Wave after wave broke over the head of the drowning man.
The factory had now been in operation for some months. The beet-root
crop on the estate itself had been deficient, and the cultivation of it
in the country round had proved unsuccessful. Many of the small farmers
had failed to fulfill their contracts, and others had brought in
inferior produce. There was a scarcity of beet-root as well as a
scarcity of capital; the works stopped, the workmen dispersed.
Ehrenthal was gone off to the Polish property, and the baron was
consumed by the fever of suspense. At last came the dark day when
Ehrenthal appeared before him, a letter from Commissary Walter in his
hand. The baron's capital had only been saved by his buying the estate.
The owners of the first mortgage of a hundred thousand dollars had
raised the property, by bidding, up to a hundred and four thousand; they
had then left off, and no other purchaser had come forward.
"The estate is now yours, baron," said Ehrenthal. "In order that you may
be able to maintain it, I have negotiated with the owners of the first
mortgage, and they will leave the hundred thousand upon the estate. I
have advanced for you four thousand dollars and the legal expenses."
The baron said not a word; his head fell heavily on his writing-table.
As Ehrenthal left the room, he muttered, "It is all over with him. And
the next quarter he will lose his old estate, and he has not energy to
undertake the new. I shall have to buy the Polish property too, in the
end."
And now term-time drew near, and the baron had the interest of all his
borrowed money to pay. Once more he looked round for help. In vain!
Last of all he came to his neighbor, George Werner, who had for some
years paid homage to Lenore, and then prudently drawn back, the baron's
embarrassments being no longer a secret. The young man showed all the
sympathy conventional in such a case. He was very sorry, indeed, to hear
that there was so large a mortgage upon the recently-purchased property.
"Whom did you send to the auction?" asked he.
"Hirsch Ehrenthal," was the reply.
George Werner waxed eloquent. "I fear," cried he, "that that fellow has
played you false. I know the usurer well: years ago we lost a large sum
by his villainy. My father had cut down a wood in the next province, and
sold it to a timber-merchant. Ehrenthal made a cheating bargain with
this man, got the timber from him at a nominal price, while the other
fellow ran off to America. The two rogues shared my father's money."
The baron's face grew livid; he rose, said not another word about his
concerns, and slunk out of his neighbor's house like a felon.
From that day he brooded darkly in his arm-chair, was harsh to his wife,
unapproachable by his daughter. The two poor women suffered
inexpressibly.
One ray of hope still remained to him--Bernhard's influence with his
father. But he would not take the hand unselfishly offered him. He did
not send for Anton, but for another, of whom the idea was repulsive to
him, yet whose grotesque presence seemed to cheer him whenever they met.
Once more, at the last hour, a gracious destiny left his choice free.
But alas! he was himself free no longer. It was the curse of an evil
deed that now confused his judgment.
Again Itzig stood before him, and the baron, looking askance at the bent
figure, said, "Young Ehrenthal has offered to make up my difference with
his father."
Veitel leaped up suddenly as if he had been shot. "Bernhard!" said he.
"That is his name, I dare say; he is an invalid."
"He will die," replied Veitel.
"When?" asked the baron, occupied with his own thoughts; but, recovering
himself, he added, "What is the matter with him?"
"It is here," said Itzig, laying his hand on his chest; "it labors like
a pair of bellows: when a hole is once torn, the breath ceases."
The baron put on an expression of sympathy, but, in reality, his only
thought was that he had no time to lose. "The invalid," said he, "has
sufficient influence over his father to give me hopes of Ehrenthal's
consent to my wishes."
"What does Bernhard know of business? He is a fool," cried Veitel,
unable to conceal his annoyance. "If you were to put an old parchment
covered with manuscript before him, he would give you any mortgage you
liked for it; he is half-witted."
"I see that you do not approve this plan," said the baron, again
drifting hopelessly.
Before Itzig replied, he stood for a long time reflecting, and
restlessly looking away from the baron into every corner of the room. At
last he said, in a more self-possessed tone, "The baron is right. It
will be best, after all, that you and Ehrenthal should go together to
Bernhard's sick-bed, and there finally settle your affairs." Again he
was silent, and his face grew red with stormy thoughts. "Will the baron
be graciously pleased to leave me to fix the day and the hour when he
can best speak to Bernhard Ehrenthal? As soon as you enter the office, I
will go up and tell him that you are there. Meanwhile you will have the
goodness to wait in the office, even if I should be half an hour away.
You will wait, whatever Ehrenthal may say. And when I take you up
stairs, all will be right, for Bernhard can do what he likes with his
father."
"I shall wait till I hear from you," decided the baron, distressed at
the thought of the painful day.
Itzig then took his leave, and rushed in frantic excitement to his lair
in the house of Pinkus. Arrived there, he ran wildly up and down,
clenching his fist at the thought of Bernhard. He opened his old desk,
and took out of a secret drawer two keys, which he laid on the table,
and stood looking at them steadfastly and long. At length he pushed them
into his pocket, and ran down to the caravanserai. There, cowering in a
corner of the gallery, he found his sagacious friend Mr. Hippus, whose
aspect had certainly not improved during the last few days. He was now
sitting squeezed into a corner where the sunlight fell, and was reading
a dirty romance. When Veitel hurriedly entered, he only buried his head
deeper in his book, for which he appeared to care far more than for the
young man of business before him.
"Shut up your book, and listen to me," cried Itzig, impatiently.
"Rothsattel will get his notes of hand back from Ehrenthal; he will give
in the mortgage, and I shall have to pay him the remaining eight
thousand dollars."
"Only think--only think," replied the old man, wagging his ugly head,
"what things one lives to see! If Ehrenthal gives his money away to a
vagabond who has broken his word, it will be time for us all to mend our
ways and turn honest. Before, however, we speak further, you may just
bring me up something to eat and drink. I am thirsty, and have not
another word to say at present."
Veitel hurried down stairs, and the old man, looking after him,
muttered, "Now for it! now for it!"
When Veitel had placed his meal before him, Hippus briefly inquired,
"How much?"
"Three hundred," said the old man; "and even then I must have time to
consider. It is not in my line, most worthy Itzig. I am willing to labor
in my vocation for less, as you have experienced ere now, but for a
noble exploit in the style of Cartouche and others of your friends, I
require better compensation. I am only a volunteer, and I can't say that
my preferences lie in this direction."
"Do mine?" cried Itzig. "If there be any other means to take, tell me
them. If you know how the baron and Ehrenthal can be kept asunder, say
so. Ehrenthal's only son will make peace between them; he will stand
between them like the winged cupid on a valentine between two lovers,
and we shall be done."
"_We_?" chuckled the old man. "_You_ will be done, you jackdaw. What are
your affairs to me?"
"Two hundred," cried Veitel, drawing nearer.
"Three," replied the old man, tossing off his glass; "but even then I
will not do it alone; you must be there."
"If I am to be there," said Veitel, "I can do it alone, and shall not
require your help. Listen to me. I will contrive that the office shall
be empty; that Ehrenthal and the baron shall leave the house at the same
moment. I will give you a sign, to say whether the papers are on the
table or in the press. It will be dark. You will have about half an
hour's time. I will fasten the house door, and unbolt the back door,
which is generally closed. It will all be so safe that a child of two
years might do it easily."
"Safe enough for you," said the old man, dryly, "but not for me."
"We have tried what could be done with the law, and it has not
answered," cried Veitel; "now we must defy it." He struck the balustrade
with his clenched fist, and ground his teeth fiercely. "And if you don't
choose to do it, still it shall be done, though I know that all the
suspicion will fall upon me, unless I am in Bernhard's room at the
time."
"Very fine indeed, gallant Itzig," said the man, adjusting his
spectacles, so as to observe more closely the expression of the other's
countenance. "Since you are so brave, I will not leave you in the lurch.
But three hundred."
The bargaining then began. The pair squeezed themselves into the
farthest corner of the gallery, and whispered together till dark.
A few days later, at twilight, Anton entered his friend's sick-room. "I
am come to pay you a flying visit, just to see how you are."
"Weak," replied Bernhard; "still very weak, and breathing becomes very
difficult. If I could only get out, only once out of this gloomy room."
"Does your doctor allow you to drive out? If the sun be bright and warm,
I will bring a carriage to-morrow and take you a drive."
"Yes," cried Bernhard, "you shall come. I shall have something to tell
you then." He looked cautiously around. "I have this day received by the
townpost a note without a signature." He drew it out from under his
pillow, and gave it with a mysterious look to his friend. "Take it:
perhaps you know the hand."
Anton went to the window and read, "The Baron Rothsattel wishes to speak
to you this evening. Contrive, therefore, to be alone with your father."
When Anton gave back the note, Bernhard received it reverentially, and
replaced it under his pillow. "Do you know the hand?" said he.
"No," replied Anton; "the hand seems a feigned one; it is not the young
lady's."
"Whoever the writer may be," continued Bernhard, dejectedly, "I hope for
a good result from this evening's interview. Wohlfart, this dispute lies
like a hundred weight on my breast; it takes my breath away. This
evening I shall be better; I shall be free."
Speaking had tired him. "Farewell, then, till morning," said Anton. As
he rose he heard the rustle of ladies' dresses, and Bernhard's mother
and sister approached the bed and greeted the visitor. "How are you,
Bernhard?" asked his mother; "you will be all alone with your father
this evening. There is a great musical meeting, and Rosalie is to play.
We have moved the piano into the back room, Mr. Wohlfart, that Bernhard
may not be disturbed by Rosalie's practicing."
"Sit down for a moment beside me, mother," said Bernhard; "it is long
since I have seen you handsomely dressed. You look beautiful to-day; you
had just such a gown as this when I, as a boy, took scarlet fever. When
I dream of you I always see you in a scarlet dress. Give me your hand,
mother; and while you listen to the music this evening, think, too, of
your Bernhard, who will be making silent melody here."
His mother sat down beside him. "He is feverish again," said she to
Anton, who silently assented.
"To-morrow I shall go out into the sunshine," cried Bernhard, in an
excited tone; "that will be my enjoyment."
"The carriage waits," said Rosalie, remindingly; "and we have to go out
the back way, which is dirty. Itzig has persuaded my father that the
carriage must not drive round to the front for fear of disturbing
Bernhard."
"Good-night, Bernhard," said his mother, once more reaching out her
plump hand. The ladies hurried away. Anton followed them.
"What do you think of Bernhard?" asked the mother, as they went down
stairs.
"I consider him very ill," Anton replied.
"I have already told my husband that, when summer comes, and I go with
Rosalie to the Baths, we will take Bernhard with us."
Anton went home with a heavy heart.
The house grew silent; nothing was to be heard in the sick-room but the
labored breathing of the sufferer. But there was a stir on the floor
below him--doubtless a mouse gnawing the wainscot. Bernhard listened
uneasily. "How long will it go on gnawing? till it makes a hole at last,
and comes into the room." A shudder came over him--he tossed about on
his bed--the darkness seemed to press him in--the air grew thick. He
rang till the maid came and set down the lamp. Then he gazed languidly
round. The room looked old and prison-like to-day; it appeared
unfamiliar to him, like some room in a strange house, where he was only
a visitor. He looked with indifference at his library, and the drawer
where lay his beloved manuscripts. That spot upon the floor--that chink
through which the light from the next room shone in every evening,
to-morrow he would leave them all to drive with Anton. He wondered
whether they would take the road the young lady took when going to and
fro between town and her father's estate. Perhaps they might meet her.
His eye beamed; he confidently believed that they should meet her. She
would sit queen-like in her carriage, her veil flying round her blooming
face; she would raise her white hand and wave it to him--nay, she would
recognize him; she would know that he had rendered her father a service;
she would stop and inquire how he was. He should speak to her--should
hear the noble tones of her voice; she would bow once more; then the
carriages would separate, one here, the other there. And whither would
he go? "Into the sunshine," whispered he. And again he listened
anxiously to the gnawing of the mouse.
A hurried step came through the room beyond. Bernhard sat up--the blood
mounted to his face. It was the father of Lenore who was coming to him.
The door opened softly; an ugly face peeped in, and glanced stealthily
around the room. Bernhard cried in dismay, "What do you want here?"
Itzig went up to the bed in haste, and breathing hard, said, in a voice
that sounded as choked as that of the invalid, "The baron has just gone
into the office. He has told me to come to you, and to persuade you to
support the proposal that he is about to make to your father."
"He has said that to you?" cried Bernhard. "How can the baron give a
message to a man like you?"
"Hold your peace," rejoined Veitel, rudely; "there is no time for your
speeches. Listen to what I have to say. The baron promised your father,
on his word of honor, security for twenty thousand dollars, and now he
can not give him that security, because he has sold the deed to another.
He has broken his word, and now demands that your father should renounce
his security. If you can advise your father to lose twenty thousand
dollars, why, do so."
Bernhard trembled all over. "You are a liar!" cried he. "Every word that
proceeds from your mouth is hypocrisy, double-dealing, and deceit."
"Hold your peace," replied Veitel, in feverish anxiety. "You are not to
persuade your father to his harm. There is no helping this baron; he is
a fly who has burned his wings in the candle; he can only crawl. And
even if Ehrenthal be fool enough to follow your evil counsel, he can not
maintain for the baron possession of his estate. If he does not eject
him, another will. I have no interest in saying this to you," continued
he, uneasily listening to a sound in front of the house; "I do so merely
out of attachment to your family."
Bernhard struggled for breath. "Get out of my sight!" said he, at
length; "there is nothing but deceit and falsehood on earth."
"I will bring up the baron and your father," said Veitel, and rushed out
of the room.
Meanwhile Ehrenthal's angry voice sounded loudly on the ground floor. "I
will go to the lawyer; I will expose you and your intrigues."
Veitel burst open the door. The baron sat on the stool, and hid his face
with his hands. Ehrenthal stood before him trembling with rage. On the
desk stood the baron's casket, containing the fatal notes of hand and
the mortgage. Veitel cried out, "Have done, Ehrenthal; your Bernhard is
very ill; he is all alone up stairs, and calls for you and for the
baron; he wants you both beside him."
"What means this?" screamed Ehrenthal. "Are you intriguing with my son
too, behind my back?"
"Have you shown him the new mortgage that you have had drawn up for
him?" asked Veitel, hurriedly.
"He will not even look at it," returned the baron, gloomily.
"Give it to me," said Veitel; and he laid a new deed before Ehrenthal.
"You want me to take a bit of paper instead of my good money--mere
trash, that is not worth my burning."
"Will you not give over?" cried Veitel, in greatest distress. "No one is
up stairs with Bernhard, and he is calling out for you and the baron; he
will do himself a mischief. Do go up stairs; he has groaned out that I
am to bring you both to him immediately."
"Just God!" cried Ehrenthal, "what is to be done! I can not come to my
son; I am in terror about my money."
"He will cry himself to death," said Veitel; "you can speak about the
money long enough afterward. Do make haste."
The baron and Ehrenthal both left the office. Itzig followed. Ehrenthal
locked the door, laid the iron bar across it, and fastened the bolts. As
they went up stairs a piece of money rang upon the step. Ehrenthal
looked round. "It dropped out of my pocket," said Veitel.
The baron and Ehrenthal entered the sick-chamber, and Itzig pushed
himself in after them, creeping along the wall to the window behind
Bernhard, so that the latter should not see him. The baron sat down at
the head of the bed, the father at the foot, and the lamp threw a pale
light on the parties who came to wrangle about capital and security in
the presence of the dying. The nobleman began by a courteous speech,
referring to Bernhard's visit to his estate, hoping soon to welcome him
there again; but his eyes rested with terror on the sunken face, and an
inner voice told him the last hour was near. Bernhard sat up in his bed,
his head resting on his breast, and, raising his hand, he interrupted
the baron, saying, "I pray you, baron, to tell me what you require from
my father, and, while doing so, to recollect that I am no man of
business."
The baron proceeded to state his case. Ehrenthal was often about to
interrupt him, but each time Bernhard waved his hand, and then the old
man stopped, and contented himself with vehemently shaking his head and
mumbling to himself.
When the baron's statement was over, Bernhard beckoned to his father.
"Come nearer me, and listen quietly to my words."
The father stooped down with his ear close to his son's mouth. "What I
am about to say," continued Bernhard, in a low voice, "is my firm
resolve, and it is not one taken this day. If you have made money, it
was with the hope that I should outlive you and be your heir. Was it not
so?"
Ehrenthal vehemently nodded assent. "If, then, you behold your heir in
me, listen to my words. If you love me, act in accordance with them. I
renounce my inheritance so long as we both live. What you have laid up
for me has been laid up in vain. I require nothing for my future. If it
be appointed me to recover, I will learn to support myself by my own
labor. Beside your love and your blessing, father, I want nothing. Think
upon this."
Ehrenthal raised his arms and cried, "What words are these, my Bernhard,
my poor son! Thou art ill; thou art very ill."
"Hear me further," besought Bernhard. "Whatever your claims may be on
this gentleman's estate, they must be given up. You have been connected
with him in business for long years; you must not be the means of
making his family unhappy. I do not ask you to give away the large sum
in question. That would pain you too much, and would be humiliating to
him; all I require is, that you should accept the security he offers
you. If he ever promised you any other, forget it; if you have papers in
your possession which compromise him, give them back."
"He is ill," groaned his father; "he is very ill."
"I know that this will pain you, my father. Ever since you left your
grandfather's house, a poor barefooted Jew-boy, with one dollar in your
pocket, you have thought of nothing but money-making. No one ever taught
you any thing else, and your creed excluded you from the society of
those who better understood what gave value to life. I know it goes to
your heart to risk a large sum, but yet, father, you will do it--you
will do it because you love me."
Ehrenthal wrung his hands, and said, with floods of tears, "You know not
what you ask, my son. You plead for a robbery--a robbery from your
father."
The son took his father's hand. "You have always loved me. You have
wished that I should be different from yourself. You have always given
heed to my words, and before I could express a wish you have fulfilled
it. But this is the first great request that I have ever made. And this
request I will whisper in your ear as long as I live; it is the first,
father, and it will be my last."
"Thou art a foolish child," cried the father, beside himself; "thou
askest my life--my whole substance."
"Fetch the papers," replied Bernhard. "I must, with my own eyes, see you
give back to the baron what he wishes to retract, and receive from him
what he can still give."
Ehrenthal took out his handkerchief and wept aloud: "He is ill. I shall
lose him, and I shall lose my money too." Meanwhile the baron sat silent
and looked down. As for Itzig, he was clenching his fist convulsively,
and unconsciously tearing the curtain down from the pole.
Bernhard looked at his father's emotion unmoved, and repeated with an
effort, "I will have it so; bring the papers, father," Then he sank back
on his pillow. His father bent over him, but with a silent gesture of
aversion Bernhard waved him off, saying, "Enough! you hurt me."
Then Ehrenthal rose, took up his office-candle, and tottered out of the
room.
The baron sat still as before, but in the midst of his suspense he was
conscious of flashes that resembled joy. He saw a spot of blue in his
clouded sky. His promise given back to him, eight thousand dollars to
receive from the man in the window, he might look up once more. He took
Bernhard's hand, and, pressing it, said, "I thank you, sir--oh how I
thank you! You are my deliverer; you save my family from despair, and me
from disgrace."
Bernhard held the baron's hand firmly in his, and a blissful smile
passed over his face. Meanwhile the one in the window was grinding his
teeth in his phrensy of anxiety, and pressing himself against the wall
to control the fever-fit which shook him.
Thus they remained a long while. No one spoke. Ehrenthal did not return.
Suddenly the room door was burst open, and a man rushed in furious, with
distorted face and streaming hair. It was Ehrenthal, holding in his hand
the flaring candle, but nothing else.
"Gone!" said he, clasping his hands, and letting the candle fall; "all
gone! all is stolen!" He fell on his son's bed, and stretched out his
arms, as if to implore help from him.
The baron sprang up, not less horrified than Ehrenthal. "What is
stolen?" cried he.
"Every thing!" groaned Ehrenthal, looking only at his son. "The notes of
hand, are gone, the mortgages are gone. I am robbed!" screamed he,
springing up. "Robbery! burglary! Send for the police!" And again he
rushed out, the baron following him.
Half fainting and bewildered, Bernhard looked after them. Itzig now
stepped out from the window and came to the bed. The sufferer threw his
head on one side, and gazed at him as the bird does at the snake. It was
the face of a devil into which he gazed; the red hair stood up
bristling; hellish dread and hate were in every ugly feature. Bernhard
closed his eyes, and covered them with his hand. But the face came
nearer still, and a hoarse voice whispered in his ear.
Meanwhile two men stood in the office below, and looked at each other in
stupid amazement. The casket and its contents were gone. The deeds that
the baron had laid on the desk were gone too. Ehrenthal had unlocked the
door as usual. There was nothing wrong with the bolts. Every thing stood
in its right place. If any money had been taken out of the drawer, it
could be but very little. There was not a sign of the well-secured
shutters having been touched; it was inexplicable how the documents
could have been taken away.
Then they searched the whole ground floor: nothing to be seen--even the
house door was locked. They recollected that the cautious book-keeper
had done that as they went up stairs. Again they went back to the office
and searched every corner, but more rapidly and more hopelessly than
before. Then they sat over against each other, watching for some token
of treachery; and again they sprang up, and mutually poured out such
reproaches as only despair can invent.
The papers had vanished from Ehrenthal's office just as he had
unwillingly yielded to his son's entreaties for a reconciliation with
the baron. He had not, indeed, made up his mind to it--he had only gone
to fetch the papers. Would any one believe that those papers were
stolen? Would his own son believe him?
And as for the baron, his loss was greater still. He had just had a hope
of rescue, now he fell again into an abyss beyond his fathoming. His
notes of hand were in some stranger's possession. If the thief
understood how to make use of them--nay, if the thief were only
apprehended, he was lost; and if they were never found again, still he
was equally lost. He was not in a condition to make any arrangement with
Ehrenthal; he was not in a condition to pay any of his creditors; he was
lost beyond possibility of deliverance. Before him lay poverty, failure,
disgrace. Again there recurred to his mind that court of honor, his
fellow-officers, and the unfortunate young man who had destroyed
himself. He had been obliged to view the body; he knew how one looks who
has died thus; he knew too, now, how a man comes to die. Once he had
shuddered at the image of the corpse, now he shuddered at it no longer.
His lips moved, and as in a dream he said to himself, "That is the last
resource." The door was now torn open, a hideous head appeared, and a
wild cry was heard, "Come up, Hirsch Ehrenthal; your son is dying." Then
the apparition vanished, Ehrenthal rushed off with a shriek, and the
baron tottered out of the house.
When the father fell down beside his son's bed, a white hand was lifted
up once more, then a corpse fell back. Bernhard was gone out into the
sunshine.
The evening was warm. A light mist hid the stars, but there was still a
pleasant twilight. The balmy breath of the flowering shrubs in the
public gardens was wafted into the streets. The passers-by returned
slowly home, sorry to leave the sweet south breeze, and shut themselves
up in-doors. The beggar stretched himself comfortably out on the
threshold of the stately house; every young fellow who had a sweetheart
led her out with him through the streets. He who was weary forgot his
past day's work; he who was sad felt his sadness less on such an evening
as this; he who was alone the whole year felt impelled to seek
companionship to-day. Groups stood laughing and chattering at the doors;
children were playing; the caged nightingale sang her sweetest
song--sang of the early summer--that happy time when life is sweet and
fond hopes blossom.
Through these swarms of people a tall man walked slowly; his head had
sunk on his breast. He did not hear the nightingale's note, and passed
through the circle of dancing children without one sound of their happy
voices falling upon his ear. He passed into the suburbs, slowly ascended
a flower-crowned hill, and sat down on a bench. Beneath him the dark
river rolled onward to the sea, and opposite him rose the mighty mass of
the old cathedral. The river was covered with timber-rafts brought down
from the mountains. On these rafts stood the little huts of their
rowers, with small fires in them, at which the men were now preparing
their suppers. He too had had to do with timber-rafts like these, and
the money he had thus won had been spoken of as a theft. He got up
hastily and hurried down the hill.
His way lay through an alley of tall sycamores, and again he stopped,
and wearily leaned against the trunk of a tree. Before him rose the
chimneys of the manufacturing part of the town. He too knew what it was
to build a tall pile like that. He had laid all he had at its base--his
strength, his money, his honor. He had paid for it with sleepless nights
and whitened hair; it was the tomb-stone of his race which he had raised
on his estate, and what he now saw before him in the uncertain light was
a monster church-yard, full of shadowy monuments, beneath which lay
coffined the peace of mind of many wretched men; and nodding, he said,
and started to hear his own words, "It is the last." He rose and went to
his house.
On his way thither he felt how comforting it was to think of that which
would free him from such hideous pictures. He went in and smiled when
the lamp shone on his face. As he stood in the hall he could hear voices
in his wife's room. Lenore was reading aloud. He listened and heard
that she was reading a novel. He would not frighten those poor women;
but there was a back room apart from all the rest--he would go there.
While he was still standing in the hall, the room door opened, and the
baroness looked out. She gave an involuntary start when she saw him. He
smiled and cheerfully entered the room, gave his hand to his wife,
stroked Lenore's head, and bent down to see what she was reading. The
baroness regretted that she had had her tea without him, and he joked
her about her impatience for her favorite beverage. He went to the cage
in which two foreign birds were sitting on the same perch, their small
heads resting against each other, and putting his fingers to the wires
as if to stroke them, he said absently, "They are gone to rest." Then
taking the waxlight from the servant's hand, he moved toward his own
room. As he took hold of the door-handle, he remarked that his wife's
eyes followed him anxiously, and, turning toward her, he nodded
cheerfully. Then he closed the door, took a polished case out of his
writing-table, and carried it and the candle to the small back room.
Here he was sure he should disturb no one.
Slowly he loaded. In loading he looked at the inlaid work on the
barrels. It had been the toilsome task of some poor devil of a
gunmaker--it had often been admired by his acquaintance. The pistols
themselves had been a wedding-present from the general, who had on one
occasion acted the part of father to his orphan bride. He hurriedly
rammed down the charge, then looked behind him. When he fell it should
not be on the floor; he would not make on those who should come in the
same painful impression that his outstretched comrade had made on him.
He placed the barrel to his temple. At that moment a woman's shriek was
heard, his wife rushed in, his arm was seized with the strength of
despair; he started, and his finger touched the trigger--a flash, a
report, and he sank back on the sofa, and groaning, raised both his
hands to his eyes.
In the merchant's house the bereaved father came, candle in hand, out of
the room of the dead to the office below. He looked anxiously about on
the desk, in the cupboard, in every corner of the room; then sat down,
shook his head, and marveled. Then he locked up the office, went up
stairs again, and fell groaning and crying on the bed. So he spent the
whole night, seeking and wailing, wailing and seeking--a distracted,
desolate, broken-down man.