All this time the two lovers outside in the garden, absorbed in their
happiness, and covered warm with Felix's broad Spanish cloak, had heard
nothing of the gathering storm within-doors, and had not noticed that
the clouds had begun to dissolve in a fine rain. But in a little while
the wind began to rise, shaking the soft snow from the branches, and
driving the cold drops of rain into their faces.
Even then Irene expressed no desire to be taken back into the house.
She would have liked to wander by his side forever, through rain and
storm. But he, careful of her health, laughingly insisted upon
"bringing his little lamb under cover." "We must take care not to catch
cold," he said. "There are certain times when a cold stands very much
in the way of lovers. Come, my darling! I feel as if I should like to
dance all night long with you. Good Heavens! what work we shall have in
making up for lost time!"
She hung on his arm in full submission. But at this moment they heard
the dying howl of the old animal, horribly breaking in upon the
stillness of the night.
"What is that?" said Felix. "That sounds altogether too serious for any
masquerading joke. In the tropics I was used to such nocturnal voices,
and slept quietly in spite of them. But here, under this wintry sky--"
He hurried her toward the house. Then they saw a back-door suddenly
thrown open, and two muffled figures rush out hastily and run toward a
carriage that was standing waiting in the side-street, about thirty
steps from the house, just as on the night when the burning picture
disappeared.
They could distinguish nothing but the outline of a monk's cowl.
"Rosenbusch!" cried Felix.
But this call merely had the effect of causing the fleeing persons to
redouble their speed. The next moment they reached the carriage, and
something white gleamed in the darkness, which Felix's keen eye thought
it recognized as the fustanella of the young Greek; then the door
was slammed-to, and the carriage rolled off into the darkness at a
break-neck pace.
The pair gazed after it in amazement.
"What can it mean?" cried Irene.
Felix said nothing, but shook his head and hurried her on toward the
door. They found Fridolin at his post, but with eyes that glared so
from fright and sudden awakening that they did not stop to ask him any
questions, but, throwing off their wet wraps, hastened into the hall.
Here a most startling sight greeted their view.
Jansen was crouched motionless on the floor, holding on his knee the
bloody head of the dog, his gaze fixed on the stiff, outstretched limbs
of his old friend, whose convulsive twitching marked the last pulsation
of his ebbing blood.
Julie was kneeling at his side, taking no heed of her yellow skirts,
that were spotted with large stains from the dark pool. Their friends
were standing about them, completely stupefied; and even the musicians
crept down from the platform, in their grotesque animal costumes, and
mixed in among the guests.
At this moment the gaunt figure of Alba, in the shape of their friend
Schnetz, stepped out of the awe-struck crowd, advanced to the
astonished pair, and, taking them aside, told them all that had passed
while they had been out in the garden, pouring out their hearts to one
another in utter ignorance of what was going on within. In what
connection these puzzling occurrences stood to one another, the
lieutenant did not pretend to know. When they recovered from the first
shock, and looked about for the author of the whole trouble, they
discovered that she had disappeared from the hall with the young Greek.
Rosenbusch then joined them, and Angelica and Elfinger. The
battle-painter was plunged in a truly pitiable state of despondency at
the tragic end of his adventure. Innocent as he was of it all, he
nevertheless persisted in accusing himself of being the author of the
murderous affair by introducing this mysterious guest. He gave a
detailed account of the way in which he had made her acquaintance, and
asserted again and again that she had done absolutely nothing to
provoke the dog. But let that be as it would, the mischief had been
done; the ball was spoiled, and Jansen had lost his good old comrade.
Felix listened to all this with clouded brow. Then he pushed his way
through the crowd, and went up to Jansen. The dog had just drawn his
last breath. Jansen sprung to his feet when he felt the hand of his
friend on his shoulder. He drew himself up erect, and then raised Julie
from her knees, but without uttering a word, while his bright eyes,
sunk deep in their sockets, wandered slowly about, as if he were trying
to remember where he was.
"Have they gone?" he said, after a long pause.
No one answered. Julie took his hand and spoke gently to him, and he
replied by a vacant smile and a nod. Then, with a violent shudder, he
roused himself, and strode out of the group that had gathered about the
dead animal. He advanced to his friends, and, speaking once more in his
usual voice, requested Schnetz to send for a carriage, as he wished to
take the dead dog home. Then, with few words, but with a manner that
forbade all remonstrances, he entreated them not to be disturbed on his
account, and not to leave the ball. He made even Julie promise this,
and forced himself to speak quite as usual. After this he took
Rosenbusch aside, and conversed with him in a low voice for a
considerable time, never lifting his eyes from the floor; finally he
shook hands with him, and left the room.
Julie and Felix accompanied him out to the carriage, in which the body
of the dog had been already laid. He got in with evident difficulty,
and gave the two at parting a hand that was as cold as ice. He did all
this as if he were still enveloped in some dream, from which even the
presence and sympathy of those most dear to him could not arouse him.
Fridolin had mounted on the box by the side of the driver, and in this
fashion they pursued their long drive through the cold, rainy night,
and drew up in front of the studio just as the clock was striking
twelve. The driver lent them his assistance in lifting the heavy body
of the dog out of the carriage, and carrying him in. They laid him down
in the little garden behind the house, and, with shovel and pickaxe,
dug a deep grave, into which they lowered the huge animal. The driver
had gone on his way again, and Jansen stood motionless on the brink of
the grave, gazing down on the dark mass that they were leaving there to
crumble into dust. But Fridolin took the two artificial roses which had
belonged to his angel's dress, and which he still wore behind his ears,
and cast them down upon the dead animal.
"It is winter," he said, "and a dark night; and we have nothing
fresher. But go and get some sleep, Herr Professor. I will put his bed
in order with my spade. And though he was only an animal, perhaps after
all we shall see him again at the resurrection; and if there should be
a heaven for dogs, Herr Professor, he will go there sooner than many a
priest. And why? Because he knew what friendship and kindness meant;
and that is what nine men out of ten don't know; and he never treated a
poor fellow-man like a dog, which can't be said of everybody. I don't
think the good God will object if I offer up a few paternosters for the
poor dog's soul."
Jansen nodded in silence, and turned away. Then he went into the house,
and stepped into his studio. It was cold as ice in the large room; the
wind roared down the chimney, and rattled in the iron stove. Yet for
all that the unhappy man could not make up his mind to go back to his
lodgings. He threw himself upon the low sofa and spread his cloak over
his benumbed limbs. So he lay there perfectly still, and listened to
the falling of the rain and the noise made by the spade. His eyes were
shut. But for all that he never ceased to see, in the darkness of his
own heart, a pale face, only too well known, from which the mask had
just fallen, and which, despite its frightened, supplicating look,
stared up at him like the head of Medusa.