When he started up, late in the morning, after a short sleep, and saw
the snow drifting sadly down outside the window, the face at once rose
up before him again; and the frightened look of those blue eyes, that
he had hoped never to see more, and that now came to begin anew their
designs upon his happiness, made him shudder even more than the harsh
breath of the winter morning. And yet at first he had difficulty in
believing that it had really happened. It was only from his great
exhaustion that he realized what a storm he had passed through.
He was surprised himself at the stolid, torpid, icy calmness with which
he was able to look back on the frightful scene, as if the apparition
of the night, that yesterday made his hair stand on end, had no power
over him in broad daylight. He thought about the loss of his faithful
old companion too, as something that had happened long ago. But he was
pained by the thought that he had let the faithful animal be buried in
his masquerade trappings, with the gaudy ribbons and the guitar on his
back. He even went so far as to seriously deliberate whether he should
not have the grave opened again and cleared of all the tawdry finery.
However, he put it off until evening; and when evening came he had much
more pressing matters to attend to.
He was firmly resolved to put an end to this condition of affairs; to
tear the ever-rankling and festering barb from out the wound, let it
cost what it might. How this could best be done he did not know as yet.
But upon one point his mind was definitely made up; he owed it to Julie
to render a repetition of such scenes impossible.
He left the studio and went into the city. He directed his steps to the
hotel where the Russian countess was staying. To his amazement, he
learned there that no one had ever heard of this Madame St.-Aubain,
which was the name Rosenbusch had given him the preceding evening. The
porter did, indeed, remember a person such as Jansen described; the
lady spent the whole day with the countess no later than yesterday. But
she was not stopping in the hotel, and he had not learned what her name
was.
He would speak about it to the countess herself: could he see her for a
moment? asked the sculptor.
The porter looked at his watch. It was only nine o'clock; He had orders
to admit no one before eleven.
So there was nothing left for him but to be patient, hard as it was.
Wandering about without any definite plan, his heart led him to where
Julie lived. But, the moment he saw the house in the distance, he
turned back. It was impossible for him to look her in the face again
until he could say to her: "It is all over; you have nothing more to
fear from my past; the spectre has been sent back among the dead."
He went into the Pinakothek, where at this time of the year and day the
large, unheated halls stand empty. He stretched himself on the sofa
that stands in the centre of the immense room, and looked over the
walls with half closed eyes. The power and warmth of life of these
noble pictures acted, without his knowing it, upon his spirits, and his
mood continued to grow quieter and more gentle, until at last he fell
fast asleep, his hat pushed down so low over his eyes that the
attendants and the few visitors took him for an exceedingly studious
painter, who made use of his hat-brim to protect him from the
reflection of the light from above.
He had to make up for the sleep he had lost in the night; thus three,
four hours went by without his waking. At length one of the attendants,
to whom the matter began to look rather odd, stepped up and discovered
who it was. However, he had altogether too much respect for the artist
to disturb his sleep before the time came for closing the gallery.
Jansen sprang to his feet, asked what time it was, and was startled to
find how many hours he had lost. He left the gallery in great haste,
and hurried to the hotel.
The countess was too unwell to receive any visits today, the porter
told him.
Jansen shrugged his shoulders, growled out a few unintelligible words,
and began to mount the stairs without paying any further heed to this
answer. Up-stairs he received a similar reply from the countess's maid,
who met him in the corridor.
"Take this card to the countess. I regret to disturb her, but it is
absolutely necessary that I speak with her."
The girl took the card, acted as though the name which she read on it
was perfectly unknown to her, and then remarked:
"Just at this moment it is really quite impossible for the countess to
receive you. The doctor is with her and is renewing the bandages. That
always gives her such pain that she is forced to lie perfectly still
for two or three hours after the operation, unless she would have
convulsions. Perhaps, if you would be good enough to call again toward
evening--"
Jansen gave the tricky girl a look that confused even her brazen face.
"I am convinced, my good girl, that you are lying to me in the most
cold-blooded manner possible; the doctor is not with your mistress, nor
does she need repose. I have a great mind to thrust you aside and
quietly make my way in for myself. But, in order that your mistress may
be convinced that I am entirely courteous, I will act as though I
really believed you, and call again in a few hours. But then--" and he
raised his voice a little, in case there should be any one behind the
door, listening to the conversation--"then I shall expect that the
nerves of the countess will have nothing to say against my requesting a
ten minutes' interview. It is now two o'clock. At four I shall take the
liberty of knocking again at this door."
"Perhaps it is just as well," he said, as he went down the stairs. "I
have eaten nothing since yesterday evening. An empty stomach goes badly
with diplomatic negotiations. And I want to keep as cool as possible."
He stepped into a restaurant, hurriedly took a little food, and
hastened to get out into the street again. He felt better out in the
cold air than anywhere else; he sauntered slowly along, like a
promenader in the most beautiful spring weather, baring his head to the
storm and letting the flakes of snow fall upon his hair and forehead,
so that the people whom he met turned to look after him. As he had a
long time to wait before the appointed hour would arrive, he wandered
through the town, and at last, by roundabout ways, came back once more
to his atelier. Fridolin reported that Miss Julie had been there twice
in person, and the second time had written something. The lieutenant
and the other gentlemen had also been there to see him, and the baron
made him take him to the grave and tell him the whole story. Herr
Rosenbusch was the only one who had not yet appeared, and Fraeulein
Angelica had only shown herself a moment, just to water her flowers,
and had gone away again. However, he had made a fire in the studio, and
it was warm in among the saints also, although the assistants had taken
a holiday on their own account.
Had the professor--for so he obstinately persisted in calling
Jansen--any further orders to give?
Jansen shook his head and entered his workshop. He found Julie's note.
She begged him, in Italian, which they had been studying together for
some months, to release her from the agonizing uncertainty in regard to
his mood and in regard to what he intended to do. She was only going
out to make a visit to Irene, and then she would stay at home and
expect him. The note closed with a few loving words and another
earnest request for him to come to her that evening, all of which did
him unspeakable good.
But he remained firm in his determination not to go to her until he had
cleared up the whole matter.
He sat down on the sofa and had just begun to draw up a small table, in
order to write her a few comforting lines, when a quick knock on the
door interrupted him.
He was startled to see Frances's nurse come in. This little woman, who
had a houseful of children and a head full of cares, seldom visited
him--and never without her little charge.
Her black eyes, usually so cheery, began to spy anxiously about in
every corner of the studio, the moment she had entered it.
"Is your child here?" she stammered breathlessly.
"With me? No. What made you think so?"
He stepped up to her hastily. "What is the matter, my good woman? Did
you send little Frances here?"
"Not here! Oh! Heavens!--but perhaps she may be up-stairs with Fraeulein
Angelica--without your knowing about it. I will go right up--"
"Fraeulein Angelica is not up-stairs; I am all alone in the house. Tell
me, for God's sake--"
He stopped suddenly; a horrible suspicion paralyzed his tongue.
The exhausted woman sank down on the pedestal of the great group, and
wiped her eyes.
"The child--?" he asked at length, with great difficulty.
She looked up at him with supplicating eyes.
"Don't kill me! I don't know where it is--some one has taken it
away--my anxiety drove me here--I have done all I can!--"
She seemed to expect nothing less than that he would strike her dead
after hearing this confession.
But, as he stood motionless, she mustered up courage to tell him, in a
disconnected way, what had happened. She had gone into the city after
dinner, and her old mother had, as usual, taken charge of the children.
Immediately after she went out--as if she had only been waiting for
that--a strange lady had come to the house.
"Young, with blue eyes?" interrupted the sculptor, with difficulty
unclinching his teeth.
No. An elderly lady, not far from fifty, dressed in black and heavily
veiled. She asked for Frances, and said she was to bring her to
Fraeulein Julie, only for half an hour. It was a surprise they were
preparing for the father, she said; Fraeulein Angelica was going to make
a sketch of the child; a drosky was waiting outside the door, and she
asked the good grandmamma to put on the child's little cloak, but not
to make any other change in its dress. The old woman, as soon as her
deafness allowed her to catch the meaning of this story, had thought it
rather strange, at first; but the explanation given by the stranger
that Fraeulein Angelica was prevented from coming and getting the child
herself, by a slight cold she had caught on the evening before, had
quieted her again. Besides, the child would be brought back in a couple
of hours; Fraeulein Julie would bring it home herself. As the stranger
seemed to be so well acquainted with all the people and circumstances
of which she spoke, the old woman could offer no reasonable objection.
But the stranger had scarcely left the house when she was filled with
an unaccountable anxiety, and had impatiently awaited her daughter's
return.
She, however, had been detained in the city longer than she had
expected by a number of errands; and, when she finally did return and
found that the child had not been brought back, she immediately set out
in the greatest anxiety to look for it. But she found no trace either
at Julie's (who was herself absent, the old servant Erich said, for she
had not come back to her dinner at the usual time), or at Angelica's
house. At the latter place they told her that the artist had not gone
out until about noon, for she had risen very late; besides, she had
found the weather too dark for working. Her last faint hope had been
that the child would be found at her father's--and here, too, there was
no trace of her!
The woman's eyes filled with tears while telling him the story. She had
slipped down from the pedestal and now lay, weeping bitterly, at the
feet of the silent man, as if she would disarm his anger by this humble
posture.
"Calm yourself!" she heard him say at last. "You are innocent in the
whole affair. Believe me; the child is not lost--oh, no! it is in
excellent hands. Can a child be safer anywhere than with the mother who
bore it?"
The weeping woman raised herself and looked at him inquiringly.
"Yes, yes!" he repeated, laughing bitterly. "You have never been told
about that, my good friend; it was very thoughtless of me not to have
spoken to you about it the very first thing this morning. My wife has
made her appearance again; she gave me a specimen of her acting last
night--a benefit performance in Paradise--a short scene, but very
effective. And now this is the second act. That the third, in which I
am to play too, will be the last, you may be very sure."
"She is here, she has the child, and you know where she is to be
found?"
"Not yet. However, I know some one who knows all about it, whom I think
I can talk into giving me the necessary information. By-the-way, it
must be about the time--almost four o'clock; let us go!"
"Go alone, unless you have particular need of me. My knees can hardly
bear me. The anxiety--Oh! let me rest here just for a few moments."
"I'll order a drosky. You mustn't think of walking back such a long
distance. We will ride part of the way together."
He called the janitor and sent him out for a carriage. Then he paced
with long strides up and down the studio in profound silence, while the
woman sank back into a chair, and struggled hard to compose herself.
In the midst of this painful stillness, they all at once heard the
voice of the battle-painter in the entry.
He and Felix came in together, and his unsteady step, pale face, and
disheveled aspect, showed plainly enough that the horrors of the
preceding night were still fresh in his memory. He greeted Jansen with
a most depressed mien, and the jokes that he tried to make sounded
anything but cheerful. He would not have shown himself in such a
wretched condition had he not happened to fall in with something that
might possibly be of importance to Jansen.
An hour ago he had crept into the open air for the first time that day,
his head still heavy from the wine that he had dolefully poured down
his throat the night before, in the hope of drowning his dismay at that
murderous tragedy with poor old Homo. As he did not want to meet any of
his acquaintances, he took the road that leads out through the gates,
visiting, among other places, the cemetery, and feeling quite in a mood
to seek a resting-place there himself.
On his return, as he was passing the Sendling gate, he saw a traveling
carriage, loaded down with trunks, roll out and turn into the country
high-road.
This struck him as being rather a peculiar proceeding at this time of
year and in this century of railways; and for that reason he looked
pretty closely at the equipage as it drove by. To his great amazement
he recognized in one of the ladies, who was just bending forward a
little, the stranger of the night before, the mysterious Madame de
St.-Aubain, while sitting opposite her on the back seat was no less a
person than that Greek Don Juan, Monsieur Stephanopulos. They were
talking earnestly with one another, and did not notice him. The lady
looked devilish pretty, her face being set off very coquettishly by a
black spangled baschlik, and her blue eyes--
"Why, what's the matter with you, Jansen?" he cried, breaking off in
alarm, for he saw his friend suddenly grow pale. "I thought I was
telling you pleasant news, in reporting that this fatal person, and the
murderer of poor Homo, were taking themselves out of your sight--"
"Did you see a child with them?" cried the sculptor, almost beside
himself, and turning fiercely upon the innocent narrator.
"A child? It is possible there was a child in the carriage. At least I
saw all sorts of wrappings and shawls lying on the other two seats.
But, for heaven's sake, my friend--"
"Good! Thank you. I know enough. An hour ago, you say? And on the
Sendling post-road? Good! Excuse me, my good woman--I--I must be off.
But I must be prepared for all emergencies."
He rushed up to the old wardrobe in the corner, tore open the door with
trembling hands, and drew out an old-fashioned pistol, covered with
dust and rust.
At this moment he felt Felix's hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he said, without turning round.
"Of course I am going with you," said his friend, in a suppressed
voice. "As matters stand, I think I know pretty well what the trouble
is. What I don't yet know, you can explain to me on the road; but I can
never let you start alone on this sad hunt; and, as my blood is cooler
than yours, you must let me be the leader. They chose the highway
because the telegraph would have cut them off if they had gone by rail,
and they have not got much of a start yet. For this reason, I think
there can be no doubt but what we shall overtake them if we take
horses. Come! The drosky that Fridolin has just ordered will take us in
ten minutes to the stable where I hire my horses. Then we will ride by
my lodgings, and, if you insist upon it, I will put my revolver in my
pocket. That old horse-pistol wouldn't inspire Herr Stephanopulos with
any great respect. Do you agree to this, old boy?"
"Let me follow in the carriage," pleaded the little woman. "I shall die
of anxiety unless I do, and who knows but what I can be of good service
to you. The poor child, and among strange people too, may be made sick
by the fright and the cold drive--"
Felix quieted her as well as he could, and his firm, determined bearing
had so good an effect that Rosenbusch also promised to keep perfectly
quiet until their return, and not alarm either Julie or Angelica by
saying anything about the matter. Then Felix pushed his friend, who
submitted to his guidance like a child, out of the room, stopped a
moment on the stairs to write a word of excuse to Irene, who was
expecting him that evening, and then, getting into the drosky, he
ordered the driver to drive as fast as possible. Half an hour later the
two friends, mounted on fast horses, were spurring along the highroad
that runs from the Sendling gate across the broad Isar plain into the
mountains beyond.