THE BURGOMASTER
Two things had principally struck Sturm in Frederic's short will. First;
the legacy to Benedict of vengeance; but we must do him the justice to
say that this was a minor consideration. There is an unfortunate error
amongst military men that courage is only to be found under a uniform,
and that one must have seen death at close quarters in order not to fear
it. Now we know that Benedict in this respect was on a level with the
bravest soldier. Under whatever aspect he encountered death, whether it
might be at the point of the bayonet, by the talons of a tiger, the
trunk of an elephant, or the poisonous fang of a serpent; still it was
death--the farewell to sunshine, life, love; to all that is glorious and
all that makes the breast beat high; and in its place, that dark mystery
which we call the grave. But Sturm did not recognize the threat of
death, for he was protected by his individual temperament and character
from perceiving it. He could only recognize an actual menace accompanied
by shouts, gesticulations, threats, and oaths. And Benedict's extreme
politeness gave him no idea of serious danger. He supposed, as all
vulgarians do, that any one who goes duelling with the courtesy of the
ordinary forms of life is arming at preserving by his politeness a means
of retreat.
Therefore Frederic's legacy to Benedict troubled him little. But it was
also prescribed that Madame von Bülow should start for Berlin to beg of
the queen the remission of the fine imposed upon Frankfort. He decided
to see General von Roeder without a moment's delay and tell him what had
occurred.
He found Roeder furious at the Senate's decision. After listening to
Sturm he determined to have recourse again to his old tactics. He took a
pen and wrote:
"To Herren Fellner and Müller, burgomasters of Frankfort and
government administrators.
"I have to request you to supply me by ten o'clock to-morrow
morning with a list of the names and addresses of all members of
the Senate, of the permanent house of representation, and of the
Legislative Assembly, house-property owners being identified as
such.
"VON ROEDER.
"P.S.--Scales for weighing gold are waiting at General von Roeder's
address. An answer to this despatch is requested."
Then he directed an orderly to deliver the document to Fellner as the
senior burgomaster. Fellner was not at home. He had just received
Benedict's sad tidings; and being one of Frederic's most intimate
friends had hastened to the Chandroz' house, telling the news to all
whom he met on the way.
In less time than it takes to relate, the fact of Frederic's death burst
upon the town, and its leading citizens, scarcely able to credit it,
flocked to the room where his body lay.
Fellner was astonished at not seeing Emma; heard that she had gone to
Berlin, and was asking the cause of this incomprehensible step when
Councillor Kugler burst in, General Roeder's letter in his hand.
Fellner opened it at once, read it, meditated; and approaching the bier
gazed at his dead friend. After a few seconds of contemplation, he
stooped, kissed the forehead, and murmured: "It is not only the soldier
who knows how to die."
Then he slowly left the house, crossed the town with bent head, reached
the house and shut himself up in his room. Supper time came. Supper is
an important meal in Germany. It is the cheerful repast, at which, in
commercial towns especially, the head of the family has time to enjoy
the society of his wife and children; for dinner at two o'clock is only
an interval hastily snatched in business hours. But by eight, o'clock
business people have thrown off their harness; the hour of domestic
pleasure has come. Before refreshing sleep descends to prepare men for
another day there is an interval in which to enjoy all that they hold
dear within the four walls of home.
Nothing of the sort was possible on this evening of July 22nd at the
Fellners'. The burgomaster showed perhaps even more than his customary
fondness for his children, but it was touched with melancholy. His wife,
whose gaze never left him, was unable to speak a word; tears stood in
her eyes. The elder children observing their mother's sadness sat
silent; and the little ones' voices like the chirping of birds, drew for
the first time no smiling response from their parents.
Herr von Kugler was mournful. He was one of those men who act promptly
and vigorously, without deviating from the straight course of honour. No
doubt he had already said to himself: "Were I in his place, this is what
I should do."
Supper dragged on. All seemed reluctant to rise from the table. The
children had dropped asleep, no summons having come from the nurse. At
last, Mina, the eldest girl, went to the piano to close it for the night
and unconsciously touched the keys.
The burgomaster shivered.
"Come Mina," he said, "play Weber's 'Last Thought'; you know it's my
favourite."
Mina began to play, and the pure melancholy notes poured forth like
golden beads dropped on a salver of crystal. The burgomaster propped his
bowed head in his hands as he listened to that sweet poetic melody, the
final note of which expired like the last sigh of an angel exiled to
earth.
Fellner rose and kissed the girl. She exclaimed in alarm:
"What is the matter with you, father? you are crying."
"I?" said Fellner quickly. "What nonsense, my child," and he tried to
smile.
"Oh!" murmured Mina, "you can say what you like, father, but I felt a
tear; and see," she added, "my cheek is wet."
Fellner put a hand on her mouth. Mina kissed it.
At this the father nearly gave way, but Kugler murmured in his ear:
"Be a man, Fellner!" He grasped his brother-in-law's hand.
Eleven o'clock struck--never except for a dance or evening party had the
family sat up so late. Fellner kissed his wife and the children.
"But, surely you are not going out?" said Madame Fellner.
"No, my dear."
"Your kiss was like a goodbye."
"Goodbye for a little while," said the burgomaster, trying to smile.
"Don't be uneasy, I am going to work with your brother, that is all."
Madame Fellner looked at her brother and he gave a sign of assent. Her
husband took her to her bed-room door:
"Go to sleep, dear one," he said, "we have much work before us that must
be done before morning." She stood where she was until she had seen him
enter her brother's room.
Madame Fellner spent the night in prayer. This simple woman, whose only
eloquence was to say "I love you," found words to implore God for her
husband. She prayed so long and ardently, that at length sleep came to
her where she knelt; for great was her need of it.
When she opened her eyes the first light of the dawn was filtering
through the window blinds. Everything seems strange, fantastic, at such
an hour. It is neither night nor day and nothing looks as it does at any
other time. She gazed around. She felt weak and chilly and afraid. She
glanced at the bed--her husband was not there. She rose, but everything
danced before her eyes. "Is it possible," she thought, "that sleep
overtook him also while he worked? I must go to him." And, groping her
way through the passages, which were darker than her own room, she
reached his. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked
louder, but all was silent. A third time she knocked and called her
husband's name.
Then, trembling with anguish, under a premonition of the sight that
awaited her, she pushed open the door. Between her and the window, black
against the sun's first rays, hung her husband's body suspended above an
overturned chair.