"I think," she said, when they were seated opposite to each other, "that

you ought not to take Thiel's words lightly. He is your friend. And,"

she added hesitatingly, as Robert did not answer, "he is right."

"You say that, too?" he exclaimed, indignantly.

"Yes, dear, dear Robert, yes. I should not have ventured to say it first

and alone. You might have considered it rude and selfish. You cannot

think so in Thiel. When he says to you: Stop!--it is not obtrusive.

Since I am merely repeating his view, I have the courage to confess that

it has been for a long time my own opinion."

"A long time! That is more and more pleasing."

Frau von der Lehde hesitated a moment. The phrase was really not well

chosen. But the words could not be recalled, so she bravely continued,

growing warmer, more urgent, the longer she spoke.

"Robert, I repeat, Thiel is right. It is time for you to think of your

own happiness. You have bestowed much joy in your life, and, it is true,

also caused much sorrow, probably far more sorrow than joy, but you have

not been happy yourself. No, no, do not try to impose upon me. You have

not been happy. You might have been so, you have come near happiness

countless times, but you have always passed it by. You have lived in a

constant state of intoxication, and intoxication is always followed by

illness, to escape which you have sought intoxication anew. Robert, you

must feel a loathing of such a life. Women admire or fear you, men envy

or abhor you, but how does it aid you? It cannot make you happier. You

possess great talents. I, who know you as you perhaps do not know

yourself, am conscious of it, and can prove it. You had the capacity for

everything. You only needed to choose, and you might have been a great

poet, a great musician, a great artist, a great statesman. And what have

you done with all your brilliant gifts? Used them as men use mirrors to

catch larks, to dazzle silly women."

Robert had listened silently and looked out of the window. Here he

interrupted her. "To shape one's own life harmoniously is also an art,

perhaps the greatest. Whoever makes his life a work of art needs to

create nothing else, and has rightly used his talents."

"But that is exactly what I do not see," cried Else, "the art-production

of your life. Where is the climax, where the harmonious close? Is it

aesthetic, is it dignified to pay court to frivolous actresses and

ballet-dancers, and treat the cheap triumph, before and after, as though

it were something important? Does not this humiliate a man of intellect

in his own eyes? And even if----"

She suppressed what she was going to say, and with a sudden digression,

continued:

"Robert, understand at last that happiness is repose. You have had

passion and excitement enough. It is time for you to know something

else; deep and equable as a clear summer evening, without storm and

tempest. And you know where to find such love. Ah, Robert, no one on

earth ever loved you as I have, not one of the women on whom you have

squandered your heart, your intellect, your health. As a girl I

sacrificed for you my pride and my celebrated beauty. You were my first

passion, and you have remained the sun of my existence. As a young widow

I threw myself at your head. You would not accept me. Perhaps to your

detriment. But that is no consolation. I have forced myself to be your

sister, in order to possess you a little, ah so little. Let me at last

be more to you, Robert. Thiel tells you that you must love no longer.

But you may still allow yourself to be loved. Robert, suffer yourself to

be loved. That is all I ask. Let me be your wife, let me prepare a home

for you. I shall be envied, I shall be proud of you, and repay you with

a fidelity and tenderness which no woman can now give you. Consider,

Robert, to me you are still the young Greek god of eighteen, whom I loved

a generation ago so that it nearly cost my life. Is there any other

woman who sees you with such eyes? Speak, Robert."

Robert did speak. He spoke with quiet friendliness. He was certainly

very grateful to her for her feelings. He returned them with all his

heart, as she knew. But why change a relation in which both had been so

comfortable for a generation. It was a delightful emotion to know that,

while outwardly free, they were secretly united by warm friendship. This

bond would not oppress. The fetters of a regular Philistine marriage

would probably burden them, and, after all, it would not be morally so

beautiful and so strong as a daily desired and renewed companionship.

He, for his part, at any rate, would desire nothing better than the

endless continuance of their present relations.

Else was not satisfied. She continued to try to persuade and convince

him. She became excited, Robert remained calm. She entreated, he grew

morose and taciturn. Scarcely waiting for the coffee, which he swallowed

as swiftly as the warmth of the fragrant beverage permitted, he left Else

immediately on some slight pretext.

Far from softening him, Else's eager words had made him indignant, almost

incensed. This was certainly an attempt to take him by surprise. For a

moment the suspicion even awoke that Thiel was in league with Frau von

der Lehde, his warning, her demand were arranged, a preconcerted attack

had been executed on both sides. True, he did not dwell long upon this

thought, whose improbability he himself soon perceived, but he mentally

repeated Frau von der Lehde's words again and again. No other woman saw

him with eyes like hers! How did she know that? No woman on earth loved

him as she did? What if he should show her the contrary? He must no

longer love, only permit himself to be loved! This advice did not

displease him. In fact perhaps it was sensible to direct a wild life

full of adventures which, in reality, were meaningless, monotonous, and

profoundly unsatisfying, into the channels of a regulation domestic

existence. But if he himself decided to bring it to a close, it should

not be the end which Else wished to force upon him.

The more deeply he entered into the idea of the late marriage with Else,

the more angry it made him. What presumption in this woman, who was

years his senior! Did she really believe that he, according to her own

estimation a man in the prime of life, had no other claims upon existence

than to possess a home, in other words to have a housekeeper, who would

make him soups, and a nurse who would wrap his rheumatic limbs in cotton

wool. Deuce take it, he was by no means such an invalid. He was still

sailing erect, before the wind, with swelling canvas and fluttering

streamers. He was no hulk of which wreckers might take possession. If

he no longer desired to remain on the high seas, at least he could freely

choose the harbour where he preferred to cast anchor.

He mentally reviewed the images of the women who had recently made an

impression upon him, or on whom he was sure that he had produced an

impression, and asked himself with which of them he could probably spend

a life of constant intercourse. Always is a long time, and he knew that

a woman must possess remarkable qualities not to repel him in the long

run. He had a peculiar method of testing whether a woman was suited to

be his companion for life, and whether he could endure to have her

continually with him. He imagined that he was taking a wedding journey

with a wife through Italy, was alone with her six weeks, without any

other society, with no stimulus except her presence, and he pictured

these days in every detail. Several apparently thoroughly charming women

were in this way instantly rejected. One was beautiful and desirable,

but stupid as a pike, and he could not help laughing when, in fancy, he

saw himself standing with her before the works of art in Florence and

heard her remarks about paintings and statues. Another was clever, but

she talked too much. One could spend an hour with her pleasantly, but a

whole day, a whole week--brrr!

This one, after a few days, would long to return to her circle of

admirers and rivals, and under the dome of St. Peter's dream of the court

entertainments, adorers, and society gossip; that one, with her prosaic

nature, would transform the blue grotto of Capri into the office of a

chief auditor. Others stood the test better, but even with them doubts

arose, which grew stronger the more he thought of them. Perhaps he could

endure a week, a fortnight, with them. But six weeks, two months? No.

By that time they would surely have become indifferent, perhaps

intolerable. They would certainly have nothing more to offer him, he

nothing more to say to them.

In the proportion in which other women's images faded and vanished, one

stood forth more and more clearly, and finally filled his whole mental

field of vision. Fraeulein von Markwald--yes, with her the adventure

might be risked. She was as beautiful as any fair one whose likeness he

had kept in his love archives; a tall, proud figure, large dark-blue eyes

which evidently dreamed of love behind their long, shading lashes, and

often seemed to wake from this ardent trance of bliss with a sudden

upward glance, blooming lips for which many a godly man would have

relinquished his soul's salvation without hesitation, an unusually fair

complexion with satiny reflections, and a really regal coronal of rich

golden hair--all in all a magnificent creature, such as Nature does not

often create. This was a prize for which the best man might strive.

That he would ever weary of her, Linden could not now imagine. When he

fancied that she was leaning on his arm, walking with the light, floating

step peculiar to her along the Chiaja, or the Lung Arno, or that he was

sitting with her on the shore of Viarreggio and she leaned her head upon

his breast, it seemed as if palaces, sky, and sea would shine brighter

than of yore as it were in vivified colours. True, Fraeulein von Markwald

was not yet twenty, and he might be her father. But need he hesitate on

that score? At the utmost the difference in age could only disturb her,

and it did not. To him her nineteen years were but one charm; the more

perhaps the most powerful of her attractions. In her radiant, vigorous

youth, he might hope to rejuvenate himself. How had he been so blind as

not to perceive it weeks ago! How could he have waited until Thiel's

harsh warning and Else's importunity thrust him into the right path?

Of course it had not escaped the notice of an old practitioner like him

that he had made an impression upon Fraeulein von Markwald. The blood

which mounted into her cheeks when he approached and spoke to her, the

unconsciously seeking glance with which she followed him when he went

away, the tone of assumed jest, but genuine reproach, with which she

asked if he had selected another poor victim, when he had talked with

another lady somewhat longer or somewhat more earnestly than usual, were

traitors which but too officiously revealed the secret of her heart. She

did not even defend herself. She had been too short a time at court and

in society to be versed in the strategic arts of love or coquetry.

Almost in their first conversation she had confessed, with charming

frankness, that everybody was warning her against him, she had been told

that he was an extremely dangerous man, she was really a little afraid of

him; but a certain slight shiver in the presence of a handsome monster

was a new and strangely delightful feeling. There was no doubt that his

legendary adventures had exerted the customary bewitching influence upon

her imagination. The daughter of Eve felt the irresistible hereditary

attraction toward the serpent which had already talked so many feebly

resisting hands into plucking the fatal apple. Hitherto, Robert had not

wished to avail himself of his advantage. He had been content with the

pleasantly piquant consciousness that his presence made her heart throb

faster, and did not pursue the dawning romance farther, for Fraeulein von

Markwald belonged to one of the best families in the country, and he now

thought of the respect due to the unsullied reputation of a young

girl--he was somewhat less reckless than ten years ago. But now there

should be a change. Since he had serious intentions he need not shrink

from using all means to complete the conquest of this fortress, which,

moreover, was already on the point of raising the white flag.

He did not lose a moment. All the evening he was seen in the little

court box, devoting himself most assiduously to Fraeulein von Markwald,

and this was afterward repeated at every performance. Whenever the

princess gave an evening reception, he seemed to care only for the

beautiful girl, and was always behind or beside her, serving her, talking

with her, offering her his arm, tenderly solicitous about her on her

arrival and departure. The whole court began to watch and to whisper,

and Linden's love-making became so apparent, that the princess thought it

necessary to warn Kaethe against the tempter and his wiles. Fraeulein

Markwald answered blushing, but in a steady voice:

"I thank you, Your Highness, I know that your advice is kindly meant, but

I also know that Baron von Linden is a man of honour, and that I have

given him no reason, to think meanly of me."

This answer seemed to the princess wholly unsatisfactory, and as she

believed it her duty to take special care of Kaethe, an orphan, she did

not delay in cautiously calling Robert himself to account. What he said

to her the princess kept to herself for a time, but two days later people

learned that Kaethe's brother, an energetic cavalry officer, attached to a

regiment of Hussars in the Rhine country, had suddenly arrived in the

capital from his garrison, and on the following day, which was

Whitsuntide, the "Morning Journal" announced the betrothal of Herr

Robert, Baron von Linden, to Fraeulein Kaethe von Markwald.

The effect of the news on society was like the bursting of a dynamite

cartridge before every individual. Linden capitulated! Linden married!

It was incredible. And to whom had he struck the bold corsair flag which

had so long been the terror of husbands? To Kaethe von Markwald, in whom

nothing piquant could be discovered which would be likely specially to

attract a blase man of the world! She was beautiful, certainly, but he

had passed by many handsomer women. She was not stupid, but how many

cleverer fair ones, with all their craft, had been unable to hold him in

their nets! The event was and remained incomprehensible, it might be--

Frau von der Lehde had sent for Dr. Thiel on Whitsuntide morning, and

when he entered, silently held out the newspaper.

"I know it already," he answered smiling.

"Do you believe that it is true?"

"Of course it is true. The announcement is signed by the betrothed pair.

Besides, Linden told me the news himself."

"Did he ask your advice?"

"No; he merely told me the accomplished fact."

Frau von der Lehde crushed the paper and flung it into the corner.

"But what can have so suddenly led him to this step?"

Thiel shrugged his shoulders. "The resolutions of men are sometimes as

incalculable as those of women."

"He cannot possibly have to atone for a sin."

"Fraeulein von Markwald is above suspicion," said Thiel sternly,

interrupting her.

"Linden may be still more so, but the world, which does not know him so

well as I and--you, will probably think something of the sort."

"Certainly. Evil tongues have already begun their work. The newspaper

containing the announcement is still damp, and I have even now heard the

conjecture expressed that the baron was marrying Fraeulein von Markwald

because he had been forced to do so by her brother, who thought that

Linden had compromised her by his attentions."

"Forced Linden! He who has killed two opponents in a duel! A Hussar

officer will not frighten him. That's nonsense."

"Of course it is nonsense. Only I don't see why people need go so far to

seek an explanation. Linden marries because he thinks he has found a

suitable life-companion. He really isn't too young for it."

"No," remarked Frau von der Lehde, "but I fear: too old."

"I don't know that," observed Thiel.

"Doctor, you are not in earnest. Linden might still marry a quiet,

sensible woman of mature years, but a young girl who might be his

daughter--he must have lost his senses."

"Madame, that is still far from being manifest to me, marriage often has

a rejuvenating influence."

"Marriage with a girl like Kaethe Markwald? If I were Linden, I should

fear eyes like hers. She belongs to the species of sleeping monsters.

Woe betide the man who wakes and is not strong enough to conquer them."

Thiel could not help smiling. "I repeat, marriage often works marvels of

resurrection. And in the worst case--the matter need not yet be taken

tragically."

Frau von der Lehde could not console herself for the final loss of

Linden, but she understood that she could do nothing more to hold him or

to win him back. In the first place because he could not be reached.

Contrary to universal expectation, he soon tore himself away from his

charming fiancee and set off on his summer travels much earlier than in

former years. He extended them full three months, which he spent at

various sea-shore watering-places. He was sometimes seen here, sometimes

there, first at Raegen, then at Sylt, lastly at Heligoland, where the surf

is most powerful. The marriage took place early in September. Every one

admired the bridal pair. Kaethe was fresh and blooming as a newly opened

Marshal Niel rose, Robert as handsome and elegant as in his best days.

The difference in age was scarcely apparent. Only a close observer could

have noticed a certain nervous anxiety in Robert's face which, though

bronzed by the sun and the salt air of the sea-shore, was visibly pale.

He did not look as happy by the side of his radiant bride as might have

been expected. Stings of conscience, said many women who had once been

on familiar terms with him and had now had the self-control to come to

the church, which was crowded to suffocation. Frau von der Lehde was not

among them.

Robert von Linden now realized the dream of the last few months; he took

his bewitching young wife, his proudest and, as he faithfully resolved,

his last conquest, to Italy. But, according to all that was learned

afterward, it was a strange wedding journey. The couple appeared in all

the larger cities of Upper, Middle and Lower Italy, but the newly-wedded

pair seemed unable to remain anywhere more than two or three days. The

bride looked depressed and dissatisfied, the bridegroom haggard and

unhappy. About three weeks after the marriage, Lieutenant von Markwald

received a letter from his sister which induced him to write at once to

Doctor Thiel and ask him confidentially what he thought of Baron von

Linden's health, his brother-in-law evidently considered himself very

ill; for since his departure he had consulted several physicians at every

place where they stopped, even for a day, he appeared to be in very low

spirits, and utterly neglected his sister, who was so anxious about him

that she entreated her brother to come to her assistance. Dr. Thiel

hastened to answer the lieutenant that he need not be uneasy, it was

probably only an attack of hypochondria. At the same time he asked for

his brother-in-law's address, as he intended to write to him at once.

About a week after news reached the capital which spread with the

rapidity of a conflagration. Baron Robert von Linden had died suddenly

at Ischia. This was the version which reached the newspapers and the

public. But, in the court circle, it was known that the unfortunate man

had committed suicide. Frau von der Lehde had instantly suspected it,

she obtained certainty from the lips of the princess, to whom Kaethe had

telegraphed the terrible tidings at the same time she sent the message to

her brother. She hastened to Thiel, who was crushed by the event, for he

was not merely an affectionate physician to Linden, but also a loyal

friend.

"It is horrible," cried the agitated woman, as she let herself fall into

an arm-chair.

He answered only by a sorrowful gesture of the hand.

"Do you know the particulars?"

"A bullet through the head. The night of day before yesterday. In the

dressing-room beside the chamber where his wife was lying."

A pause ensued. Then Else, raising her tearful eyes to the doctor, said:

"You see, you see, this marriage was his destruction. He would be alive

and happy to-day, if he had had me at his side."

"Or me," said Thiel.

Else shook her head. "No, no. He wanted this last romance too late."

"Or despaired too soon," replied Thiel, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze

statuette of Asclepius, which stood on the writing-desk before him.

HOW WOMEN LOVE.

I.

ONE WAY.

It was the first of November, 1878. The Paris Exposition was over, and

Herr Rudolph Weltli was preparing to return to his home, Switzerland,

after spending a beautiful sunny fortnight on the Seine. He had made

the great bazaar on the Champ de Mars the pretext for his journey; but

in reality the study of the exhibition, many as were the interesting

objects it could offer to him, the engineer, was a somewhat minor

matter, and he devoted his stay in Paris principally to walks through

the streets, excursions to the environs, wanderings through the

museums, in short, endless pilgrimages to all the scenes where, more

than a quarter of a century before, the drama of his student's life in

Paris had been enacted for three years, and whose image was interwoven

with the most beloved memories of his youth.

A quarter of a century! Almost a human life-time. And, during this

long period, he had not seen Paris again. When he left it he intended

to return very soon and very often. But, as usually happens, life

morosely opposed this pleasant plan. He was bound by the fetters of

duty, and only imagination could allow itself to wander into the

alluring blue distance.

Whoever makes his first visit to Rome throws a piece of money into the

Fontana Trevi to be sure that he will see the eternal city again. We

need not bind ourselves to Paris by such little superstitious

practices. Its mysterious spell obtains the pledge without any

intervention, and lures and draws the absent one so that he cannot rest

until he returns. But why attribute this spell to Paris alone? Every

place where we have been young, dreamed, loved, and suffered, possesses

it. We feel the affection for it which the ploughman has for the field

to which he entrusted his seed. We have the desire to see whether we

shall still find traces of our wanderings, and are joyously surprised

when we discover that wherever we sowed our youth, the best part of

ourselves, invisible to others, but tangible to us, a rich harvest of

memories has sprung up.

Every year Rudolf planned the journey to Paris, every year he was

compelled to defer it to the next, and he was already beginning to

accustom himself to a sorrowful resignation, when the World's Fair of

1878 gave the external impulse for the realization of his

long-cherished dream.

The holiday weeks on which his mind had been fixed so many years had

passed as swiftly as a dream, and the daily yoke of professional work

must again be put on. The last day of his stay in Paris fell on the

anniversary of All Souls. Rudolf, with the great majority of

Parisians, used it to visit the cemeteries. He spent the first hours

of the afternoon in Pere la Chaise, where, beside the old, well-known

graves, he inspected with great interest the monuments erected since

his residence in Paris--of Musset, Rossini, Michelet, Regnault,

Countess d'Agoult and other celebrities. From Pere la Chaise he drove

to the cemetery of Montmartre, where he merely wished to place a wreath

of immortelles on Heine's grave. But once there, he could not go away

without looking about the place a little.

He strolled slowly along the streets of graves, in which, amid

commonplace stone slabs and insignificant iron crosses, stately

monuments rose at brief intervals, though they rarely bore inscribed on

their fronts a name of sufficient distinction to afford a justification

for attracting the attention of the wanderer; while as a rule they were

only memorials of the vanity extending beyond the grave of the poor

obscure mortal whose ashes they sheltered.

The graves were adorned in various ways for the great festival of the

dead. The narrow walks around them were strewn with fresh yellow

gravel and river sand; pots of blossoming plants stood on the slabs and

at the foot of the crosses; on the arms of the latter hung garlands of

evergreen and yellow or red immortelles, but also the ugly wreaths of

painted plaster and glass beads with affected inscriptions, which

dishonour Parisian industry. Beside these mounds, where the work of a

loving hand was apparent, and whose dead were evidently united by

filaments of love to a tender human being still breathing in the

sunshine, forsaken and neglected ones often appeared, on which only a

few rain-soaked, decaying leaves of paper wreaths were mouldering,

where moss and weeds grew rankly, and in which lay dead for whom no one

grieved, and who were now remembered by none in the world of the

living. But how speedily one is forgotten in Paris. How soon the

ocean of the world's capital swallows up, not only a human being, but

his family, all his friends and acquaintances, and even his memory! A

chill ran down Rudolf's spine as he pondered over the melancholy

thought of living and dying in Paris as a stranger.

As he drifted aimlessly on with the flowing human stream, he suddenly

found himself in a narrow side-path before a monument surrounded by a

specially dense throng. Several rows of people, principally workmen

and their wives, were standing around it, those behind thrusting their

heads over the shoulders of the front ranks, the new arrivals pressing

impatiently upon those who had taken the place before them and now, as

though spell-bound by an absorbing spectacle, stood motionless, making

no sign of moving on. Yet the whole crowded group was pervaded by a

calmness, a solemn earnestness, not often found among the worshippers

in church. Rudolf, whose curiosity was awakened, forced his way

through the living wall to the front rank, and suddenly stood--before

the monument of Baudin, the republican representative of the people

who, on the 3d of December, 1851, was shot down in the streets of Paris

by drunken soldiers, as, girdled with the tri-coloured sash, which made

him recognizable as a member of the legislature, he protested from the

top of a barricade against Bonaparte's _coup d'etat_. A familiar

anecdote is associated with the death of this hero. As, surrounded by

a few persons of similar views, he was preparing to ascend the

barricade, some workmen passing by shouted derisively: "There goes a

twenty-five franc man!" This was the insult with which the

proletarians, who were systematically incited against the National

Assembly, designated the representatives of the people, alluding to

their daily pay. Baudin calmly answered: "You will see presently how

one can die for twenty-five francs!" and a moment after, fell under the

bullets of the soldiery.

At the sight of the monument Rudolf felt the emotion which it awakens

in every spectator. On a rectangular stone pedestal lies the life-size

bronze figure of Baudin, draped to the breast in a cloak, the left hand

hanging in the relaxation of death, while the right convulsively

clutches a symbolical table of laws, with the inscription "La Loi,"

through which passes a treacherous rent. Baudin's face is that of a

middle-aged man, with commonplace features, smooth-shaven lips and

chin, and the regulation whiskers. But this ordinary countenance

becomes grand and heroic by a horrible hole in the forehead, from which

blood and brains have gushed. Oh, how such a hole in the brow, pierced

by a bullet sent to murder liberty, transfigures a man's visage! A

supernatural radiance appears to stream from this tragical opening,

into which we cannot gaze without having our eyes overflow with tears.

Rudolf was more touched by the unspeakably pathetic monument than any

of the others who reverently surrounded it; for he remembered how

narrowly he, too, had escaped a fate akin to that of the martyr before

whose statue he had unexpectedly wandered. As he followed the path

toward the exit from the cemetery, he again saw himself on the terrible

night of December 3d and 4th, 1851, lying weltering in his blood, with

failing consciousness, upon the wet pavement of the Rue Montmartre, a

bullet in his right hip. The memory of that moment was so vivid, that

he fancied he again felt the pain in his hip and began to limp, as he

had done for months after the wound. In the broad avenue leading to

the main entrance new visions rose before him, made still more intense

by the recollections of the coup d'etat evoked by the sight of Baudin's

grave. At the right he saw the monument of Gottfried Cavaignac in the

midst of the great common grave, into which all the nameless victims of

the street fights were thrown in a horrible medley. This blood-stained

bit of earth surrounds a circular border of flowers, in whose centre,

above a low mound covered with stone slabs, rises a plain iron cross.

Rudolf entered the sinister circle and paused beside it. Very peculiar

emotions stole over him. It seemed as though he were standing within a

cabalistic line which divided him from the world and life. The air

within the magic circle appeared more chill than without. He imagined

he felt a stir and tremor in the ground beneath his feet as if the dead

below were moving, and scraping with their bony fingers on the cover of

their narrow abode.

"I should now be lying there with the rest, if the bullet had taken a

little different course!" he thought, drawing a long breath of relief.

He glanced around him. At the foot of the cross was a heap of wreaths

and bouquets, and several women were kneeling on the stone slabs,

murmuring silent prayers. "Are there still, after the lapse of

twenty-seven years, mourners who remember the dead? No one would have

come for my sake, if they had thrown me there too."

He was standing beside one of the kneeling women, at whom he gazed with

deep sympathy. She was dressed in black, a long black veil hung from

her head, and she seemed wholly absorbed in her fervour. Feeling a

steady gaze fixed upon her, she involuntarily looked up. Their eyes

met. She sank back with a stifled cry which seemed to issue from a

throat suddenly compressed. Involuntarily stretching her arms toward

him, while her eyes half closed and consciousness seemed failing, her

blanching lips whispered:

"Rudolf! Rudolf!"

He had retreated a step, astonished and bewildered, at the first cry,

now he caught the fainting woman in his arms, drew her to his breast,

and murmured in a hollow tone:

"Pauline! Is it possible! Pauline!"

She tottered to her feet, her knees trembled, she laid both hands on

his shoulders and gazing steadily at him with head thrown back and

dilated eyes, said:

"Is it really you! Is it you, Rudolf. You are alive!"

"So you believed me dead?" he asked in a trembling voice, bowing his

head.

"I believed that you were down there," she answered, pointing to the

stone slabs at their feet.

"And you came to-day----"

"To you, Rudolf; to-day as I have come every year for twenty-seven

years. See, Rudolf, that is the wreath I laid there for you. And,"

she added in a very low tone, after a brief pause, "when I suddenly saw

you before me, I thought you had risen from this grave to see me once

more."

She again remained silent a short time, during which her glances

timorously caressed him. "And do you know what instantly convinced me

that I beheld no ghost? Because you no longer look as you did at the

time when you would have been laid here, if you had really died. The

dead do not change. But you, my poor Rudolf, have certainly altered."

"Do you find me very much changed?"

Pauline gazed at him a long time. Her eyes wandered slowly over his

figure, his features, his whole appearance, then, as if speaking to

herself, she said:

"Not really, Rudolf, not much, after all."

She was probably the only person in the world who could say it; the

only one who could see in his countenance the face of the youth of

twenty-three, as a practised eye detects, under a palimpsest, the

effaced, almost invisible characters of the original writing. For her,

his former wealth of brown locks still waved in the place of the

closely cut, thin grey hair; she saw the bushy moustache fine and

curled, the wrinkled skin ruddy and smooth, the somewhat corpulent

figure slender and pliant; she transferred to the man of fifty before

her, feature by feature, the image which lived in her faithful memory,

transfigured and handsomer than the reality had ever been. And Rudolf

did the same. His imagination effaced the little wrinkles around her

eyes and mouth, restored to those dim black eyes the sparkle and

mirthfulness of youth, developed, from the somewhat fleshy outlines,

the graceful forms of the cheeks, chin, neck, bust, which he had once

beheld and loved, recognized the raven braids which alone had lost none

of their beauty, and saw in the faded woman the blooming girl,

surrounded by all the magic of her nineteen years, whom he had left

twenty-seven years ago.

Her first excitement had calmed a little during the silent observation

which had occupied several minutes; her voice had regained its natural

tone, and only trembled a little as she asked:

"But now, for Heaven's sake, tell me how all this has happened? Our

concierge saw you when you fell in the street and were carried away."

"He saw correctly."

"Then you were not killed?"

"Merely wounded."

"Well, and----?"

"You know how I left you. I was excited, bareheaded, mad. When I came

out of the Passage Saumon into the Rue Montmartre, I found the street

deserted, but I heard the roll of drums in the distance, soldiers

seemed to be pressing forward from the boulevard. Several persons ran

past, trying to escape into the side streets. Before I could clearly

understand what was going on around me, a volley of musketry was fired,

I felt a violent blow and fell. A few paces from me another man fell,

who did not move again. A window in the Passage Saumon opened and

instantly closed.

"The soldiers came up, carrying lanterns and torches. They found the

other man first, and threw the light into his face. Several voices

rose and I saw bayonets thrust into his body. Then they came to me.

Bayonets were already flashing above me, I instinctively thrust out my

hands in defense, an officer cried: 'Halt!' approached me, and asked

who I was. I said as quickly as my mortal fright would permit, that I

was a Swiss, a pupil of the _Ecole Centrale_, lived in the Passage

Saumon, had accidentally entered the street and been wounded by a shot.

The officer looked at my hands, they were not blackened by powder. The

light of the lanterns was cast around--I lay in my own blood, but no

weapon was near. 'Where is your hat?' asked the officer. 'I wore none

when I left home.' 'That is suspicious,' he said, to my terror, but

after a moment's reflection, which to me seemed an eternity, gave

orders that I should be placed in a vegetable dealer's cart, which had

been abandoned by the owner, and taken to a hospital. Four soldiers

flung me roughly into the vehicle and dragged me to the Hotel Dieu."

He paused in his narrative.

Pauline looked at him and her eyes filled with tears.

"If I could tell you how I passed that night! You had scarcely gone

out, when the concierge rushed into the room, panting: 'Mademoiselle

Pauline! Mademoiselle Pauline! They have just shot our Monsieur

Rudolf and carried him off.' I wanted to fly down, he forcibly

prevented me. I tried to throw myself out of the window, he would not

permit it. I was obliged to wait until morning. Then I ran to the

morgue, to the cemeteries, wherever corpses were exposed; I saw many,

oh, a horrible number of them, but I did not find you."

She had blanched to the lips as she spoke, and her eyes looked vacant.

Rudolf drew her toward him and she unconsciously let her head sink upon

his shoulder.

"I was sure that you were dead," she went on, "and that you had been

flung into this common grave. Everybody whom I asked told me so. And

you sent no message? Why not, if you were still in the Hotel Dieu?

Were you not allowed to do so? Were you unconscious?"

"Both, my poor child. For several days I was so ill that I could form

no distinct thoughts. When I grew better, I was placed under rigid

surveillance, for they suspected me of having fought on the barricades.

I was compelled to communicate with my ambassador that he might give

information about me, and answer----"

"But if you could communicate with your ambassador, you could also have

sent me----"

He made no answer.

"And then you were cured," she went on more urgently, "and during these

long, long years, did it never enter your mind to care for me?"

He hung his head in embarrassment, and with deep pain avoided the

glance she fixed upon him. Why had he not written to her, why had he

not returned to his lodgings when he left the hospital? He could not

yet tell her the truth, not now, not here. Shame and repentance seized

him when he thought of it now; simply because he was glad to be able to

leave Paris without seeing Pauline again.

It was the old story, which ever remains new. A young student in Paris

meets a pretty young working-girl, who is alone in the world; they are

pleased with each other, the girl willingly throws herself into the

young man's arms, and these arms gladly clasp the affectionate young

creature who nestles in them. Under favourable circumstances, this

careless, happy relation lasts a year or two, then comes the time when

the student has completed his studies and practical life claims him.

Farewell to the delightful love-life, with no care for the future, no

responsibility! Farewell to the dove-like nest for two in an attic

chamber filled with the roseate morning light of youth and hope! As a

rule the parting takes place without trouble. He is calm, and she is

sensible. Then they dine together in the country, for the last time,

drink champagne, and separate with blithesome wishes for future

prosperity. Or they are both sentimental. Then there is a little

weeping and sighing, they promise to write to each other and probably

do so for a time, and it is days, perhaps even weeks before the wound

in the heart which, happily, is not very deep, heals.

But often, oh, often----

Well, Rudolf's case was precisely one of these. When it was time to

leave Paris to begin his professional life, he perceived with terror

that the bonds which united him to Pauline were much firmer than he had

ever supposed. For two years she had shared his room in the Passage

Saumon and, during this whole period, she had not caused him a moment's

sorrow, had always thought only of him, to see him content and happy.

She went to her work-room in the morning with a kiss and a smile, and

returned in the evening with a smile and an embrace. If he was at work

she sat quietly in her corner, looking over at him; if he wanted to be

gay, she was as frolicsome as a poodle. If he took her to the theatre,

she kissed his hand in gratitude. If he went out alone, she was sad,

but she said nothing and asked no questions, which touched him so much

that he gradually relinquished the habit of going out alone. If he

gave her anything, she was reluctant to accept it; she would scarcely

allow him even to bestow any articles of dress. In the whole two years

he had never seen her nervous or out of temper. Yet he ought, he must

repulse this loyal devotion. Yes, he must. For he could not be so

crazy as to marry her! At twenty-three! A girl who had been picked up

on the sidewalk of the Rue Montmartre. The thought was so absurd that

it was not worth while to dwell upon it a moment. Then, when he told

her that the happiness must now end, he saw her, to his surprise and

terror, turn deadly pale and sink back fainting.

On recovering her consciousness, she burst into endless sobs, clung to

his neck, covered him with burning kisses and tears, and exclaimed:

"No, no, you won't leave me; I cannot, I cannot, I would rather die."

He vainly endeavored to bring her to reason. She would listen to

nothing. "For what do you reproach me?" The question could not help

embarrassing him; for he had nothing with which to reproach her, except

that she had been the object of his love, a reproach which of all men

on earth he should be the last to make; and that she was poor, which he

was ashamed to utter; and that she was uneducated, which could be no

serious obstacle, for she made up for ignorance by natural wit and

intelligence, and innate refinement. She wanted reasons, he could

offer none except: "Why, dear child, surely you will see that we must

part now." That, however, was precisely what she could not perceive,

and she continued to weep, saying mournfully: "Rudolf, Rudolf, do not

leave me. I love you, and that is always something. I want nothing

except to have you keep me with you. No one will ever love you as I

do."

These unspeakably painful scenes, to which Rudolf had not the courage

to put a heroic end, were repeated many days. When Pauline's tears

became unendurable, he went out and wandered for hours through the

streets, restless, out of humour, tortured. It had happened so on that

third of December, and--

This was the reason that he had not written to her or returned to his

lodgings. The soldier's bullet seemed to him a merciful interposition

of Fate, which released him from his difficulties. When health was

restored, he fairly fled from Paris, leaving behind him the few effects

of a jolly student. This soothed his conscience a little, and moreover

he told himself that he owed Pauline nothing, that she did not need

him, that she, who possessed a thoroughly reasonable, nay, superior

nature, would henceforward pursue the path of honour. True, a secret

voice often cried out to him: "Coward! Coward!" But then he solaced

himself by shrugging his shoulders and thinking that everybody else

would have done the same, and she would console herself quickly enough.

Of course he could not confess this to her, but it was not necessary.

She had divined it all.

With a melancholy smile, she said:

"I understand, my poor Rudolf, I understand you were glad to get rid of

troublesome Pauline. The bullet spared you the pain of bidding me

farewell." She was about to say more, but she forced it all back into

her heart. She had never reproached him, should she do so now, in the

spot which, for so many years, she had believed his grave?

Clasping her hand, Rudolf pressed it tenderly, and to give the painful

conversation a pleasanter turn, asked:

"What are you doing now, how do you fare, Pauline?"

"I thank you for asking me." There was not a tinge of sarcasm or

bitterness in these words, nothing but gratitude. "I am getting on

perfectly well. I have worked, have made myself independent, and am

now employing eight or ten workwomen, I am well-off, almost rich."

She divined a question in the expression of his eyes, and said quickly:

"Always, Rudolf, I have always remained faithful to you. I did not

lack offers, you can understand that--but I would not accept. I was

ashamed. And I wanted to have only your memory in my heart. Does that

surprise you? I suppose you don't believe it? Of course. It isn't to

be believed. A girl is courted. What else is there. When one has

wearied of her, she is abandoned. But she was so foolish as to love

sincerely and can never, never console herself." This time she was

growing bitter. Her lips quivered, and she passed her hand across her

eyes, once she sobbed softly. Suddenly she drew from her pocket an old

leather book, which she gave him. While, with emotion, he recognized

it as his own note-book, and found on the first page his half effaced

caricature which a comrade in the _Ecole Centrale_ had once sketched,

she took from her bosom an enamelled locket, opened it, and held it

before his eyes. It was a gift from him, and contained a lock of brown

hair--his hair! He could not resist the impulse and clasped her

passionately to his breast, in spite of the people who were passing to

and fro outside of the circle of flowers.

"Do you believe me now?" she asked releasing herself.

His sole answer was to raise her hand to his lips.

She held his right hand firmly. "And you, Rudolf?"

With an involuntary movement, he tried to draw it from her grasp. This

led her to glance quickly at it. The third finger bore a wedding ring.

Pauline uttered a deep sigh, let his hand fall, closed her eyes, and

tottered a moment. Then she suddenly sank upon her knees in the same

spot where she had knelt before, and her lips began to murmur a prayer.

"Pauline!" he cried imploringly.

She shook her head gently, as though to drive away an inner vision, and

turned entirely away from him.

"Pauline! Let me at least have your address! I will not leave you so

again!"

She bowed her head upon her clasped hands, and neither moved nor

answered.

Rudolf went close to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. A long

shudder passed visibly and perceptibly through her whole frame, and she

buried her face still more closely in her hands.

He understood her--

The first signal of bell ringing sounded, which announced the closing

of the cemetery. Rudolf cast a hasty glance towards the entrance. His

wife and his brother-in-law, with whom he had appointed this place of

meeting, had just appeared there and were looking in every direction.

Rudolf glanced once more at the kneeling supplicant, then with a slow,

noiseless, faltering step he left the circle of flowers. He passed

down the wide avenue as though walking in a dream. When he had nearly

reached the gate he stopped and turned for the last time. The western

sky was steeped in the glow of sunset. A light mist was rising from

the damp ground, filling the paths of the cemetery and effacing the

outlines of the human beings and the monuments. Shrouded by these

floating vapours, Pauline's motionless dark figure stood forth in

strong relief against the bright sky, and seemed to be gradually

merging into a background of flaming crimson sunset.

Rudolf felt as if he were beholding his own youth fade and melt into

white cloudlets of mist.

II.

ANOTHER WAY.

"So we have met again, old fellow?" said Wolf Breuning, with heartfelt

pleasure, filling his friend Sigmund Friese's glass with wine.

"May it not be so long before the next meeting," cried Sigmund, as he

touched glasses and drank.

Wolf Breuning, a tall, handsome man, with bold blue eyes and a long,

parted beard, which seemed as though it was woven of threads of red

gold, was the manager of a chemical factory in Paris. Sigmund Friese,

shorter in stature, with a gentle, somewhat sensitive face, a short,

fair, curly beard, and hair aristocratically thin, which already

suggested a diplomatic bald head, was teaching mathematics in an

American university. Both were natives of South Germany, friends from

childhood, and had once plunged into the flood of life from the same

spot on the shore, but were afterward washed far apart.

After a long absence, Sigmund had come from Washington to Europe to

attend his sister's wedding, and availed himself of the opportunity, on

the way from Havre to Mannheim, to visit his friend Wolf in Paris. The

latter met him at the station and took him to his pleasant bachelor

lodgings in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. Now, scarcely an hour

later, the first overflow of mutual confidences had been exchanged, and

the friends were seated comfortably at dinner.

"Do you know that it is thirteen years since our last meeting?" asked

Wolf.

"Thirteen years!" sighed Sigmund. "How many more times shall we

experience such a period?"

"Never again," replied Wolf, "the period from the twenty-fourth to the

thirty-seventh year."

"The festal time of life!" said Sigmund; and after a pause, raising the

glass to his lips, he added:

"Gone, gone!"

"You have no cause to complain," said Wolf consolingly; "youth is past,

but you have used it well. A great name in science, an honourable

position, comfortable circumstances----"

Sigmund smiled sorrowfully and pointed to his bald head.

"Yes, my friend," cried Wolf, "we must make no unreasonable demands on

life. Luxuriant locks, and a well-paid professorship, teeth and

celebrity, youth and orders, prosperity, successes of all kinds, these

we cannot have unless we are born to royal rank."

"When we consider how much we strive and how little we attain! What we

dream, and to what realities we waken."

"Sigmund, you are unjust. Thirteen years ago did you imagine, in your

boldest expectations, more than you have now attained?"

"Perhaps not. But, to have it afford me pleasure, I ought to have

attained it immediately after that time."

"Of course we are more weary when we reach the goal than at the start."

"But this weariness very materially diminishes our pleasure in having

reached it."

"Ah, I know the one thing wanting for your happiness," cried Wolf.

"Well?"

"A wife."

"Oh! you have no right to preach marriage, since you have remained a

bachelor yourself."

"I am three years younger than you."

"But you are thirty-seven."

"True," replied Wolf, and for a time remained silent and thoughtful.

Then he continued:

"What would you have? Fate destines us to live in a foreign country,

without family intercourse, far from the circle with which one is

united by early memories and the first affections of the heart; we do

not definitely seek, Fate does not help us find. We adjust our lives

to habits which really leave no room for a wife, and so the years flit

by till some day we discover that we are bachelors and that it is too

late to change."

"That is exactly my case; I did not suppose it was yours also."

"With me," replied Wolf, "something else is added. Recollections which

make marriage rather dreaded than desired. We know how we have been

loved, and fear that we shall not find such love again. We compare in

advance a virtuous wife with the woman whose distant image is somewhat

transfigured by the past, and confess that we have been completely

spoiled for the part of a husband content to sit phlegmatically in the

chimney corner."

"You still think of Helene?" cried Sigmund in surprise.

"Why shouldn't I?" replied Wolf, "you also remember her, as I see."

"True," Sigmund assented. "I have not forgotten her. She was a

bewitchingly beautiful and charming woman. What a tempting mouth!

What wicked eyes! And her clever talk! Her merry disposition!

Wherever she was, she filled everything with life and animation."

Wolf gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, and made no reply.

"She loved you very dearly," Sigmund added.

Still Wolf remained silent.

"And you loved her."

"Yes," Wolf answered at last, drawing his fingers slowly through his

red beard. "I loved Helene very dearly. So long as I was with her, I

did not notice it, and when the child was born, I even felt greatly

disturbed by the thought that I should now have her bound to me

forever. Not until after we had separated did I discover how large a

place she had filled in my life. And the more distant that time

becomes, it grows larger instead of less. A reversion of all the laws

of perspective."

"But an intelligible phenomenon," observed Sigmund. "Helene has

become, in your remembrance, the embodiment of your youth, and the

longing with which you think of her concerns your twenty-four years at

least as much as she herself."

"It may be so. The fact is that I see Helene in a golden light of

youth and careless happiness, and cannot think of her without tears."

"Do you know, friend Wolf, that you perhaps did wrong to leave her?"

"There are hours when I believe it. When we have found a creature whom

we love, and who loves us in return, we ought on no account to give her

up. We never know whether it will be possible to replace. And, after

all, love is the only thing which makes life worth living."

"What would you have, Sigmund? That is the wisdom of mature years. At

four and twenty we have not yet reached that knowledge. At that time I

perceived only that I had picked Helene up in the Luxembourg gardens,

that is, as it were, in the streets. I knew that I was not her first

love--"

"But her only one," interposed Sigmund.

"So she said, yes. But I had the feeling that I owed her nothing.

Love for love. This I gave her, and she ought to ask nothing more.

Yet it was an extremely careless relation, and I fully realized its

doubtful character. At that time I should have advised any one else in

my situation to release themselves from it kindly, and--well, I gave

myself the same counsel.

"Your heart, even then, must have told you that you were wrong, and I

think your common sense tells you so now. After all, the reasoning of

the heart and that of the intellect does not differ so widely as silly

wise folk suppose."

Wolf made no answer.

"Do you remember," Sigmund began again, "when I came from Heidelberg to

visit you thirteen years ago? It was my first trip to Paris. The

city, its life, the people, everything produced an overpowering

impression upon me. And in the midst of this frantic rush was the

charming idyl; you and Helene. Your little room in the quiet street

seemed like a magic isle in the roaring ocean. What was the name of

that street?"

"The Rue St. Dominique."

"Yes. I should like to make a pilgrimage there to see the old house."

"Impossible. The house has been torn down. The street has

disappeared. The magnificent Boulevard St. Germain now runs through

there."

"So nothing is to be found again! Nothing is left of all the beautiful

things which we experience, save the shadow of its memory in our souls!

We ought never to return to the scenes of past happiness, unless we are

sure of finding them unchanged."

Sigmund was becoming more and more tender and sensitive. It was his

nature.

He continued:

"How often I have lived over again the evening when you went to Dr.

Amandier's reception, and left me alone with Helene. I was very

awkward. I did not know how I ought to treat her, and the more at ease

she appeared, the more embarassed I became. I paid her compliments,

she laughed. Conversation was difficult, for I had no great knowledge

of French. She took pity on me and sat down at the cottage piano. She

played very prettily. Very often she turned round and smiled at me.

She was extremely bewitching, and my heart glowed. I envied you. I

planned all sorts of base things. I paid court to her. I confess it

now. You are not angry with me?"

"Don't fear," replied Wolf smilingly, "Helene told me about it as soon

as I came home. I was not jealous of you."

"Thank you," replied Sigmund with comical irritability. "Summoning my

whole vocabulary, I said all sorts of pretty things to her, but while

talking excitedly, with burning cheeks, she took up the little dog our

friend Tannemann gave her, and calmly began to hunt for fleas in his

curly hair. This made me so furious that I started up and rushed off

without a farewell."

"But you were appeased the next day," observed Wolf.

"Of course. When my blood had become cool, her composure in the

presence of my love-making inspired respect. Then we became the best

friends, and she remarked: 'Since you no longer say that you love me, I

love you.' And do you remember the Sunday excursion?"

"Certainly. To St Cloud. With Tannemann."

"It was enough to made one die of laughing. Helene intentionally

talked extremely fast, so that Tannemann, who knew little about French,

could not understand her. He was terribly provoked because he was

continually obliged to ask her to repeat everything two or three times.

What a merry breakfast we had on the grass in the midst of the ruins!"

"You carried the two bottles of wine in the pockets of your overcoat."

"And you the ham and the chicken. Helene had the bread and butter and

the dishes in a little basket. Tannemann was to furnish the dessert.

But when the time came for that, he declared that there was some

misunderstanding, nothing had been said to him about it."

"He is still the same skinflint he was then."

"The same old pedant, too? Whenever Helene kissed you, he looked away

indignantly."

"Helene was very loving that day. How you blushed when she said that

the only thing we needed to be thoroughly comfortable was that you

should have brought a little friend too."

Sigmund sighed deeply.

"Yes, we were young then," Wolf said, closing the retrospect.

"And you at least know that you have been young. You possess beautiful

memories, of which nothing and no one can deprive you.

"'Who'er has been clasped in the arms of love,

All poverty's ills is for aye raised above;

E'en though he should die afar and alone,

Still would he possess the blissful hour

When kisses upon her lips he did shower,

And, e'en in death, she would yet be his own.'"

"Yours?" asked Wolf.

"Nonsense, that's no mathematician's poetry. Old Storm."

"The feeling is true, though it is somewhat insipidly expressed.

Memories are indeed wealth, though it arouses melancholy to rummage

amid the treasure."

"Tell me, Wolf--what has become of Helene?"

"I hope she is faring very well."

"You do not know?"

"I will tell you what I know about her. I was going to Spain at that

time, as you are aware, about the copper-mining business. But I had to

give it up because I would not leave Helene. Our child died when it

was six weeks old. What would I give if I had the boy now! Then I

considered his death the solving of a problem. I told Helene that I

must now go to Huelva. She wanted to accompany me. Of course that

would not do. There were passionate scenes, but I released myself.

She promised to return to her father in Douai, and she kept her word,

because for a time her letters came from there."

"So you wrote to each other?"

"Yes, at first. After some time she suddenly appeared in Paris again.

She wrote in apology that she could no longer endure that dull Douai

with her morose old father. After that I heard nothing from her for a

long time. Then came a letter informing me that she was going to marry

a wine-merchant, who cherished no resentment for her past, as her

father had made a sacrifice!"

"Shame!"

"You just said yourself that I ought to have bound her permanently to

my life."

"Yes, from love, not for a dowry. Besides, you had less to forgive

than the wine-merchant."

"What of it--that's the morality of people who are called practical."

"And then?"

"Then the marriage probably took place. I have heard nothing more from

Helene."

"Did you not try to learn something about her?"

"To be honest--no. I do not think I have a right to cross her path.

And what would have been the object of another advance, since she was

married? True--I often feel--but we combat such emotions."

"She has never made the attempt to see you again? Perhaps she thinks

that you are still in Spain."

"Or she is dead. For when people have loved each other so ardently in

the glorious days of youth, it is impossible to live and become

strangers. At least it seems so to me."

"Ah, Sigmund, life is a cruel extinguisher of lights."

"Certainly, but there are flames which life does not extinguish. Only

death----"

A few months had passed since the meeting of the two friends. Sigmund

Friese was again in Washington, teaching mathematics, when one day he

received the following letter from Wolf Breuning.

"DEAREST SIGMUND:--

"What wonderful things chance can bring to pass in the capital! I am

writing to you under the fresh impression of the incident. You will

open your eyes! I was walking through the Rue Rochechouart about two

o'clock this afternoon when an elegantly dressed lady, coming from the

opposite direction, suddenly stopped just in front of me. As I was

absorbed in thought, at first I took no notice but passed on. After a

few steps the fleeting perception became a distinct consciousness, and

I involuntarily turned. There the lady still stood, as if rooted to

the spot, looking after me. I went back somewhat hesitatingly, though

curious, she hastily advanced to meet me and, ere I could distinguish

her features through the thick veil, she cried in a stifled voice: 'I

was not mistaken! It is really you! What good luck! What good luck!'

As she spoke she stretched out both hands, clasped mine, pressed them,

and continued to hold them. You have guessed it: Helene. What shall

I say to you, my friend? I felt as if I were in a dream. Before me

stood the woman of whom I so often thought, since your visit more

frequently and more tenderly than ever, the personification of my

happiest moments, the love of my youth, transfigured by memory, for

whom I had longed twelve years, whom I had never expected to see again!

You know that I am not usually sentimental, but my eyes grew dim. I

could say only: 'Helene!' Then we had embraced and kissed each

other--through the veil--as if we were mad, in the public street, and

in the presence of the passers-by, who looked at us curiously. Helene

took my arm and drew me quickly forward in silence. A hack was

passing. Helene stopped it, sprang in hastily, and then asked: 'Can we

go to your home?' 'Certainly,' I cried. 'Then give the driver your

address.' Now we again sat hand clasped in hand, gazing into each

other's eyes, it was a moment full of mingled bliss and pain, such as I

have scarcely ever experienced. Then came another shower of kisses and

caresses, this time with the veil thrown back and even the hat laid

aside--the twelve years of course have not passed over her leaving no

trace, but she is still a beautiful, stylish woman--then followed

questions. I was obliged to relate first how I had fared and what I

had experienced. She rejoiced that I was unmarried, she pressed my

hand when I told her that I had not ceased to think of her. Then she

began to tell her story. She was married. Happily? She really had no

cause to complain. Her husband, of course, was not I, but she made no

comparisons. He treated her kindly. He made a great deal of money.

Only she was bored. Besides, he was jealous. It was absurd, since he

did not love her. On account of this jealousy she had been obliged to

cease writing to me. She was stupid at that time and did not know for

what the 'to be kept till called for' had been invented--

"Then we reached my lodgings. I was as soft-hearted and imbecile as a

student at his first love-tryst. I did not wish to degrade this

meeting to the level of a commonplace bachelor adventure. I wanted to

keep the bloom and the fragrance of the flower.

"I began to speak of the past."

Alas, dear Sigmund!

"She first said that our meeting occurred in the year 1878. When I

clasped my hands and mournfully exclaimed: 'Then you have forgotten

that it was in 1874,' she was a little confused, but recovered with the

swift remark: 'A date is of no importance, the main thing is that we

were happy, oh, very happy!' I asked if she remembered our little nest.

"'Certainly!' she cried, clapping her hands in delight. She remembered

that it was in the Rue St. Dominique, but when I attempted to win from

her a description of the furniture, the view from our two windows, she

evaded it. I turned the conversation to you--I don't mention it to

offend you--but there was not the faintest recollection! Completely

forgotten! I spoke of Tannemann--nothing, nothing! Not until I

recalled the little dog could she remember him, but it was especially

the animal, the giver very dimly. I alluded to our excursion--her eyes

sparkled, all the details, even the most minute incidents came back to

her, and she related with the utmost fluency, in a rapture of delight,

a picnic with breakfast in a hut built of branches and an extravagant

quantity of wine--which we had never had together.

"What a shower-bath! My teeth fairly chattered from it. She noticed my

coldness, asked if I had any other love, became irritated when I

pretended not to hear the question, finally said that she must go, and

was thoroughly offended when I did not detain her. She went away

without mentioning another meeting and I let her go, without even

asking where she lived.

"I shall hardly see her again. I regret that I met her. To-day is the

first time that I have wholly lost Helene, and the loss gives me pain.

It was a beautiful self-delusion, and I would gladly have treasured it

to my life's end.

"You were right when you said that we ought not return to the scenes of

former happiness unless we were sure of finding them unchanged.

"A thousand kind remembrances from your strangely agitated

"WOLF.

"_Postscript_. Shall I tell you all I think? I believe that Helene has

mistaken me for some one else----"

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

PART I.

Herr von Jagerfeld, a rich manufacturer who had recently been elevated

to the rank of baron in the Bavarian nobility, was celebrating a double

festival: his silver wedding and the completion of his castle,

Franzensruhe, which he had built outside the gates of Marktbreit, on

the slope of one of the hills, which, as the last western spur of the

Steigerwald, roll in a gradual descent to the bank of the Main. The

castle was a magnificent edifice, in the Renaissance style--of course.

Red sandstone and white marble had been used, with a beautiful effect

of colour, for the facade, which made a lavish display of pilasters

with foliage and vine work, niches containing statues, and bay windows

with beautiful wrought iron railings. The castle stood in the midst of

a lovely park filled with trees a century old, which extended up to the

summit of the hill and down to the river.

The master of the castle liked a lavish style. He had invited to his

house-warming numerous guests, to whom, in the spacious apartments

planned for this purpose, he could offer a really royal hospitality, at

once magnificent and refined. They were chiefly land-owners from the

province of the Main, rich merchants and manufacturers from Frankfort,

and acquaintances from places still more remote, who had flocked here

with their wives and grown children, so that from early morning the

mansion had been filled with joyous life.

The entire company assembled for the first time at the banquet which

took place in the evening. The large dining-hall, wainscoted with

polished marble in the style of the Italian palaces, whose painted

ceiling was supported by fluted columns, was lighted by a superb

chandelier with hundreds of wax candles, and contained a long table

very richly set. Silver ornaments, exquisitely wrought, adorned the

centre and the ends. The china, the array of glasses of all shapes

which stood beside each plate, bore the initial of the master of the

house, without any heraldic addition which might recall the recent

elevation of rank, a graceful bit of coquetry on the part of a man who

had been successful in life, but who was no upstart. At every plate

was also placed a bouquet, in a holder representing a crystal lily with

a silver cup. The company harmonized with the luxurious environment.

The married ladies attracted the eye by their elegant toilettes and

rich jewels, the young girls--among whom were several of bewitching

beauty and freshness--in simpler costumes, with flowers in their hair,

by their natural charms. Even among the monotonous black dress coats

of the men, an eye which took pleasure in colour found some degree of

satisfaction in the gay uniforms of several Bavarian and Russian

officers.

The hostess, still a pretty woman, with her wealth of fair hair and her

clear complexion, over whose delicate transparency the years had passed

with scarcely a trace, had at her right an elderly general with

numerous orders, who, being a great eater and a very poor

conversationalist, feasted his eyes alternately on his plate and on the

pretty faces, whispering to his neighbour remarks about the viands and

the feminine guests, whose artless simplicity--they consisted chiefly

of a noun and a laudatory adjective--showed a profoundly satisfied and

comfortable mood. At her left sat a highly esteemed friend of the

family, Dr. Bergmann, a young physician, a tutor in the Wurzburg

university, who, during the past three years had twice had the

opportunity of saving Frau von Jagersfeld and her eldest daughter, in

cases of severe illness, from threatening death, and to whom the whole

family therefore felt unbounded gratitude. Bergmann was a handsome

man, still under thirty, whose grave manner made him appear somewhat

older. A thoughtful brow, an absolutely straight nose, large grey

eyes, which on first meeting them looked cold and penetrating, lips

somewhat large, yet well modelled, dark beard, and a luxuriant head of

hair which was permitted to wave, stand up, or lie flat at will, were

the individual features which collectively formed a remarkably

interesting head. His manner showed a peculiar mingling of modesty,

nay, timidity, and vigorous self-reliance. It was evident that he was

unaccustomed to the drawing-room and large companies, and felt at ease

only beside a sick-bed. He was rather awkward in aimless chatter, but,

on the other hand, firm and clear in professional conversation. A mere

boy in the presence of a talkative, pretty girl, but a hero and a

conqueror when with a suffering, anxious human being, beseeching his

aid. His left-hand neighbour, the wife of a Frankfort banker, who

chatted rapidly about the architecture of the dining-hall and the

Wagner performances at Bayreuth, received monosyllabic, hesitating

replies, while he talked eloquently to the lady on his right, the

hostess, upon the influence of modern nervousness upon social forms.

He paid little heed to the guests, and had only glanced at them

carelessly two or three times, bowing to acquaintances, and hastily

obtaining a general impression of the strangers. At each of these

surveys his eyes had remained fixed upon a lady who sat directly

opposite to him, and whose beauty was remarkable, peculiar, and

fascinating. So far as her figure could be seen, while seated, it

appeared slight and delicate, without fragility, girlishly immature,

yet not lean in form. The small head, supported by a slender,

snow-white neck, was a marvel of grace and elegance, instantly

recalling the bust of Clytie in the British Museum. One involuntarily

looked for the sunflower from whose calyx it really ought to bloom.

The brow was narrow and dazzlingly fair, the nose uncommonly delicate,

slightly arched at the root, with mobile nostrils, so delicate that one

might believe them transparent; the mouth not very small, but

exquisitely shaped, with thin lips, curving obstinately, which curled

sometimes sternly, sometimes scornfully, sometimes bitterly, but could

also smile with infinite sweetness and charm; the chin round and

statuesque, the cheeks neither plump nor hollow, with a delightful play

of tender lights and soft, almost imperceptible shadows over their

bright surfaces. But the most remarkable characteristics of this head

were the large blue eyes, deep as the sea, beneath long lashes and

nobly-formed brows, and the luxuriant, almost golden-red hair, whose

silken wealth of naturally waving locks rested above the brow in two

bands, like the gleaming wings of some bright-hued tropical bird, while

the light of the candles, shining on the braids, struck out strange,

satiny, metallic reflections, and a powdery, glimmering sparkle, as

though the hair was dusted with gold or ruby powder. Her sole

ornaments were a diamond star in the hair and an antique gold circlet

on one of her bare arms. The white dress, trimmed on one side of the

bosom to the opposite side of the waist with a garland of artificial

flowers, looked simple, yet very elegant. The eye of the most critical

woman could find no fault in the harmony of the toilette, the coldest

man could not avert his gaze from the head, which constantly called

forth the two comparisons to a Greek cameo, or a nixie, comparisons

which the beautiful woman was compelled to hear so often that they

seemed unbearably commonplace.

The young lieutenant--a count--who sat at her left hand, was probably

whispering something of the sort into her little ear, for her face

assumed a repellently cold, bored expression, and her eyes were fixed

dreamily on vacancy,--many times farther away than the earth from the

sun,--from her gallant neighbor, the table, and the hall. But

Bergmann's gaze must have followed her all this distance, for it

suddenly met hers, and the tall, grave fellow flushed under her pensive

glance. The hostess looked at him just at this moment, and saw the

blood mount into his cheeks.

"What is the matter?" she could not help whispering.

He blushed a second time, even more deeply.

But Frau von Jagerfeld had followed his eye, and now said, smiling:

"Ah, your opposite neighbor!"

"Who is the lady?" Bergmann asked, with some little embarrassment.

"Doctor," replied Frau von Jagerfeld, this time smiling, "take care.

Many wings have already been scorched by her."

"Don't fear, madame. I can endure flames somewhat better than a moth."

"Come, come, a suspicious reflection of fire is already visible on your

cheeks."

A shadow of annoyance flitted across Bergmann's face. His hostess laid

her hand quickly on his arm, saying:

"Don't be vexed by a little jest, my dear friend. I will tell you who

the beautiful woman is. She is a German-American, and her name is Mrs.

Ada Burgess. Young and charming, as you see, the poor woman is

unhappy. Her father is the owner of a gold mine somewhere in Nebraska,

and was reputed a very wealthy man; at least he lived in extremely

handsome style in St. Louis, and his daughter, who was considered the

handsomest girl in the west, from the time of her entrance into society

was the reigning belle of every ball and entertainment. Mr. Burgess,

who seems to have been a handsome and elegant man, was her most devoted

suitor and appeared to be madly in love with her. Ada did not remain

insensible to the persistent homage, and Burgess bore away the victory

over numerous rivals. But it now appears that he has a base soul and

his main object was the dowry. There, however, he was disappointed.

Gold mines, evidently, are not always productive, at least Ada's father

was ruined by his, and Ada did not receive a penny. Then the comedy of

love played by Burgess ended. At first he treated her indifferently,

then harshly, and soon matters became so bad that she was obliged to

seek refuge from her husband's abuse in her parents' house. Her nerves

had been so shaken by the horrible scenes which she experienced, that

your American colleagues recommended a long residence in Europe for the

restoration of her health. She came here, and for several months has

lived in Frankfort, where the best society struggles for her. Yon can

imagine that a young and beautiful woman entirely alone, whose husband

is invisible, does not remain unassailed. Besides, there is the

American independence and confidence of manner which is often mistaken

for emancipation, and by which a man easily feels encouraged--in short,

serious attention has been paid to her, and she has seemed to accept

it. Then suddenly there came a repulse and a rupture, which has

already resulted in injury to several somewhat delicately strung

masculine hearts. Moreover she is very uneven in her manner. Often

gay, even reckless, devising pranks like a spoiled boy, then suddenly

reserved, distant, and stern. True, she is always intellectual, so

that I know many a man who is uncomfortable in her society, to say

nothing of women."

Frau von Jagerfeld had spoken eagerly in a low tone, with frequent

interruptions when courtesy compelled her to listen to the numerous

toasts which were chiefly proposed to her and to the master of the

house. Mrs. Burgess could not long fail to notice that the two persons

opposite were talking about her, and she smilingly shook her finger

across the table at her friend.

"Poor woman," murmured Bergmann, "so bitter in experience at the

threshold of life--But why does she endure her fate? It is so easy to

be set free in America."

"I don't know. Perhaps on account of her children."

"Ah--she has children?"

"Two; and it is strange and touching to see how she rears them. Often

she treats them like dolls, and amuses herself for hours by dressing

and undressing them, dragging them around the room, and then suddenly

dropping them in some sofa corner, head down and feet up. Then again,

she talks gravely and tenderly to the little creatures, and tries to

instil good principles--it is too comical. But she is a delightful

creature, oh, a delightful creature----"

The banquet was over, honor was done to the last toast from brimming

champagne glasses, and the guests went to the drawing-room. Several

minutes elapsed before the gentlemen had escorted the ladies to their

chairs, and the arrangement appointed according to rank and precedence,

which had governed the seats assigned at the table, had yielded to free

gathering in groups. Mrs. Burgess had dismissed her lieutenant with a

somewhat curt bow, and took her place before a beautiful little Menzel,

which she examined a long time. Frau von Jagerfeld and Bergmann

released themselves almost at the same moment, the former from her old

general, the latter from his banker's wife, and again found themselves

side by side.

"Do you want me to introduce you to Ada?" she asked, quickly.

He bowed silently, and offered his arm. On reaching Ada, she lightly

touched her on the shoulder, white as mother-of-pearl, with her fan,

and when the lady, somewhat surprised, turned, Frau von Jagerfeld,

smiling pleasantly, said: "My dear child, let me present to you our

best friend, Dr. Bergmann. I must devote myself to the rest of my

guests, and, unfortunately, have not time to tell you all the good I

think of him. But you will discover all that is necessary for

yourself. You know, my dear, that you are the two most interesting

people here. It is fitting for you to be together." With these words

she rustled away to address a few kindly words to the architect of the

castle, who was surrounded by a numerous group.

Bergman stood before Mrs. Burgess, gazing at her gravely and intently.

The more at ease of the two, she sat down on a sofa and, with a gesture

of the hand, invited him to take the arm-chair in front of it.

"Frau von Jagerfeld has talked of you a great deal, and very

enthusiastically," she said, in a musical, somewhat deep, resonant

voice, which thrilled his every nerve like the sound of bells, and as

he bowed, she added, smiling mischievously: "And of me to you; I

watched you at the table."

"Yes," he answered, "and enthusiastically, also."

"She is a kind friend, I know." A brief pause followed, which she

abruptly interrupted. "You are a physician, and in spite of your

youth, a famous one--modesty is unnecessary. It is strange--I like

physicians, and yet I fear them."

"Why?"

"Yes, why? I like them because they are usually earnest, talented men,

who have experienced much, know much, and from whom new and remarkable

things can always be learned. I fear them because they have no

illusions."

"Perhaps that is not always correct."

"Oh, pardon me; how is a physician to preserve any illusions, when he

knows human beings thoroughly, sees that an emotion depends upon the

nerve of a tooth, a mood upon the degree of moisture contained in the

air, and a character upon the healthy or diseased stomach. You leave

your illusions upon your dissecting tables."

"What you say might be true if illusions and experiences came from the

same source. But they do not."

"I don't fully understand. Explain yourself."

"What you call illusions are ideal images and aspirations, which

originate in the sphere of our impulses and feelings, not in our

sensible reasoning. But the impulses and feelings are more elementary

and more deeply rooted, thought comes later and remains more on the

surface. We inherit our illusions from the countless generations that

have preceded us, our experiences we draw from our individual lives.

An individual experience cannot outweigh the illusions of a thousand

ancestors, who form a part of our organism. But, pardon me, I have

caught myself in the midst of a tutor's lecture--you see that impulse

is stronger than prudence."

"Do you ask pardon for that? What you say is so interesting. I

suppose you have a very bad opinion of women, since you do not think

them capable of understanding you?"

"I do not generalize. Whatever opinion I might have of women, I should

not apply it to you."

"You understand how to pay compliments admirably. You are not

commonplace."

He made no reply, but gazed at her with so earnest a look, expressive

of such unconscious admiration and worship that she flushed, and with a

nervous flutter of her fan rose. Bergmann rose also, bowed, and made a

movement to retire. Ada opened her eyes in surprise, and involuntarily

a word escaped her lips: "Why----"

"I thought I was wearying you."

She held out her finger-tips, which he pressed so warmly that she

hastily withdrew her hand. Going to one of the three large windows in

the drawing-room, she opened it and stepped out upon the broad,

projecting balcony, which on the second story extended along the whole

front of the castle. Leaning against the balustrade, both silently

watched for a moment the scene before them. The July night was warm,

and the air was stirless. Not a cloud appeared in the blackish-blue

sky, the stars were sparkling brightly, and among them, almost at the

zenith, sailed the full moon. At their feet lay the park, from which

rose faint odours of unknown wild flowers and the more pungent

fragrance of dewy grass and leafage. Directly in front of the building

extended a lawn, with beds of flowers, on which the moonlight poured a

sort of filmy glimmering mist, which gave the green grass and the

bright hues of the flower-beds a light, silvery veil. Beyond the lawn,

on all sides, towered the trees of the park, intersected by broad

paths, through which the moonbeams flowed like a gleaming white stream

between steep black banks. At the end of the central avenue appeared

the Main, flowing in a broad, calm stream, with here and there a noisy,

troubled spot in the midst of its peacefully-gliding waves, where a

rock or a sand-bar interrupted the mirror-like expanse, and caused a

rushing, foam-sprinkled whirlpool. Beyond the river, amid the light,

floating night-mists, were dimly seen the houses of a little village,

on whose window-panes a moonbeam often flashed, and at the left of the

park rose the indistinct mass of the city of Marktbreit, whose steep,

narrow streets were filled with shadows, while above the steeples and

higher roofs the moon-rays rippled, bringing them out in bright relief

against the dark picture.

PART II.

The spell of this moonlight night mounted to the heads of the two

silent watchers on the balcony like an intoxicating draught, and sent

cold chills down their spines. Almost without being aware what he was

doing, Bergmann offered Ada his arm, which she accepted, leaning

against him with a gentle, clinging movement of her whole figure.

There they stood, letting their dreamy eyes wander over the woods, the

river, and the city. They would have forgotten the castle and the

entertainment had not the subdued notes of the dance music reached them

from the ball-room, whose windows opened upon the balcony on the

opposite side of the facade, filling the night with low harmonies which

were continued in the vibrations of their own nerves.

At this moment the clock in the Marktbreit steeple struck twelve,

directly after the sound of a night watchman's horn was heard, and a

wailing voice, rising in the sleeping streets of the city, called a few

unintelligible words.

"What was that?" Ada whispered.

"The night watchman, according to the custom of the country, called the

hour with a verse," replied Bergmann. A few minutes later the call was

repeated, this time nearer, and so distinctly that it could be

understood. The night watchman, with mournful emphasis, sung:

"Twelve strokes Time's limit do teach thee,

Man, think of thy mortality."

"Life in your Germany is like a fairy tale," said Ada, after repeating

the verse to herself; "everything is so dreamy; so pervaded with

poetry."

"Then stay in our Germany, stay with us," he pleaded, softly, his voice

expressing far more than his words.

She shook her little head sorrowfully. "I came five years too late."

"Do not say that," replied Bergmann, pressing the bare arm which rested

on his closely to his side. "How old are you now?"

It did not occur to her to smile at the question or to answer it,

according to the ordinary custom of women, with an affected reply. She

said, instead, as simply as a child:

"Twenty-three."

"And at twenty-three would it be too late to seek and strive for

happiness in life? When sorrow has been experienced so young, it can

surely be regarded as a childish disease and there is nothing to be

done except to forget it as quickly as possible."

Ada gazed fixedly into vacancy, saying, as if lost in thought:

"No, no. That is not so. There are injuries which are incurable. The

mother of two children is old at twenty-three. Since she can no longer

offer a man the full happiness of love, she has no right to expect it

from him."

He was about to answer, but with a hasty movement she placed her

slender finger on her lip, saying:

"Hush! Not another word on this subject. Look"--and her hand pointed,

down to the park.

From a bow window in the castle a powerful apparatus was sending a

broad stream of electric light into the darkness. It often changed and

moved, being thrown now here, then there. In its course it illumined

the tops of the trees with a faint, livid phosphorescence, interwove

the shrubbery with fantastic gliding spots of light, and gave the turf,

wherever it was visible, the appearance of a strip of a glittering

glacier. In the distance, where the light was lost in the dense groups

of trees, it produced the illusion of indistinct shapes gleaming out

there for a moment and then vanishing. It seemed as if one could see

something mysterious moving or standing, perhaps a human form, wrapped

in floating robes, perhaps a white marble statue hidden behind the

foliage, perhaps a mist, gathering and scattering. Night moths and

bats, fluttering across the bar of light out of the darkness into the

darkness, shone brightly during the brief period of their passage, then

suddenly vanished again like moss blown through a flame. The electric

light seemed to make a road through the park, spread a silver carpet

over it, and invite the two who watched its course to walk along this

shining road to the distance where the shadowy white shapes hovered in

the shrubbery, appearing and disappearing.

The temptation was irresistible.

"Let us go down," said Ada, and a few minutes later, with a light

mantilla over her shoulders, she was walking by his side over the

creaking gravel of the avenue and then over the noiseless side paths.

How blissful is the wandering of a handsome young couple, with glowing

hearts in their breasts, through a moonlit, fragrant summer night!

Their feet do not feel the earth on which they tread, but seem to be

floating on clouds. Nothing is left of the world save these two and

the night which maternally conceals them--he and she, naught else, like

Adam and Eve, when they were the only human dwellers in Paradise.

A damp branch of the bushes often brushed Ada's shoulders like an

affectionate, caressing hand, as she slowly passed along. Now and then

a bird whose nest was in the underbrush, disturbed in its sleep,

fluttered up before them, and, stupid with slumber, flew to a

neighboring bough. Ada sometimes plucked a flower, or cautiously

touched with her finger one of the little glow worms, which in great

numbers edged the path with their greenish light. They went down to

the Main and back again to the park fence, facing Marktbreit. Just as

they reached it the clock struck one, and the night watchman blew his

horn, and again solemnly intoned his old-fashioned melody:

"One thing, Lord God of truth, we want;

A happy death to us all grant."

The full magic of the moment held them both in its thrall. Bergmann

passionately clasped Ada's head between his hands, and pressed a long,

ardent kiss on her golden hair and her white brow. Drawing a long

breath, she submitted, not shrinking back until his burning lips sought

hers. Their hearts beat audibly as they continued their walk, and long

pauses interrupted their faltering speech.

What did they say to each other? Why repeat it? One who has never had

such conversations will not understand them, and one who has

experienced them, only needs to be reminded of them. They are always

the same. Memories of childhood, rapture and extravagance, words of

enthusiastic love, words which create the slight tremor of the skin

like a cool breeze or the caress of toying fingers. So they walked a

long, long time in the dark park, without heeding the flight of time,

far from the world and unutterably happy.

"I am tired, Karl," Ada said at last, and leaned her head on his

shoulder.

They were near a low, grassy bank, a few paces from the central avenue,

and almost under the balcony of the castle, but completely concealed by

the dense shadow of the over-arching trees. Karl spread his shawl over

the bank and the ground, placed Ada on it, and reclined at her feet,

resting his head in her lap. The balcony and the windows and lights of

the drawing-room could all be seen from this spot. The window still

stood open, the notes of a piano were heard, and a voice began the song:

"From out my tears will bloom

Full many a flow'ret fair."

A pretty, but somewhat cold, female voice, with no special tenderness

and feeling. Yet the combined poesy of Heine and Schumann triumphed

gloriously over the inadequacy of the execution. The wonderful,

choral-like melody soared like the flight of a swan over the rapt pair,

and completely dissolved their souls in melody and love:

"Before thy windows shall ring

The song of the nightingale,"

sang the woman's voice above, and the accompanying piano completed the

air with an organ-like closing accord.

"Before thy windows shall ring

The song of the nightingale,"

Karl softly repeated, in his beautiful baritone, thrilling with an

approaching tempest of passion, his arms clasped Ada's waist, and he

gazed up at her with wild, flaming eyes. She bent down to him and her

lips met his, which nearly scorched them. Leaning back, and gently

pushing his head away, she whispered:

"Don't repeat verses by Heine; say something which is yours, and is

composed for me."

"That I will, Ada," he cried, and, kneeling before her, clasping her in

a close embrace and devouring her face with rapturous eyes, his whole

being wrought up to the highest pitch of emotion, he said in a rapid

improvisation, bursting from the inmost depths of his soul:

"In the shadowy hour when ghosts do flit,

Thou art to me a beauteous dream;

To thy lips I cling, yet while I love,

My happiness scarce real doth seem."

"Thy mouth and thy fair hands I kiss,

I kiss thine eyes and thy silken hair,

And should our lives end at this hour,

Still we should die a happy pair."

Her eyes were half closed, and her bosom heaved.

After a short pause, he continued slowly in a tremulous voice:

"Oh, God, that I should find thee here,

Only to cause my woe,

For thou wilt vanish from my gaze,

Ere the first cock doth crow."

"No, no," she murmured, almost inaudibly, sinking into his arms, which

clasped her wildly and ardently, pressing her to his heart, while his

lips showered kisses upon her and a sudden ecstasy began to cloud her

senses.

Then, just at that moment, the clock in the Marktbreit church steeple

struck two, the blast of the horn followed, and the mysterious voice

rose in the invisible city and sang, this time close at hand and

seemingly with significant emphasis:

"Two paths are to each mortal shown;

Lord, guide me in the narrow one."

As if stung by a serpent, Ada started up, wrenched herself by a sudden

movement from Karl's clasping arms, and hastened away as though pursued

by all the fiends of hell. A moment later, her white figure had

vanished in the castle and Karl found himself alone before the grassy

bank; he might have believed it a dream if the mantilla had not still

lain there exhaling Ada's favourite perfume, a faint fragrance of

carnations.

With heavy, dulled brain, aching limbs, and a strange sense of pain in

his heart, Karl staggered back to the castle and to his room. For a

long time sleep fled from him. A thousand scenes hovered in a confused

throng before his fancy, blending into a witch-dance in whose mazes his

own brain seemed to whirl also, until the giddiness became intolerable.

He saw Ada in various transformations--now seated opposite to him at

the table--then in the drawing-room--anon clasped in his

arms--sometimes brightly illuminated as the queen of the

ball-room--sometimes a faint, dark vision against the sombre background

of the woodland--he inhaled her favourite perfume, felt the touch of

her arms and her lips--he heard her voice and the melancholy music of

the night watchman and the notes of the dancing tune from the ballroom,

and amid these exciting delusions of the senses a restless,

dream-haunted slumber at last overtook him.

* * * * * *

It was almost noon when he awoke. At first his head felt confused and

empty, but gradually he collected his thoughts, and now the experience

of the previous night again stood clearly before his eyes. He suddenly

recalled all his feelings during the walk through the woods, and, while

dressing with the utmost haste, he exultingly repeated in a low tone

again and again: "I love her! And she returns my love! And we will

never part."

His first thought was to seek Ada. The mantilla, which he must return,

afforded the pretext. After several inquiries he found her apartments,

which were next to those occupied by the mistress of the house. Ada's

maid opened the door and looked at him in surprise when he gave her the

package and asked if he could see Mrs. Burgess.

"She has a headache, and probably won't be up to-day," was the curt

answer, with which the door was closed in his face. This was a

disappointment, and he felt very unhappy and forsaken. Yet he

endeavoured to combat these feelings and mingled with the other guests.

At noon he exchanged a hurried greeting with Frau Von Jagerfeld, who

looked at him intently, but said nothing when he avoided her glance.

In the afternoon he walked to Marktbreit and through the villages on

the neighbouring hills, but the longing of his heart soon drove him

back to the castle, where for hours he paced patiently up and down the

pillared hall upon which most of the rooms occupied by the visitors

opened. In the evening the guests again assembled at a banquet.

Bergmann hoped that Ada would be present, and he was not disappointed.

The summons to the meal had been given for the third time, nearly all

the other members of the house-party were in the drawing-room when

Ada's door at last opened. Karl rushed forward and held out his hand

to her. She started, paused an instant on the threshold, then hurried

past him without turning her head, and swiftly vanished.

Karl stood as if he were turned to stone, gazing after her retreating

figure; then forgetting the banquet and everything else, he hastened to

his room and wrote Ada a letter, in which he repeated all the

expressions of love lavished upon her during the preceding night, and

begged for an explanation of her recent conduct. This missive he gave

to Ada's maid, with the urgent request to deliver it to her mistress

that very evening before she retired. Then he went out to try to

conquer his agitation by a walk in the park, and when he thought that

he had regained his composure, he returned to the drawing-room to see

and to talk with Ada. The meal was over, gaiety reigned throughout the

various groups, and a storm of reproaches for his absence from the

table assailed him on all sides. But he looked in vain for Ada. She

had retired immediately after dinner.

So she was now reading his letter! Perhaps now she was answering him!

His heart throbbed wildly at this thought. He would gladly have made

another attempt to see Ada in her own apartments, but he felt that he

owed her due reserve, and determined to have patience until the next

day.

When, on the following morning, he came out of his bed-chamber into the

ante-room, he instantly saw on the table a sealed package which bore

his address. He tore the wrapper with trembling hands and found within

his own letter and a gilt-edged book. It was an English copy of

Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream." On the first page, in a

woman's delicate chirography, were the words: "A Midsummer Night's

Dream. July 3, 188--. Ada." That was all. From the servant, who

appeared at his ring, Bergmann learned the package had been left by

Mrs. Burgess' maid early that morning. Mrs. Burgess had been gone half

an hour.