he at length conquered

it. For a moment he had been cowed and downcast, but now he recovered

all the power of his energetic nature. He raised again his bowed head,

and his look was once more determined and defiant. "Well, then, I have

tried every thing; now I accept my fate. Listen, then, Herr Itzig, I

am going to suspend payment; my house must fail!"

Itzig shuddered with a sudden terror. "My God!" cried he, "only

yesterday I bought a draft of yours. You will not pay it?"

"I will not do it, because I cannot; and I would not do it, if I

could. I have humbled myself before you in the dust, and you have

stretched out no hand to raise me. Farewell, and may that now happen

which you would not prevent when you could! You punish yourself.

Farewell!"

Itzig held him convulsively back, and cried, in a voice drowned by

rage, "You will pay my draft?"

"I will not," said Gotzkowsky. "You have judged; take now your

reward." He threw Itzig's hands from him, and hastened from the spot.

Behind him sounded the wailing and raging of Itzig, who implored

Heaven and hell to punish the criminal who had cheated him of his

money.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XII.

THE LEIPSIC MERCHANT.

Exhausted and weary, Gotzkowsky returned to his house, and retired to

his room, to give himself up to the sad and terrible thoughts which

tortured him. He could not conceal from himself that the sword above

his head was only suspended by two thin threads. If De Neufville did

not return from Amsterdam, and if the courier did not bring a relief

from Leipsic, then was he lost without redemption, and the deadly

sword must fall. For the first time did he think of death; for the

first time did the thought of it flash like lightning through his

brain, and make him almost cheerful and happy.

He could die; it was not necessary that he should bear the pain and

humiliation of life. He could take refuge in the quiet, silent grave

under the turf, which would soon be decked with flowers over his

agonized breast. He had worked much; his feet were sore, and his heart

weary, from his walk through life. Why should he not lay himself down

in the grave to rest, to dream, or to sink in the arms of eternal,

dreamless sleep?

But this enticing thought he cast forcibly from him. He had not yet

lost all hope. His anticipations rose as the door opened, and the

servant handed him a large sealed letter, which the courier from

Leipsic had just brought. With hasty hand he seized the letter, and

motioned to Peter to retire. But as soon as he was alone, and was

about to break the seal, he drew back and hesitated. This letter

might, indeed, contain his salvation; but it might also contain his

death-sentence. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, and muttered

to himself: "It is as light as a feather, and yet its contents may

be heavy enough to hurl me down the abyss. But this is foolish," he

exclaimed aloud, drawing himself up proudly. "At least I will know my

fate, and see clearly into the future."

With a firm hand he broke the seal. But as he read, horror and dismay

were depicted in his countenance, and his whole frame shook.

Violently he flung the paper on the ground. "This, then, this is my

reward--reproaches, accusations, instead of thanks; scorn and

malice, instead of compassion. Reproaches, because I assisted them;

accusations, that I had offered to help them; only because without me

it would have been impossible for the King of Prussia to raise so much

money. Without my mediation, they say, they would not have paid, but

at the utmost would have had to endure a somewhat longer imprisonment,

which would have been more tolerable than the loss of such immense

sums."

He paced impatiently up and down, and as he came to the letter he

spurned it with his foot, like a poisonous adder, too loathsome to

touch. "I have deserved this punishment," cried he, laughing aloud

from inward pain.

"Who bade me love mankind? who bade me help them, instead of like

a highwayman falling upon and plundering them, when they were

defenceless? Fool that I was to give to life any other interpretation,

any other end!" He threw himself in a chair, and was soon buried in

thought. Once more he reviewed his whole past, and as he made up the

accounts of his life, he had to confess that the total of his hours

of happiness was but small, while that of his years of misery and toil

was heavy enough to bear him down. But there was still one hope, and

as long as he could expect De Neufville's arrival all was not lost,

and he must still wait in patience, still struggle with the worm that

gnawed at his heart. With such painful thoughts as these was he busied

when the door opened, and Elise entered with a glowing countenance.

She was so happy, that in her selfishness she did not perceived his

troubled and care-worn looks. "Oh" said she, kissing his hand, "I

am so happy at last to find you alone at home. Several times have I

sought you here."

"With letters for me?" asked he, hurriedly, for he had not observed

Elise's excited countenance. Both were so occupied with their own

thoughts and feelings, that they took note of nothing else. "Have not

letters arrived?" asked he once more.

"No letters have arrived," said she, smiling joyously, "but happiness

has come."

"De Neufville is here, then!" cried Gotzkowsky, anxiously, hurrying

toward the door.

"What has De Neufville to do with it?" asked Elise, with surprise

holding him back.

Gotzkowsky stared for a moment, terrified at her bright face, and then

a sad smile stole across his own. "Poor fool that I am!" he muttered;

"I complain of the egotism of men, while I am selfish enough to think

only of myself." He drew Elise toward him, and looking at her with

infinite tenderness, said, "Well, my child, speak: what happiness has

arrived?"

"Look at me," said she, playfully; "can you read nothing in my looks?"

Sadly he looked down deep into her large bright eyes. "Oh, your eyes

shine as bright as two stars of hope, the last that are left me!"

Elise threw both her arms around his neck, and kissed him, then drew

him with gentle force toward the ottoman, and, as she forced him down

on the cushions, she took her own seat, smiling, on the stool at his

feet. "How often, my father, have you sat here and cared for me! Ah!

I know well how much sorrow I have caused you in these last four sad

years, I could not command my heart to forget. You knew this, and yet

you have been considerate and gentle as a mother, and kind as the best

of fathers. You were never angry with me on account of my grief; you

knew of it, and yet you allowed me to weep." She took his hand in

hers, and for a moment covered her hot, burning face with it, then

looked cheerfully up in his face. "See," she said, "I do not shed any

more tears, or, if I do, they are tears of joy. My father, I come to

ask your blessing. Feodor is again here; he has come to ask me of you

for his wife. Oh, forgive him, and grant your blessing to a love which

till now has been the anguish of my life, but which hereafter will be

its chief happiness!"

Blushing and with maiden modesty she nestled in her father's breast.

Gotzkowsky felt himself paralyzed with terror. He pressed his child's

head warmly to his breast, saying to himself, "And this, too, my God!

you try me sorely. This is the greatest sacrifice you have demanded of

me yet; but my pride is gone. This offering, too, will I make."

"Well, my father, you do not answer?" asked Elise, still leaning

on his breast. "All is right, is it not? and you will give us your

fatherly blessing, and forgive Feodor the errors of former years, and

receive him as a son?"

Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised to heaven, moved his lips in

silent prayer. At last, after a long, painful pause, he said solemnly:

"Well, let it be so; I give my consent."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, and, amidst tears of unalloyed delight,

kissed him, as smiling, and often interrupted by her own deep emotion,

she narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lodoiska's death, and the letter

she had written to her. "Oh, how delightful this hour would be,"

continued she, after finishing her narrative, "if I could only remain

with you! Love bids me go, and yet it keeps me here! I have promised

Feodor to go with him, but I did it in my haste, seeing only him and

listening only to his prayers. Now I see you, my father, and it seems

to me as if I could not leave you to-day."

"To-day!" cried Gotzkowsky, and a ray of joy shone from his face. He

arose, and, with folded arms, paced the room. His soul was full of

gratitude to God, to whom he had prayed in his despair. Was this not

a sign that God was with him, even if men forsook him?--that God had

pity on him, even if all others were pitiless. This day his child

wished to leave him, to enter on a brilliant destiny. He had,

therefore, no longer any need to be anxious about her fate; and, as

she was going to leave at once, he would be spared the torture of

having her as a witness to his disgrace and degradation. He took her

to his breast, and kissed her with heartfelt fervor. "Farewell, my

child, my only happiness; you wish to leave me. I will be alone, but

I will have time to think of and pray for you." He then cast her from

him almost roughly, for he felt as if his grief would unman him. "Go,"

he cried, "your bridegroom is waiting for you; go, then, and order

your bridal ornaments."

Elise smiled. "Yes, I will adorn myself; but you, father, will place

the wreath of myrtle on my head, will you not? That is the sacred

and last office of love with which a mother sends a daughter from her

arms. I have no mother. You are both father and mother to me. Will you

not crown me with the myrtle-wreath?"

"Yes," said he, with a sigh, "I will place the myrtle on your brow,

and God grant it may not turn to a crown of thorns! Go now, my child,

adorn thyself, and leave me alone to pray for you."

He greeted her smilingly, and accompanied her to the door. But when

she had left the room he felt indescribably lonesome, and, pressing

his hands against his breast to suppress the cry which choked him, he

muttered in a low tone, "I have lost her--she is mine no longer. Every

thing forsakes me. The unfortunate is ever alone!"

Once more a knocking, repeated at his door, awakened him from his

reverie. Peter his servant entered, and announced Herr Ephraim.

A ray of joyful astonishment flashed across him, and, as he stepped

hastily toward the rich Jew of the mint, he said to himself: "Is it

possible that this man comes to have pity on me in my distress? Will

he be more magnanimous than Itzig? Will he assist me?"

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIII.

EPHRAIM THE TEMPTER.

"You seek me?" asked Gotzkowsky, as Ephraim entered and saluted him in

silence.

Gotzkowsky's sharp glance had detected in his insolent hearing and

contracted features that it was not pity or sympathy which had brought

the Jew to him, but only a desire to gloat over the sufferings of his

victim. "He shall not enjoy his triumph. He shall find me collected

and determined, and shall not suspect my grief." Thus thinking, he

forced his features into a cheerful expression, and handing a chair

to the still silent Ephraim, said laughingly: "Indeed, I must be in a

dangerous plight, if the birds of prey are already settling around me.

Do you already scent my death, Herr Ephraim? By Heaven! that would be

a dainty morsel for you!"

"You are angry with me," said Ephraim, shaking his head slowly; "but

you shall know how much injustice you do me. I bring you an important

and fearful piece of news."

"It must be fearful, indeed," interrupted Gotzkowsky, "as you do

yourself the pleasure of bringing it to me in person."

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and abruptly replied, "De Neufville has

failed!"

A cry of horror escaped Gotzkowsky's lips; he staggered, and was

obliged to support himself by a chair to keep himself from falling.

This was the last, decisive blow, and it had wounded him mortally. "De

Neufville has failed!" he muttered low to himself.

"Yes, he is bankrupt!" said Ephraim with scarcely suppressed malice.

"The proud Christian merchant, whose greatest pleasure it was to

look down with contempt upon the Jew Ephraim, he is bankrupt. The Jew

stands firm, but the Christian merchant is broken." And as he spoke,

he broke into a scornful laugh, which brought back to Gotzkowsky his

composure and self-possession.

"You triumph!" he said, "and on your brow is marked your rejoicing

over our fall. Yes! you have conquered, for De Neufville's failure

is your deed. It was you who persecuted him so long, and by cunning

suspicions and calumny undermined his credit until it was destroyed,

and the whole edifice of his honorable industry fell together."

"It _is_ my work," cried Ephraim exultingly, "for he stood in my way,

and I have pushed him out of it--what more? Life is but a combat;

whoever is the strongest--that is, has the most money--is conqueror."

"De Neufville has fallen--that is a hard blow," muttered Gotzkowsky;

and as his wandering eye met Ephraim's, he added with an expression

of complete prostration: "Enjoy my suffering; you have succeeded--I am

hurt unto death!"

"Listen to me, Gotzkowsky," said Ephraim, approaching nearer to him;

"I mean well by you."

"Oh, yes!" said Gotzkowsky, bitterly; "after you have hastened my

downfall, you condescend to love me. Yes, indeed! I believe in your

friendship; for none but a friend would have had the heart to bring

such a Job's message."

Ephraim shook his head. "Listen to me," said he; "I will be quite

candid with you. Formerly I hated you, it is true, for you were more

powerful and richer than I was; you were renowned for being honest and

punctual, and that hurt me. If a large bargain was to be made, they

were not satisfied unless Gotzkowsky was concerned in it, and if your

name stood at the bottom of a contract, every one was pleased. Your

name was as good as gold, and that vexed me."

"And for that reason you wished to overthrow me, and worked

unceasingly for my downfall; because you knew that I expected this

remittance of light money from Hamburg!"

"I procured the decision that the light money should be declared

uncurrent, that is true. I succeeded. From this hour I am more

powerful and richer than you. You shall see that I only hated your

house, not yourself; I have come to help you. You must indeed fail;

that I am aware of, and that if you were to put forth all your power,

you could not stand this blow, You must and will fail, and that this

very day."

Gotzkowsky muttered some unintelligible words, and covered his face

with his hands. "Yes," he cried, piteously, "I and all my hopes have

suffered shipwreck."

Ephraim laid his hand suddenly upon his shoulder. "Seek, then, to save

some plank from the wreck, on which you may swim. You can no longer

save your creditors; save yourself."

Gotzkowsky removed his hands slowly from his face, and looked at him

with astonishment and wonder.

Ephraim met his look with a smiling and mysterious expression, and

bending down to Gotzkowsky's ear, whispered: "I think you will not be

such a fool as to give up all you have to your creditors, and to go

out of your house a poor man. Intrust me with your important papers,

and all that you possess of money and valuables, and I will preserve

them for you. You do not answer. Come, be reasonable; do not allow the

world the pleasure of pitying you; it does not deserve it. Believe

me, mankind is bad; and he is a fool who strives to be better than

his fellows." He stopped, and directed an inquiring look toward

Gotzkowsky.

The latter regarded him proudly and with contempt. "This, then, is

your friendship for me? You wish to make me a cheat!"

"Every man cheats his neighbor," cried Ephraim, shrugging his

shoulders; "why should you alone be honest?"

"Because I do not wish to be ashamed of myself. It is the fault of

others that I fall to-day. It shall not be said that Gotzkowsky is

guilty of any crime of his own."

"It will be said, nevertheless," interrupted Ephraim; "for whoever is

unfortunate, is in the wrong, in the eyes of men. And if he can help

himself at the expense of others, and does not do it, do you think men

will admire him for it? No! believe me, they will only laugh at him.

I have often been sorry for you, Gotzkowsky; for, with all your good

sense, your whole life through has been a miscalculation--"

"Or rather say," said Gotzkowsky, sadly, "I have not calculated

enough, and from all the experiences of my life I have not drawn the

sum total."

"You miscalculated," said Ephraim, "for you calculated on gratitude.

That is a bad investment which does not bear interest. Mankind cannot

be grateful, and when any one tries to be so he must sink, for others

are not so. Whoever wishes to succeed in this world, must think only

of himself, and keep his own interest in sight."

"You wise men of the world are right!" cried Gotzkowsky, with a hoarse

laugh.

Unhindered by Gotzkowsky's vehement and scornful bearing, Ephraim

continued: "If I had thought as you did, I would not have been able

to operate against you, nor could I have brought the mint ordinance

to bear on you. Then, to be sure, I would have been grateful, but it

would not have been business-like. Therefore I thought first of my

own welfare, and after that I came here to serve you, and show you my

gratitude."

"I do not desire any gratitude. Let me go my way--you go yours."

Ephraim looked at him almost pityingly. "Be reasonable, Gotzkowsky;

take good advice. The world does not thank you for being honorable.

Mankind has not deserved the pleasure of laughing at you. And they

will laugh!"

"Leave me, I tell you!" cried Gotzkowsky; "you shall not deprive me of

my last possession, my conscience!"

"Conscience!" sneered Ephraim. "You will starve on that capital."

Gotzkowsky sighed deeply and dropped his head on his breast. At this

moment there were heard from without loud hurrahs and jubilant sounds,

mingled with the tones of martial music.

King Frederick II. was returning this day to Berlin, after a long

absence, and the happy and delighted Berliners had prepared for him a

pompous and brilliant entry. They had built triumphal arches, and the

guilds had gone forth to accompany him into the city, now adorned

for festivity. The procession had to pass by Gotzkowsky's house, and

already were heard the sounds of the approaching music, while the

shouts and cries of the people became louder and shriller.

Ephraim stepped to the window, opened it, and pointing down into the

street, he said, with a mocking laugh: "Just look, Gotzkowsky! There

is the true test of your beautiful, high-toned principles. How often

has Berlin not called you her benefactor, and yet she is overjoyed

on the very day you are going to ruin! The whole town of Berlin knows

that Gotzkowsky fails to-day, and yet they pass by your house with

merry music, and no one thinks of you."

"He is right," murmured Gotzkowsky, as the huzzas sounded under his

window. "He is right! I was a fool to love mankind."

Ephraim pointed down into the street again. "See," said he, "there

comes Count Salm, whom you saved from death when the Russians

were here. He does not look up here. Ah, there goes the banker,

Splittyerber, whose factories in Neustadt Eberswald you saved at the

same time. He, too, does not look up. Oh! yes, he does, and laughs.

Look there! There goes the king with his staff. You have caused his

majesty much pleasure. You accomplished his favorite wish--you founded

the porcelain factory. You travelled at your own expense into Italy,

and bought pictures for him. You preserved his capital from pillage

by the Austrians and Russians. The Dutch ambassador, who at that time

interfered in favor of Berlin with the Austrians, him has the king in

his gratitude created a count. What has he done for you? What Verelse

did was but a trifle in comparison with your services, yet he,

forsooth, is made a count. What has the king done for you? See, the

king and his staff has passed by, and not one of them has looked up

here. Yesterday they would have done so, for yesterday you were rich;

but to-day they have forgotten you already: for to-day you are poor,

and the memory of the people is very short for the poor. Ah! look down

again, Gotzkowsky--so many gentlemen, so many high-born people are

passing! Not one looks up!"

Against his will Gotzkowsky had been drawn to the window, and, enticed

by Ephraim's words, he had looked down anxiously and mournfully at the

brilliant procession which was passing by. How much would he not have

given if only one of the many who had formerly called themselves his

friends had looked up at him, had greeted him cordially? But Ephraim

was right. No one did so. No one thought of him who, with a broken

heart, was leaning beside the window, asking of mankind no longer

assistance or help, but a little love and sympathy. But, as he looked

down into the street again, his countenance suddenly brightened up.

He laid his hand hastily on Ephraim's shoulder, and pointed to the

procession.

"You are right," said he; "the respectable people do not look up here,

but here comes the end of the procession, the common people, the poor

and lowly, the workmen. Look at them! See how they are gazing at me.

Ah, they see me, they greet me, they wave their hats! There, one of

them is putting his hand to his face. He is a day-laborer who formerly

worked in my factory. This man is weeping, and because he knows that

I have been unfortunate. See! here come others--poor people in ragged

clothes--women with nurslings in their arms--tottering old men--they

all bend dewy eyes on me. Do you see? they smile at me. Even the

children stretch up their arms. Ah, they love me, although I am no

longer rich."

And turning with a beaming face and eyes moistened with tears toward

Ephraim, he exclaimed: "You tell me that I have miscalculated. No!

you are mistaken. I calculated on the kernel of humanity, not on the

degenerate shell. And this noble kernel of humanity resides in the

people, the workmen, and the poor. I trusted in these, and they have

not betrayed my confidence."

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders. "The people are weathercocks; they

will stone to-morrow the same men whom they bless to-day. Only wait

until public opinion has condemned you, and the people, too, will

forsake you. Protect yourself, then, against men. When you were rich,

every one partook of your liberality; now that you are poor, no one

will be willing to share your misfortune. Therefore save yourself,

I tell you. Collect whatever papers and valuables you may have. Give

them to me. By the God of my fathers I will preserve them faithfully

and honestly for you!"

Gotzkowsky repulsed him with scorn, and indignant anger flashed from

his countenance. "Back from me, tempter!" cried he, proudly. "It is

true you possess the wisdom of the world, but one thing is wanting in

your wisdom--the spirit of honor. I know that this does not trouble

you much, but to me it is every thing. You are right: I will be a

beggar, and men will point at me with their finger, and laugh me to

scorn. But I will pass them by proudly, nor will I bend my head before

them, for my dignity and honor as a man are unconnected with gold

or property. These are my own, and when I die, on my tomb will be

written--'He died in poverty, but he was an honorable man.'"

"Fool that you are!" exclaimed Ephraim, laughing in contempt. "You are

speculating on your epitaph, while the fortune of your life slips away

from you. Take my advice: there is yet time to secure your future."

"Never, if it is to be accomplished by frauds!"

"Think of your daughter."

A painful quivering flitted across Gotzkowsky's face. "Who gives you a

right to remind me of her?" asked he angrily. "Do not soil her name by

pronouncing it. I have nothing in common with you."

"Yes, you have, though," said Ephraim with a wicked smile. "You have

done me a good deed, and I am thankful. That is something in common."

Gotzkowsky did not answer him. He crossed the room hastily, and

stepped to his writing-table, out of a secret drawer of which he drew

a dark-red case. He opened it and snatched out the diamond ring that

was contained in it.

"I do not wish your gratitude," said he, turning to Ephraim, anger

flashing from his countenance--"and if you could offer me all the

treasures of the world, I would throw them to the earth, as I do this

ring!" And he cast down the costly jewel at Ephraim's feet.

The latter raised it coolly from the ground and examined it carefully.

He then broke out into a loud, scornful laugh. "This is the ring which

the Jews presented to you when you procured our exemption from the

war-tax. You give it to me?"

"I give it to you, and with it a curse on the tempter of my honor!"

"You repulse me, then? You will have none of my gratitude?"

"Yes; if your hand could save me from the abyss, I would reject it!"

"Let it be so, then," said Ephraim; and his face assumed an expression

of hatred and malice--for now it could be perceived that the rich

Ephraim was again overcome by Gotzkowsky, although the latter was a

poor and shattered man. His sympathy and his help had only met with

a proud refusal from him whom he had not succeeded in humbling and

dragging down to the dust.

"Let it be so, then!" he repeated, gnashing his teeth. "You will

not have it otherwise. I take the ring," and looking at Gotzkowsky

maliciously, he continued: "With this ring I will buy you a place in

the churchyard, that the dishonored bankrupt may, at least, find

an honorable grave, and not be shovelled in like De Neufville the

suicide!"

"What do you say--De Neufville is dead?" cried Gotzkowsky, hurrying

after him as he neared the door, and seizing him violently by the arm.

"Say it once more--De Neufville is dead?"

Ephraim enjoyed for a moment, in silence, Gotzkowsky's terrible grief.

He then freed himself from his grasp and opened the door. But turning

round once more, and looking in Gotzkowsky's face with a devilish

grin, he slowly added, "De Neufville killed himself because he could

not survive disgrace." And then, with a loud laugh, he slammed the

door behind him.

Gotzkowsky stared after him, and his soul was full of inexpressible

grief. He had lost in De Neufville not only a friend whom he loved,

and on whose fidelity he could count, but his own future and his last

hope were buried in his grave. But his own tormenting thoughts left

him no leisure to mourn over his deceased friend. It was the kind of

death that De Neufville had chosen which occupied his mind.

"He came to his death by his own hand; he did not wish to survive his

disgrace. He has done right--for when disgrace begins, life ends--and

shall I live," asked he aloud, as almost angrily he threw his head

back, "an existence without honor, an existence of ignominy and

misery? I repeat it, De Neufville has done right. Well, then, I dare

not do wrong; my friend has shown me the way. Shall I follow him? Let

me consider it."

He cast a wild, searching look around the room, as if he feared

some eye might be looking at him, and read desperate thoughts in

the quivering of his face. "Yes! I will consider it," whispered he,

uneasily. "But not here--there in my cabinet, where every thing is

so silent and solitary, no one will disturb me. I will think of it,

I say." And with a dismal smile he hurried into his study, and closed

the door behind him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIV.

ELISE.

The bridal costume was completed, and with a bright face, smiling and

weeping for sheer happiness, Elise stood looking at herself in a large

Venetian mirror. Not from vanity, nor to enjoy the contemplation of

her beauty, but to convince herself that all this was not a dream,

only truth, delightful truth. The maiden, with blushing cheeks, stood

and looked in the glass, in her white dress, till she smiled back

again; so like a bride, that she shouted aloud for joy, kissed her

hand to herself, in the fulness of her mirth, as she greeted and

smiled again to her image in the mirror. "I salute you, happy bride!"

said she, in the exuberance of her joy. "I see in your eyes that you

are happy, and so may God bless you! Go forth into the world and teach

it by your example, that for a woman there is no happiness but love,

no bliss but that of resting in the arms of her lover. But am I

not too simply clad?" cried she, interrupting herself suddenly, and

examining herself critically in the glass. "Yes, indeed, that simple,

silly child is not worthy of such a handsome and splendid cavalier:

a white silk dress and nothing else! How thoughtless and foolish has

happiness made me! My Heaven! I forgot that he comes from the land

of diamonds, and that he is a prince. Oh! I will adorn myself for my

prince." And she took from her desk the costly set of diamonds, the

legacy of her mother, and fastened the glittering brilliants in her

ears, on her arms, and the necklace set with diamonds and emeralds

around her snow-white neck.

"Now that looks splendid," said she, as she surveyed herself again.

"Now perhaps I may please him. But the last ornament is still

wanting--my myrtle-wreath--but that my father shall put on." Looking

at the wreath, she continued, in a more serious and sad tone: "Crown

of love and of death! it is woven in the maiden's hair when she dies

as a maiden, whether it be to arise again as a wife or as a purified

spirit." And raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she exclaimed: "I

thank Thee, O God, for granting me all this happiness. My whole life,

my whole future, shall evince but gratitude toward Thee, who art the

God of love."

Soon, however, it became too close and solitary in this silent

chamber. She wished to go to her father, to throw herself on his

breast, to pour out to him all her happiness, her affection, her joy,

in words of thankfulness, of tender child-like love. How the

white satin dress rustled and shone! how the diamonds sparkled and

glittered, as, meteor-like, they flitted down the dark corridor! With

a bright, happy smile, holding the wreath in her hand, she stepped

into her father's room. But the apartment was empty. She crossed it

in haste to seek him in his study. The doors were locked and no one

answered her loud calls. She supposed he had gone out, and would

doubtless soon return. She sat down to await him, and soon sank into

deep thought and reverie. What sweet and precious dreams played around

her, and greeted her with happy bodings of the future!

The door opened, and she started up to meet her father. But it was not

her father--it was Bertram. And how altered--how pale and troubled

he looked! He hardly noticed her, and his eye gleamed on her without

seeing her. What was it that had so changed him? Perhaps he already

knew that she was to be married to-day, and that her lover, so long

mourned, had returned to her. She asked confusedly and anxiously for

her father.

"My God! is he not here, then?" asked Bertram in reply. "I must speak

to him, for I have things of the greatest importance to tell him."

Elise looked at him with inquiring astonishment. She had never seen

him so intensely excited in his whole being, and unwillingly she asked

the cause of his trouble and anxiety.

Bertram denied feeling any anxiety, and yet his eye wandered around

searchingly and uneasily, and his whole frame was restless and

anxious. This only made Elise the more eager to find out the cause of

his trouble. She became more pressing, and Bertram again assured her

that nothing had happened.

Elise shook her head distrustfully. "And yet I do not deceive myself!

Misfortune stands written on your brow." Then, turning pale with

terror, she asked, "Do you bring my father bad news?"

Bertram did not answer, but cast his eyes on the ground to escape her

searching gaze. There awoke in her breast all the anxiety and care of

a loving daughter, and she trembled violently as she implored him

to inform her of the danger that threatened her father. He could

withstand her no longer. "She must learn it some time; it is better

she should hear it from me," muttered he to himself. He took her hand,

led her to the sofa, and, sitting down by her side, imparted to her

slowly and carefully, always endeavoring to spare her feelings, the

terrible troubles and misfortunes of her father. But Elise was little

acquainted with the material cares of life. She, who had never

known any extreme distress, any real want, could not understand how

happiness and honor could depend on money. When Bertram had finished,

she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some oppressive anxiety.

"How you have frightened me!" said she, smiling. "Is that all the

trouble--we are to be poor? Well, my father does not care much about

money."

"But he does about his honor," said Bertram.

"Oh, the honor of my father cannot stand in any danger," cried Elise,

with noble pride.

Bertram shook his head. "But it is in danger, and though _we_ are

convinced of his innocence, the world will not believe it. It will

forget all his noble deeds, all his high-mindedness and liberality, it

will obliterate all his past, and only remember that this day, for the

first time in his life, he has it not in his power to fulfil his word.

It will condemn him as if he were a common cheat, and brand him with

the disgraceful name of bankrupt." With increasing dismay Elise had

watched his countenance as he spoke. Now, for the first time, the

whole extent of the misfortune which was about to befall her father

seemed to enter her mind, and she felt trembling and crushed. She

could feel or think of nothing now but the evil which was rushing

in upon her parent, and with clasped hands and tears in her eyes she

asked Bertram if there was no more hope; if there was no one who could

avert this evil from her father.

Bertram shook his head sadly. "His credit is gone--no one comes to his

assistance."

"No one?" asked Elise, putting her hand with an indescribable

expression on his shoulder. "And you, my brother?"

"Ah, I have tried every thing," said he; and even in this moment

her very touch darted through him like a flash of delight. "I have

implored him with tears in my eyes to accept the little I possess, to

allow me the sacred right of a son. But he refused me. He will not, he

says, allow a stranger to sacrifice himself for his sake. He calls me

a stranger! I know that my fortune cannot save him, but it may delay

his fall, or at least cancel a portion of his debt, and he refuses me.

He says that if I were his son, he would consent to what he now

denies me. Elise," he continued, putting aside, in the pressure of the

moment, all consideration and all hesitation, "I have asked him for

your hand, my sister, that I may in reality become his son. I know

that you do not love, but you might esteem me; for the love I bear

your father, you might, as a sacrifice to your duty as a daughter,

accept my hand and become my bride."

He ceased, and looked anxiously and timidly at the young girl, who

sat blushing and trembling by his side. She felt that she owed him an

answer; and as she raised her eyes to him, and looked into his noble,

faithful face, which had never changed, never altered--as she thought

that Bertram had always loved her with the same fidelity, the same

self-sacrifice--with a love which desired nothing, wished for nothing

but her happiness and contentment, she was deeply moved; and, for the

first time, she felt real and painful remorse. Freely and gracefully

she offered him her hand.

"Bertram," she said, "of all the men whom I know, you are the most

noble! As my soul honors you, so would my heart love you, if it were

mine."

Bertram bent over her hand and kissed it; but as he looked at her, his

eye accidentally caught sight of the sparkling jewels which adorned

her arms and neck, and aware for the first time of her unusually

brilliant toilet, he asked in surprise the occasion for it.

"Oh, do not look at it," cried Elise; "tell me about my father. What

did he answer you when you asked him for my hand?"

"That he would never accept such a sacrifice from his daughter, even

to save himself from death."

"And is his fall unavoidable?" asked Elise thoughtfully.

"I almost fear it is. This morning already reports to that effect were

current in the town, and your father himself told me that if Russia

insisted on payment, he was lost irretrievably. Judge, then, of my

horror, when I have just received from a friend in St. Petersburg the

certain intelligence that the empress has already sent a special envoy

to settle this business with the most stringent measures. This half

a million must be of great importance to the empress, when, for the

purpose of collecting it, she sends her well-known favorite, Prince

Stratimojeff!"

Elise started from her seat in horror, and stared at Bertram. "Whom

did she send?"

"Her favorite, Stratimojeff," repeated Bertram, calmly.

Elise shuddered; her eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks burned. "Who

has given you the right to insult the Prince Stratimojeff, that you

call him the favorite of the adulterous empress?"

Bertram looked at her in astonishment. "What is Prince Stratimojeff

to you?" said he. "The whole world knows that he is the favorite

of Catharine. Read, then, what my correspondent writes me on the

subject." He drew forth a letter, and let Elise read those passages

which alluded especially to the mission of the imperial favorite.

Elise uttered a scream, and fell back fainting on the sofa; every

thing swam before her; her blood rushed to her heart; and she muttered

faintly, "I am dying--oh, I am dying!" But this momentary swoon soon

passed over, and Elise awoke to full consciousness and a perception of

her situation. She understood every thing--she knew every thing. With

a feeling of bitter contempt she surveyed all the circumstances--her

entire, pitiable, sorrowful misfortune. "Therefore, then," said she to

herself, almost laughing in scorn, "therefore this hasty wedding, this

written consent of the empress--I was to be the cloak of this criminal

intercourse. Coming from her arms, he was anxious to present me to the

world. 'Look! you calumniate me! this is my wife, and the empress is

as pure as an angel!'" She sprang up, and paced the room with

hasty steps and rapid breathing. Her whole being was in a state of

excitement and agitation. She shuddered at the depth of pitiable

meanness she had discovered in this man, who not only wished to cheat

and delude her, but was about, as if in mockery of all human feeling,

to make herself the scapegoat of her imperial rival.

She did not notice that Bertram was looking at her in all

astonishment, and in vain seeking a clew to her conduct. "This is too

much!" cried she, half soliloquizing. "Love cannot stand this! Love!

away with the word--I would despise myself if I could find a spark of

this love in my heart!" She pressed her hands to her breast, as if she

wished thereby to extinguish the flames which were consuming her "Oh!"

she cried, "it burns fearfully, but it is not love! Hate, too, has

its fires. I hate him! I know it now--I hate him, and I will have

vengeance on the traitor! I will show him that I scorn him!" Like an

infuriated tigress she darted at the myrtle-wreath which lay on the

table. "The bond of love is broken, and I will destroy it as I do this

wreath!" she exclaimed, wildly; but suddenly a gentle hand was laid

upon her extended arm, and Bertram's soft and sympathizing voice

sounded in her ear.

What he said, what words he used--he who now understood all, and

perceived the fulness of her grief--with what sincere, heart-born

words he sought to comfort her, she neither knew nor understood. But

she heard his voice; she knew that a sympathizing friend stood at

her side, ready to offer a helping hand to save her from misery, and

faithfully to draw her to his breast. She would have been lost, she

would have gone crazy, if Bertram had not stood at her side. She felt

it--she knew it. Whenever she had been threatened with calamity, he

was always near, to watch and shield, to afford her peace and comfort.

"Bertram! Bertram!" she cried, trembling in every limb, "protect me.

Do not shut me out from your heart! have pity on me!" She leaned her

head on his breast and wept aloud. Now, in her sorrow, she felt it to

be a blessing that he was present, and for the first time she had

a clear consciousness that God had sent him to her to be a helping

friend, a guardian angel.

The illusions and errors of her whole life fell from before her eyes

like a veil, and she saw in a clear light both herself and Bertram.

And now, as she leaned her head upon his breast, her thoughts became

prayers, and her tears thank-offerings. "I have entertained an angel

unawares," said she, remembering, unintentionally, the language of

Holy Writ. When Bertram asked the meaning of her words, she answered,

"They mean that an erring heart has found the right road home."

She wiped away her tears with her long locks. She would no longer

weep, nor shed a single tear for the false, intriguing traitor, the

degenerate scion of a degenerate race. He was not worthy of a sigh of

revenge, not even of a reproach. A mystery had slept in her breast,

and she thought to have found the true solution in the word "Feodor!"

but she was mistaken, and God had allowed this long-mourned,

long-desired man to return to her, that she might be allowed to read

anew the riddle of her heart more correctly, to find out its deceitful

nature, its stubborn pride, and to conquer them. Thus thinking, she

raised her head from Bertram's breast, and looked at him "You asked my

father for my hand. Do you still love me?"

Bertram smiled. This question seemed so strange and singular! "Do I

love you?" asked he. "Can he ever cease to love who has once loved?"

"Do you still love me?" she repeated.

"Faithfully and honorably," said he, with feeling.

"Faithfully and honorably!" cried Elise, deeply moved. "Oh those are

words as strong as rocks, and like the shipwrecked sailor, I will

cling to them to save myself from sinking. Oh, Bertram, how good you

are! You love my father, and desire to be his son, only for the sake

of helping him."

"And if need be, to work for him, to give up my life for him!"

With her bright eyes she looked deeply into his, and held out her hand

to him. "Give me your hand, Bertram," said she, softly. "You were a

better son to my father than I have been a daughter. I will learn from

you. Will you be my teacher?"

Bertram gazed at her astonished and inquiringly. She replied to this

look with a sweet smile, and like lightning it shot through his heart,

and a happy anticipation pervaded his entire soul. "My God! my God!

is it possible?" murmured he, "is the day of suffering, indeed, past?

Will--"

He felt Elise suddenly shudder, and pressing his hand significantly,

she whispered, "Silence, Bertram, look there!"

Bertram followed the direction of her eyes, and saw Gotzkowsky, who

had opened the door of his study, and was entering the room, his

features pale and distorted, and his gaze fixed. "He does not see us,"

whispered Elise. "He is talking to himself. Do not disturb him."

In silence she pointed to the curtains just behind them, concealing

a recess, in the middle of which stood a costly vase. "Let us conceal

ourselves," said she, and, unnoticed by Gotzkowsky, they glided behind

the curtains.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

THE RESCUE.

Gotzkowsky had closed with life and earthly affairs. He had signed the

document declaring him a bankrupt, and he had delivered over all his

property to his creditors. The die had been cast. He had been powerful

and great through money, but his power and greatness had now gone from

him, for he was poor. The same men who yesterday had bowed down to the

ground before him, had to-day passed him by in pride and scorn; and

those who had vowed him eternal gratitude, had turned him from their

door like a beggar. Why should he continue to bear the burdens of

a life which had no longer any allurements, and whose most precious

jewel, his honor, he had lost?

De Neufville had done right, and only a coward would still cling to

life after all that was worth living for had disappeared. They should

not point scornfully at him as he went along the streets. He would not

be condemned to hear whispered after him, "Look! there goes Gotzkowsky

the bankrupt." No, this fearful word should never wound his ears or

pierce his heart.

Once more only would he pass through those streets, which had so often

seen him in his glory--once more, not poor, nor as the laughing-stock

of children, but so that those who now derided him should bow down

before him, and honor him as the mourning emblem of departed honor:

only his body should pass by these men who had broken his heart. He

had determined to quit this miserable existence, to leave a world

which had proved itself to him only a gulf of wickedness and malice,

and his freed spirit would wing its way to regions of light and

knowledge.

With such thoughts he entered the room which was to be the scene of

his last hours. But he would not go down to the grave without bearing

witness to the wickedness and malice of the world. His death should be

a monument of its disgrace and ingratitude.

For this purpose he had sought this room, for in it was the costly

_étagère_ on which stood the silver pitcher presented to him by the

Council of Leipsic as a token of their gratitude, and from it he would

drink his fatal draught. He took it and emptied into it a small white

powder, that looked so innocent and light, and yet was strong enough

to drag him down with leaden weight into the grave. He then took the

water-goblet and poured water on it. The draught was ready; all that

was necessary was for him to put it to his lips to imbibe eternal

rest, eternal oblivion.

Elise saw it all--understood it all. She folded her hands and prayed;

her teeth chattered together, and all that she could feel and know

was, that she must save him, or follow him to the grave. "When he

raises the pitcher to his lips, I will rush out," she whispered to

Bertram, softly, and opened the curtains a little in order to watch

him.

Gotzkowsky had returned to the _étagère_. He took the silver-oaken

wreath, the civic crown presented to him by the city of Berlin, and

looked at it with a bitter, scornful smile. "I earned this," he said,

half aloud--"I will take it with me to the grave. They shall find my

corpse crowned with this wreath, and when they turn away in shame, the

broken bankrupt, John Gotzkowsky, will enjoy his last triumph over a

degenerate world." And as if in a dream, in the feverish delirium of

grief, he placed the wreath on his brow, then for a moment stood with

his head bent in deep thought.

It was a strange picture to see his proud, tall figure, his pale,

nervous face, crowned with the silver wreath, and opposite to him,

looking through the curtains, his daughter, whose glowing eyes were

eagerly watching her father.

And now Gotzkowsky seized the silver pitcher, raised it on high--it

had already touched his lips--but suddenly he staggered back. A

dearly-loved voice had called his name. Ah, it was the voice of his

daughter, whom he had forgotten in the bitterness of his grief. He had

believed his heart dead to all feeling, but love still lived in him,

and love called him back to life. Like an electric shock it flew

through his whole frame.

He put the pitcher down, and covering his face with his hands, cried,

"Oh, unnatural father! I forgot my child!"

Behind him stood Elise, praying to God eagerly and fervently. She

wished to appear quite composed, quite unsuspicious, that her father

might not have even an inkling of her knowledge of his dark design.

Her voice dare not tremble, her eye must remain clear and calm, and a

smile play about her lips, which yet quivered with the anxious prayers

she had just offered to God. "My father!" she said, in a low but quiet

voice--"my father, I come to beg your blessing. And here is the myrtle

wreath with which you were to adorn me."

Gotzkowsky still kept his face covered, but his whole frame trembled.

"I thank Thee, O my God! I thank Thee! the voice of my child has saved

me." And turning round suddenly, he stretched out both arms toward

her, exclaiming aloud: "Elise, my child, come to my heart, and comfort

your father."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, rushed into his arms, and nestled close to

his heart. She whispered in his ear words of fervent love, of warmest

affection. They fell on Gotzkowsky's heart like soothing balm; they

forced tears of mingled joy and repentance from his eyes.

A long while did they remain locked in each other's arms. Their lips

were silent, but their hearts spoke, and they understood each other

without words. Then Elise raised herself from her father's embrace,

and, again offering him the myrtle-wreath, said with a smile, "And

now, my father, bless your daughter."

"I will," said Gotzkowsky, drying his eyes. "Yes, from my whole soul

will I bless you. But where is the bridegroom?"

Elise looked at him inquiringly. "Will you bid him, also, welcome?"

"That I will with all my heart!"

Elise approached the curtain, drew it back, and taking Bertram's hand,

led him to her father, saying, with indescribable grace: "My father,

bless your children."

"This is your bridegroom?" asked Gotzkowsky, and for the first time a

sunbeam seemed to flash across his face.

Bertram with a cry of delight drew Elise to his heart. She clung to

him, and said warmly: "I will rest on your breast, Bertram. I will

be as true and as faithful as yourself. You shall reconcile me to

mankind. You will make us both happy again. My father and I put our

hope in you, and we both know it will not be in vain. Is it not so, my

father?" She extended her hand to Gotzkowsky.

He took it, but was too much affected to speak. He pressed it to his

eyes and his breast, and then looked with a smile into the countenance

of his daughter.

Elise continued: "Look, father, life is still worth something. It

gives you a son, who is happy to share your unhappiness with you. It

gives you a daughter, who looks upon every tear of yours as a jewel in

your crown; who would be proud to go as a beggar with her father from

place to place, and say to all the world, 'Gotzkowsky is a beggar

because he was rich in love toward his fellow-men; he has become poor

because he was a noble man, who had faith in mankind.'" And as she

drew her father into her own and Bertram's embrace, she asked him,

smiling through her tears, "My father, do you still wish to leave your

children?"

"No, I will live--live for you!" cried Gotzkowsky, as, almost overcome

with emotion and pleasure, he threw his arms around their necks, and

kissed them both warmly and lovingly. "A new life is to begin for us,"

said he, cheerfully. "We will seek refuge in a quiet cottage, and take

with us none of the show and luxury for which men work and sell their

souls--none of the tawdriness of life. Will you not be content, Elise,

to be poor, and purchase the honor of your father with the loss of

this vain splendor?"

Elise leaned her head on his shoulder. "I was poor," she said, "when

the world called me rich. Now I am rich when it will call me poor.

Give up every thing that we possess, father, that no one may say

Gotzkowsky owes him any thing, and has not kept his word." With ready

haste she loosened the necklace from her throat, the bracelets from

her arms, and the drops from her ears. "Take these, too," said she,

smiling. "Add them to the rest. We will keep nothing but honor, and

the consciousness of our probity."

"Now I am your son, father," cried Bertram, with beaming eyes. "Now

I have a right to serve you. You dare no longer refuse to accept all

that is mine for your own. We will save the honor of our house, and

pay all our creditors."

"That we will do," exclaimed Gotzkowsky; "I accept your offering, my

son." And joining Elise and Bertram's hands together, he cast grateful

looks to heaven, saying: "From this day forward we are poor, and yet

far richer than many thousands of rich people; for we are of sound

health, and have strong arms to work. We have good consciences, and

that proud contentment which God gives to those only who trust in His

help."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVI.

RETRIBUTION.

The appointed hour had arrived, and in the full splendor of his rich

uniform, decorated with orders, and glittering with diamonds bestowed

upon him by the favor of two empresses, Prince Feodor von Stratimojeff

entered Gotzkowsky's house. With the proud step of victory he ascended

the stairs that led to the apartments of his bride. The goal was at

last reached. The beautiful, lovely, and wealthy maiden was finally to

become his wife. He could present her at the court of St. Petersburg,

and with her beauty, her virtue, and his happiness revenge himself on

the fickle empress. These were his thoughts as he opened the door and

entered Elise's room. There she stood in her white bridal attire, as

delicate, as slender, and as graceful as a lily to the sight. There

stood also her father, and the friend of her youth, Bertram. The

witnesses to the ceremony were present, and nothing more was necessary

but to lead her to the altar. Elise had requested of her father that

she herself should see the prince, and give him his dismissal. She had

also requested that Bertram should be present. She wished to show him

that her heart had, at once and forever, been healed of its foolish

and unholy love, and that she could face the prince without trembling

or hesitation. This was an offering which she wished to bring to the

honor of her future husband and her own pride; and she would have

despised herself if a motion of her eyebrow or a sigh from her breast

had betrayed the sadness which, against her will, she felt in her

heart. She looked, therefore, with a cold and calm eye on the prince

as he entered, and for the first time he seemed no longer the handsome

man, the being endowed with numberless fascinations, of former days.

She read only in his flaccid features the sad history of the past. The

charm was broken which had held her eyes captive. Her vision was clear

again, and she shuddered before this wild, demoniacal beauty which she

had once adored as God's image in man. As she looked at him, she felt

as if she could hate him, because she had loved him; because she had

spent her first youth, her first love, her first happiness, on him;

because he had defrauded her of the peace and innocence of her heart;

and because she no longer had even the right of weeping for her lost

love, but was forced to turn away from it with blushes of shame.

Feodor approached with an air of happy triumph and satisfaction, and,

bowing low to her father, said, with a most exquisite smile, "I have

come to seek my bride--to request Elise's hand of her father."

With eyes beaming with pleasure he offered Elise his hand, but hers

remained calm and cold, and her voice did not tremble or falter as

she said: "I am a bride, but not yours, Prince Stratimojeff;" and

extending her hand to Bertram, she continued: "This is my husband!

To-day, for the third time, he has saved me--saved me from you!"

Prince Feodor felt annihilated, and staggered back as if struck by an

electric shock. "Elise! is this the way you reward my love?" asked he

sadly, after a pause. "Is this the troth you plighted me?"

She stepped up close to him, and said softly: "I kept my heart

faithful to my Feodor, but he ceded it to Prince Stratimojeff. Elise

is too proud to be the wife of a man who owes his title of prince to

the fact of being the favorite of an empress."

She turned and was about to leave the room, but Feodor held her back.

No reserve, no concealment were any longer possible to him. He only

felt that he was infinitely wretched, and that he had lost the hope of

his life. "Elise," he said, in that soft, sad tone, which had formerly

charmed her heart, "I came to you to save me; you have thrust me back

into an abyss. Like a drowning man I stretched out my hand to you,

that in your arms I might live a new life. But Fate is just. It hunts

me back pitilessly from this refuge, and I must and will sink. Well,

then, though the waves of life close over me, my last utterance will

be your name."

Elise found herself capable of the cruel courage of listening to his

pathetic words with a smile: "You will yet have time to think over

your death," said she, with proud composure; and, turning to her

father, she continued, "My business with this gentleman is finished.

Now, father, begin yours." She gave her hand to Bertram, and, without

honoring the prince with another look, she left the room with her

betrothed.

"And now," said Gotzkowsky coldly, "now, sir, let us proceed to our

affairs. Will you have the kindness to follow me to my counting-room?

You have come to Berlin to rob me of my daughter and my property! You

have been unsuccessful in the one; try now the other."

"That I will, that I shall!" cried the prince, gnashing his teeth, and

anger flashing from his eyes. "Elise has been pitiless, I will be so

too."

"And I would hurl your pity from me as an insult," said Gotzkowsky,

"if you offered it."

"We are then enemies, for life and death--"

"Oh, no! We are two tradesmen who bargain and haggle with each other

about the profits. There is nothing more between us." He opened the

door and called in his secretary and his cashier. "This gentleman,"

said Gotzkowsky, with cutting coldness, "is the agent of Russia, sent

here to negotiate with me, and in case I cannot pay, to adopt the most

severe measures toward me. You, gentlemen, will transact this business

with him. You have the necessary instructions." He then turned to the

prince, who stood breathless and trembling from inward excitement,

burning with anger and pain, and leaning against the wall to keep

himself from falling. "Prince," said he, "you will be paid. Take these

thirty thousand dollars; they are the fortune of my son-in-law. He

has given it cheerfully to release us from you. Here, further, are my

daughter's diamonds. Take them to your empress as a fit memorial

of your German deeds, and my pictures will cover the balance of my

indebtedness to you."[1]

"It is too much, it is too much!" cried Prince Feodor; and as if

hunted by the furies, he rushed out, his fists clinched, ready to

crush any one who should try to stop him.

[Footnote 1: Gotzkowsky paid his debt to Russia with thirty thousand

dollars cash; a set of diamonds; and pictures which were taken by

Russia at a valuation of eighty thousand dollars, and formed the first

basis of the imperial gallery at St. Petersburg. Among these were some

of the finest paintings of Titian, some of the best pieces of Rubens,

and one of Rembrandt's most highly executed works--the portrait of his

old mother.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVII.

TARDY GRATITUDE.

John Gotzkowsky, the rich merchant of Berlin, had determined to

struggle no longer with Fate; no longer to undergo the daily

martyrdom of an endangered honor, of a threatened name. Like the

brave Sickenhagen, he said to himself, "Better a terrible end than an

endless terror," and he preferred casting himself down the abyss at

once, to be slowly hurled from cliff to cliff. He had given notice to

the authorities of his failure, and of his intention of making over

all his property to his creditors. He was now waiting to hand over the

assets to the assignees, and leave the house which was no longer his.

Not secretly, however, but openly, in the broad daylight, he would

cross the threshold to pass through the streets of that town which

was so much indebted to him, and which had formerly hailed him as her

savior and preserver. It was inevitable--he must fall, but his fall

should at the same time be his revenge. For the last time he would

open the state apartments of his house; for the last time receive his

guests. But these guests would be the legal authorities, who were to

be his heirs while he was yet alive, and who were to consign his name

to oblivion before death had inscribed it on any tomb-stone.

The announcement of his fall had spread rapidly through the town,

and seemed at last to have broken through the hardened crust which

collects around men's hearts. The promptings of conscience seemed

for a moment to overcome the voice of egotism. The magistrates were

ashamed of their ingratitude; and even the Jews of the mint, Ephraim

and Itzig, had perceived that it would have been better to have

avoided notoriety, and to have raised up the humbled Gotzkowsky, than

to have trodden him in the dust entirely.

Instead of the officials whom he had expected, however, a committee of

the Council, accompanied by Ephraim and Itzig, entered his house and

asked to speak with him. He received them in his apartments of state,

with his children at his side. His figure was erect, his head proudly

raised, and he regarded them, not as an unfortunate, downcast man, but

as a superior would regard his inferiors; and they lowered their eyes

before his penetrating glances, ashamed and conscious of wrong.

"The Council have sent us," said one of the aldermen.

"I have no further business with the Council," said Gotzkowsky,

contemptuously.

"Gotzkowsky, do not be angry with us any longer," said the aldermen,

almost imploringly. "The magistracy, in acknowledgment of your

great services to the city, are ready and willing to pay the sum you

demand." Gotzkowsky shook his head proudly. "I am no longer ready to

accept it. The term has expired; you can no longer buy me off; you

remain my debtors."

"But you will listen to us," cried Itzig. "We come in the name of the

Jews."

"We are empowered to assist you," added Ephraim. "We have been

instructed by the Jews to give you, on the security of your signature

and the prepayment of the interest, as much money and credit as will

prevent your house from failing."

Gotzkowsky's large bright eyes rested for a moment searchingly and

speculatively on Ephraim's countenance; and the light, mocking smile

which stood on the lips of the Jew confirmed his determination, and

strengthened him in his resolution. "My house has failed," said he,

quietly and proudly, and, reading the anxiety and terror depicted on

their countenances, he continued almost exultingly: "yes! my house

has failed. The document in which I announced it and declared myself

a bankrupt, has already been sent to the magistracy and the merchant's

guild."

"You dare not fail!" cried Itzig, in a rage.

"You dare not put this insult upon the Council and the town,"

exclaimed the aldermen, with dignity. "We cannot allow posterity to

say of us, 'The town of Berlin left the noblest of her citizens to

perish in want and misery.'"

"It will be well for me if posterity should say so, for then my name

and my honor will be saved."

"But the magistracy will be delighted to be able to show its gratitude

toward you."

"And the Jews will be delighted, too," cried Itzig. "The Jews are

ready to help you."

Gotzkowsky cast an angry look at him. "That is to say, you have

calculated that it will not profit you if I do fail. You have large

drafts on me, and if I fail, you only get a portion of your debt;

whereas, if I stand, you get the whole. You would be magnanimous from

self-interest, but I do not accept your magnanimity--you shall lose.

Let that be your punishment, and my revenge. You have wounded my heart

unto death, therefore I will strike you on the only spot in which

you are sensitive to pain: I attack your greed of money. You come too

late; I am bankrupt! My drafts are no longer current, but my honor

will not die with my firm."

They were all silent, and gazed down to the earth frowningly. Only one

looked toward Gotzkowsky with a clear, bright eye. This was Ephraim,

who, mindful of his conversation with Gotzkowsky, said to himself,

triumphantly, "He has taken one lesson from me--he has learned to

despise mankind."

But Itzig was only the more furious. "You wish our ruin," said he,

angrily. "You will be ungrateful. The Jews, who made you a present of

a handsome ring, have not deserved that of you. What will the world

say?"

"The world will learn the cause of my ruin, and condemn you," said

Gotzkowsky. "Go, take all that I have; I will reserve nothing; I

despise riches and estate. I wish to be poor; for in poverty is peace.

I turn my back upon this house, and I take nothing with me but this

laurel-wreath and you, my children."

Smilingly he gave his hands to Bertram and Elise. "Come, my children!

let us wander out in the happiness of poverty. We shake the dust from

our feet, and are light and free, for though we are poor, we are rich

in love. Yes, we are poor; but poverty means freedom. We are no longer

dependent upon prejudices, conventionalities, and forms. We have

nothing more to conceal or hide. We need not be ashamed of our

poverty, for we dare to show it to all the world; and when we go

through the streets as ragged beggars, these rich people will cast

down their eyes in shame, for our poverty will accuse them, and our

rags testify against them. Come, my children, let us begin our life of

poverty. But when death comes to take me away, crown my cold brow with

this laurel-wreath, given me by the city of Berlin, and write on my

coffin: 'This is the world's reward!'"[1]

And firm and erect, leaning on his children, Gotzkowsky crossed the

room. No one dared to detain him. Shame and remorse, anger and terror,

kept them all spell-bound. "Let us go, let us go; I have a horror of

this house, and this splendor sickens me."

"Yes! let us go," said Elise, throwing her arms around her father's

neck. They went out into the street. How refreshing did the cool air

seem to them, and how soft and sweet did the calm blue sky look

down upon them! Gotzkowsky gazed up at it. He did not perceive the

multitude of people which stood before his own door, or rather he did

not wish to see them, because he took them for a portion of the idle,

curious populace, which follows misfortune everywhere, and finds a

spectacle for the amusement of its _ennui_ in the suffering of others.

But for this once, Gotzkowsky was mistaken; it was indeed only poor

people who were standing in the street, but their countenances bore

the marks of sympathy, and their looks were sad. They had heard of

his misfortunes, and had hastened hither, not from curiosity, but from

interest in him. They were only factory-hands, to whom Gotzkowsky had

been benefactor, friend, and adviser; they were the poor whom he had

supported and comforted, who now stood before his house, to bid him a

last farewell. To be sure, they could render him no assistance--they

had no money, no treasures--but they brought their love with their

tears.

At the head of the workmen stood Balthazar, with his young wife, and

although his eyes were dimmed with tears, he still recognized his

master who had done him so much kindness; and although his breast was

stifled with grief, yet he controlled himself, and cried out, "Long

live Gotzkowsky, our father!"

"Hurrah for Gotzkowsky! Long may he live!" cried the crowd, not

jubilantly, but in a sad tone, half smothered by tears.

Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with joy, and with a grateful smile

he stretched out his hand to Balthazar. "I thank you, my friend," he

said; "you have often shouted in compliment to me, but never has it

given me so much pleasure as to-day."

"Never has it been done more cordially and sincerely," said Balthazar,

pressing Gotzkowsky's hand to his lips. "You have always been a father

and a friend to us, and we have often been sorry that you were so rich

and powerful that we could not show you how dear you were to us. Now

that you are no longer rich, we can prove that we love you, for we can

work for you. We have come to an agreement among ourselves. Each of

us will give one working-day in the week, and the proceeds shall go to

you, and as there are one hundred and seventy of us workmen, you shall

at least not starve, Father Gotzkowsky."

Gotzkowsky looked at him with eyes glistening with pleasure. "I thank

you, my friends," said he, deeply moved; "and if I do not accept your

offer you must not think that I do not appreciate its greatness or its

beauty. Who can say that I am poor when you love me, my children?"

At that moment, a carriage stopped at the door. Bertram had brought it

to convey them to their new and modest residence.

"Are you going, then, to leave us forever?" said Balthazar mournfully.

"No, my children, I remain among you, in the midst of you. I am only

going to exchange this large house for a smaller one."

"Come," cried Balthazar, "come, my friends, we will escort our father,

Gotzkowsky, to his new house. The town of Berlin shall see that only

rich people are ungrateful, and that the poor never forget their

benefactor and their friend. Come, let us take out the horses. We will

draw Father Gotzkowsky through the streets."

The crowd answered with a thundering hurrah; and with busy haste they

proceeded to the work. The horses were unharnessed, and twelve of the

most powerful workmen crowded around the pole. In vain did Gotzkowsky

beg them to refrain, not to make him an object of general curiosity.

But the people paid no heed to his request--it was a necessity to

their hearts to give him a public proof of their love. Almost by force

they raised him into the carriage, and compelled Bertram and Elise,

who had mixed with the crowd for the purpose of escaping attention,

to take their seats beside him. And now the procession advanced. Women

and workmen went on before, rejoicing and jumping about merrily at the

side of the carriage; and when they met other workmen, these latter

stopped and waved their hats, and greeted Gotzkowsky, calling him

the great factory-lord, the father of his workmen, the benefactor of

Berlin. Especially when the procession came to the low houses and

the poor cottages, the small dusty windows were thrown open, and

sun-browned faces looked out, and toil-hardened hands greeted and

waved.

The forsaken, the ruined Gotzkowsky celebrated this day a splendid

triumph. The jubilant voice that thus did him homage was that of the

people--and the voice of the people is the voice of God!

[Footnote 1: With these words Gotzkowsky closes his autobiography.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE AUCTION.

All was now over--the curtain had fallen: Gotzkowsky had run his

brilliant career, and retired into oblivion. His fall was for some

days the topic of conversation of the good Berliners; but it was

soon superseded by some other novelty, and without either sympathy or

ill-feeling they passed by the deserted house with the closed windows

which had once been Gotzkowsky's residence. The king had purchased

it, in order to carry on, at the expense of the royal government, the

porcelain factory which Gotzkowsky had founded.

Months had passed by. How many changes had taken place in this short

space of time! How many tears had been shed there, how many hopes

destroyed!

Elise had become Bertram's wife; and she lived with him in the small,

quiet residence which they had selected in the most remote quarter of

the town. The three had entered the low, narrow rooms, which were to

be their home, with the firm determination not to let themselves

be annoyed by such slight material privation as they might have to

endure, but to pass them over with cheerful equanimity and proud

indifference, consoling themselves with the conviction that no one

could rob them of their great and pure love. And besides this,

their honor and their reputation were untouched, for every one was

acquainted with Gotzkowsky's fate, every one knew that he had not

fallen through his own fault, but through the force of circumstances,

and the baseness of mankind.

He might have cause of complaint against the world, it had none

against him. With his creditors he had been honest. All that he

possessed he had given up to them, and they were all satisfied. With

proud step and unbent head could he pass through the streets, for no

one dared to follow him with insulting words. Nor had he need to be

ashamed of his poverty, for it was in itself a proof not only of

his unmerited misfortune, but of his integrity. All this he said and

repeated to himself daily, and yet it pained him to go through the

streets, feeling solitary and downcast. His eyes even filled with

tears, as one day passing by his house he saw the gates open, and

equipages, as in former days, at his door, while genteel and rich

people, with cold, apathetic countenances, were entering his house

as they had done of yore. Formerly they came to Gotzkowsky's splendid

dinners, now they had come to the auction. The _fauteuils_ and

velvet-covered sofas, the carpets and gold-embroidered curtains, the

chandeliers of bronze and rock crystal, the paintings and statuary,

the silver table-ware, and the costly porcelain service, all these

were now exposed for sale.

There is something sad and mournful about an auction. It speaks always

of the ruin and breaking up of a man's life and the happiness of his

family, of the wreck of a shattered existence, and the sad remains of

what was once, perhaps, a brilliant destiny. On the day of an auction

there ceases to be a home, the sacred secrets of family life vanish;

home is no longer the abode of peace, and the long-cherished _penates_

hide their heads in grief.

Then the gates are opened, and the curious multitude rushes in, and

with callous eye spies into each corner and every room; tries the

sofas on which, perhaps, yesterday some poor widow sat weeping for her

lost husband; throws itself down on the bed which once had been the

sacred temple of their love; and coldly and unfeelingly examines the

furniture of parlor and boudoir, which yet retains the appearance

of comfort and of genial repose, though soon to be scattered to

the winds, to proclaim aloud its sad and secret story in the gaudy

show-room of some second-hand dealer. All the beauty and splendor of

Gotzkowsky's former days were now to be displayed at auction. For this

reason there stood so many carriages before his door; for this reason

did so many noble and wealthy persons come to his house, and, mixed

with brokers and speculators, crowd into those halls, which they had

formerly trod with friendly smiles and in costly dresses.

No one took any heed of the figure of a man crouching, leaning against

the staircase, with his hat pressed down over his brow, and the collar

of his cloak drawn up high over his face. No one perceived how he

shuddered when the auctioneer handled the beautiful articles and

called on the public to bid. It was to him a terrible grief to assist

at these obsequies of his past life, and yet he could not tear himself

away. He felt fascinated, as it were, by some supernatural power, and

forced to remain in the house and attend this horrible ceremony.

In the tediousness of his lonesome, inactive, idle misery, it was a

species of diversion to him, something to arouse him from his dull

rumination, to be present at this disintegration and demolition of his

own house.

As Jeremiah once sat among the ruins of Jerusalem, so sat Gotzkowsky

with concealed face at the threshold of his house, listening with

savage joy to the strokes of the auctioneer's hammer--albeit each blow

struck him to the heart, and made its wounds smart still more keenly.

At times, when a well-known voice fell on his ear, he would raise

his head a little, and look at the bidders, and examine their cold,

unsympathizing faces. How many were there among them whom he had

once called his friends, and to whom he had done good! And now, like

vultures, they flocked to the carcass of his past; they bought his

treasures, while their eyes glistened with malicious joy. They were

delighted to be able to boast that they possessed a souvenir of the

rich Gotzkowsky.

When Gotzkowsky saw this, he felt ashamed that he had once smiled

lovingly on these men, had confided in them, and believed in their

assurances of friendship. He rose to leave, feeling himself refreshed

and strengthened, for his depression and grief had left him. Never had

he walked the streets more proudly than on the day when he returned

from the auction to his dark, lowly dwelling. Never had he looked upon

mankind with greater pity or more bitter scorn. And yet it pained him

to reënter this dismal, quiet house, and to force himself back

into the _ennui_ and indolence of his inactive life. It was such

a sensitive, burning pain, so, in the fulness of his strength and

manhood to be condemned to do nothing more than drag on a weary

existence--to sleep, to eat, and to dream of the past! And yet he

would repeat to himself, he was strong and active to work and create;

and nevertheless, he was condemned to idleness, to live by the favor

and toil of others, even if these others were his children.

But they worked for him with so much pleasure and so much love!

Bertram had accepted the situation of book-keeper in a large factory,

and his salary was sufficient to support the three. To be sure, they

had to manage carefully, and provide scantily enough. But Elise was

active and notable; though as the spoilt child of wealth, she had,

indeed, been able to learn nothing of those minor offices of life

which are called by women "housekeeping." Still the instinct of her

sex had enabled her soon to acquire this knowledge, and in a short

time she became mistress of it. It was, indeed, a pleasant sight to

see Elise, with the same quiet cheerfulness, acting at one moment the

part of cook in the kitchen, at another setting her little chamber to

rights with busy hands, and making amends in cleanliness and neatness

for what was wanting in elegance and beauty. True, she was altered,

but never since she had been. Bertram's wife had her brow been

darkened or her eye dimmed. Her face was always bright and clear: for

her husband, when he returned home, she had always a smile of welcome,

a cordial greeting--never a word of complaint or of mourning over the

privations she was obliged to undergo, or the wealth she had lost.

Elise felt rich--for she loved her husband; not with that ardent,

consuming passion which she had once felt, and which had been the

cause of so much disappointment and so many tears; but with that

gentle, affectionate flame which never dies out, but is constantly

supplied and nourished by esteem and appreciation.

Bertram was no longer her brother; he was her beloved, her friend, her

counsellor, and comforter, above all. With him she was always certain

to be understood and appreciated, to find comfort and help. As on a

rock, she could now rely on the noble heart of one who was at the same

time so firm, and yet so soft in loving, that he had never doubted

her, never turned away from her. Her whole heart was given up to him

in gratitude and affection, and with her whole life did she wish to

reward him for his noble love, for the self-sacrificing gratitude with

which he had given up his entire fortune to her father, and saved

the name and honor of his house from disgrace and shame. She desired

neither splendor nor jewels. Surrounded by the halo of her love, and

of her quiet, peaceful happiness, this poor, little dwelling seemed

to her as a temple of peace and of holy rest; and, locked in Bertram's

embrace, her wishes never reached beyond its narrow sphere.

But Gotzkowsky was not as yet able to attain this resignation. This

repose was to him an annihilating torment, and the inactive vegetation

a living death. With each day the torture increased, the soreness of

his heart became more corroding and painful. At times he felt as if he

must scream out aloud in the agony of his despair. He would strike his

chest with his clinched fists, and cry to God in the overflow of

his sufferings. He who his whole life long had been active, was now

condemned to idleness; he who through his whole life had worked for

others, was now obliged to lay his hands in his lap, and allow

others to labor for him. How had he deserved this? What crime had he

committed, that after he had toiled and worked honestly, he should go

down, whilst others who had enriched themselves by fraud and lying,

by cunning and malice, should drive through the streets in splendid

carriages, surrounded by elegance and wealth, while he was obliged to

creep along, bowed down with sorrow? He had gone down, while Ephraim

had risen higher and higher. He had become poor because he was honest;

but Ephraim had grown rich on usury. His firm had failed, while

Ephraim continued to coin money. What did the Jew care that his name

was branded by the people, that they spoke with cutting sarcasm of the

pewter-money to which he had so skilfully imparted the appearance of

silver coin, and that he was derided by all? Gotzkowsky's name, too,

had been scoffed at, and he had been a benefactor of the people, while

Ephraim had been their blood-sucking leech.

At last, Gotzkowsky came to a firm determination that he would have

revenge--yes, revenge on this ungrateful generation which had betrayed

and forsaken him--revenge on the men who had shown themselves so small

and pitiful. He wanted to remind those who were flourishing in pride

and splendor, of their meanness and ingratitude. He would accuse no

one, but his whole life was an indictment, not against individual men,

but whole communities and cities, against the king himself. They had

all been ungrateful toward him. They were all his debtors, and in

presence of the whole world he would cast their ingratitude, their

meanness, their malice, and knavery in their face, and humble them

by recalling the past. He wrote for that purpose _The History of his

Life_, not in anger and scorn; he did not dip his pen in gall, he made

no ill-natured reflections, no contemptuous remarks. He did nothing

more than quietly and simply, clearly and truthfully, describe

his life and his deeds, and whenever it was necessary, confirm

his assertions by quotations from the official documents relating

thereto.[1]

The very simplicity and truthfulness of this "_Biography of a

Patriotic Merchant_" procured for it an enormous success, and made the

long-forgotten, much-calumniated Gotzkowsky for a while the topic of

conversation, not only in Berlin, but throughout all Germany. Every

one wanted to read the book. All wished to have the malicious pleasure

of seeing how much people of rank, communities, cities, and princes,

were indebted to this man, and how pitilessly they had let him sink.

The natural consequence was that the book, though written simply and

with reserve, gave great offence. Gotzkowsky had accused no one, but

the facts accused. His present poverty and need condemned the proud,

high-born people, and showed to the world their cold-heartedness and

miserable conduct. He had not exposed _individuals_ to the judgment

of the world; no--his book accused the whole magistracy of Berlin of

deeds of ingratitude; and it even included the king, for whom he had

bought a hundred thousand _ducats_' worth of pictures, and who had

only paid him back a hundred and fifty thousand _dollars_.

If his book had contained the smallest untruth, if there had been

the least false statement in it, they would have stigmatized him as a

calumniator and scandalizer of majesty. But Gotzkowsky had only told

the truth. They could not, therefore, punish him as a false witness

or slanderer. Consequently they had to content themselves with

suppressing "The Life of a Patriotic Merchant."

The booksellers in Berlin were therefore ordered to give up all the

copies, and even Gotzkowsky received an order to return those in his

possession. He did so; he gave up the book to the authorities, who

persecuted him because they had cause to blush before him; but his

memory he could not surrender. His memory remained faithful to

him, and was his support and consolation, whenever he felt ready to

despair; this made him proud in his misfortune, and free in the bonds

of poverty. And now they were really poor; and penury, with all its

horrors, its humiliations and sufferings, crept in upon them.

Gotzkowsky's book had awakened all those who envied and hated him, and

they vowed his ruin. It showed how much the merchants of Berlin

were indebted to him, and how little of this indebtedness they

had cancelled. It was therefore an accusation against the wealthy

merchants of Berlin, against which they could not defend themselves,

but for which they could wreak revenge. Not on him, for he had nothing

they could take from him--no wealth, no name, no credit, and, in

their mercantile eyes, no honor. But they revenged themselves on his

family--on his son-in-law. The rich factory-lord, whose book-keeper

Bertram had been, deprived him of his situation; and in consequence of

a preconcerted arrangement, he could find no situation elsewhere. How

could he now support his family? He was willing to work his fingers to

the bone for his wife, for his father, for his child; who looked up so

lovingly to him with its large, clear, innocent eyes, and dreamt

not of the anxiety of its father, nor of the sighs which told of

the anguish of its young mother. But nowhere could he procure

employment--nowhere was there a situation for the son-in-law of

Gotzkowsky, who had accused the merchants, the magistrates, yea, even

the king! And now they were indeed poor, for they had no work; but,

condemned to inactivity, to comfortless brooding, they shudderingly

asked themselves what was to become of them--how this life of

privation was to end.

But while Bertram and Elise remained sad and dispirited, Gotzkowsky

suddenly brightened up. For a long time he had walked up and down in

silent thought. Now, of a sudden, his countenance assumed the cheerful

expression of former days, and energetic self-reliance was expressed

in his features. Elise looked on with astonishment. He drew out from

his chest the last remains of by-gone days, the silver oak-wreath set

with diamonds, presented him by the town of Berlin, and the golden

goblet given by the town of Leipsic. He looked at them for a long time

attentively, and then went out, leaving Elise alone, to weep and pray

to God to send them help, and to console Bertram when he came home

from his fruitless search after a situation.

It was some hours before Gotzkowsky returned, but his countenance

still retained its cheerfulness, and his features exhibited the energy

and activity of past days. He stretched out his hands to both of his

children, and drew them affectionately toward him and embraced them.

"Are we then really poor, possessing one another? I say that we are

still rich, for our hearts are yet warm, and our honor is not yet

lost. But we have not yet learned to bear the indigence of our outer

life, We have covered our poverty with the gloss of respectability; we

have been ashamed to appear in the streets in coarse clothes; we have

not yet learned to distinguish the necessary from the superfluous; we

have endeavored to be poor, and yet happy, in a city. That has been

our mistake. The happiness of poverty does not reside within the cold

walls of a town. It is not sown among the paving-stones of a street.

It is only in Nature, who is rich enough to nourish and give to all

those who trustingly cast themselves on her bosom--only in Nature, and

the privacy of country life, that we can find rest and peace. Come,

my children, let us leave this town; let us have the courage to become

children of Nature and free citizens of poverty. Let us cast the show

and glitter of a city life behind us, and wander forth, not over the

sea nor into the desert, but to a cottage in a wood. I have stripped

off the last vestige of the past, and the silver wreath and the golden

goblet have been of some use, for they have furnished us the means to

found a new existence. Bertram, have you the courage to commence life

anew and become a peasant?"

Bertram smiled. "I have both the courage and the strength, for I am

hearty and able to work."

"And you, Elise, are you not too proud to bring up your child as a

peasant?"

Elise kissed her child, and handed him to her father. "Let us bring

him up to be a good and healthy man--a man like you and his father,

and he will overcome the world and poverty, and be happy."

"Oh! I well knew that I could count upon you; and now I know how we

all can be helped. We are rich enough to buy, in some corner of the

world, a little piece of land that we can cultivate, and on which we

can build a cottage. The product of my valuables is sufficient for

that purpose; and what we can realize from these articles of furniture

will be sufficient to defray our travelling expenses. Get ready, then,

children; to-morrow we leave for Silesia. In the mountains there

we will look out some quiet, secluded valley, where the newly-made

peasants can build them a cottage. There we will forget the past, and

cast all its sufferings behind us; or if we do speak of them, it will

be as of the tales of our childhood. Come, my children, let us return

to Nature, God, and contentment. Do you remember, Elise, how I once

related to you that as a lad I once lay hungry and wretched on the

high-road? The hand which was then stretched out to me did not proceed

out of the cloud, but from heaven. It was not the consolation of

an alms that it gave me, but the comforting assurance of love which

raised me up and strengthened me, directing my looks to God, and

teaching me to love Him in all His works. God dwells and speaks in

Nature. Let us seek Him there, and serve Him in the sweat of our brow

and in the coarse peasant's frock."

* * * * *

And they went, and did as Gotzkowsky said. They moved to Silesia, and

bought themselves there, among the mountains, a piece of land and a

cottage, in which they led a quiet, retired, happy life. The world

forgot them. Gotzkowsky's name passed into oblivion. But history

preserved it, and still holds him up as an example, not only of the

most noble patriotism, but also of the ingratitude of men. His book,

too, is left us, and bears witness for him. But as we read it, we

become sad, and are ready to cry out, as he does, "_This is the

world's reward_!"

THE END.

[Footnote 1: His biography begins in those words: "I know that I

subject myself to a variety of judgments. How ridiculous will I appear

in the eyes of many, because I did not use my fortune for my own

benefit! They will say, 'A man who pretends to know the world, a

merchant, furthermore, whose principal merit is to make himself rich,

and found a great house, gives so little heed to self-interest, and

entertains dreams of humanity and benevolence, hardly pardonable in

a philosopher. Others, again, will deem my acts too good-natured,

improvident, or vain, as usually happens, when such are considered

from a point of view different from the actual one. But as long as

I am convinced that I have acted as a true Christian and an honest

patriot, I can despise all these criticisms. I would not act

otherwise, if I had my whole life to live over again. But I would be

more prudent, as I am better acquainted with the character of those

in whom I confided most. The peace of mind and cheerfulness which

innocence and the consciousness of good deeds impart, are too

perceptible to me, to allow me to hesitate for a moment between the

demands of selfishness and those of humanity."]