Holding the delicate little figure clasped close to her breast, Julie
had hurriedly carried the child down the stairs. She felt as if she
were in an intoxication of indignation, contempt, defiance, and
triumph; her lips, which touched the child's locks, trembled, and her
heart beat so that she could hardly draw her breath. It was not until
she had reached the lower hall, and saw the eyes of the hotel people
fixed upon her, that she recovered her composure again, and letting
little Frances slide down on her feet she fastened on her hat and cloak
for her. The child had not spoken a word thus far. But now, when she
saw the traveling carriage standing packed and ready before the door,
she clung tight to Julie again, begging in a low voice that they should
hurry away. She seemed to fear that they would stop her even now, and
drive off with her in the carriage. Julie quieted her, ordered a drosky
to be called, and told the driver to drive home.
They sat nestled close up to one another, and were silent. Once only
the child turned to her protectress and asked:
"Will she travel off without me now?"
"Don't think any more about it," Julie answered, kissing her on the
forehead. "You are with me now. Are you happy?"
The child nodded and stroked Julie's hand. But one could see from her
eyes that her thoughts were still busy with what had passed.
When they reached home Julie found a note, which Fridolin had brought,
containing a few lines from Jansen, written in pencil. He hoped he
should be able to see her before the day was over, and she mustn't feel
any anxiety about him. This made her very happy. She decided to let him
find his child with her, particularly as the weather was raw and it did
not seem advisable to put Frances, who was feverish from weeping, into
a damp drosky again. So she sent old Erich to the foster-mother, with a
note in which she asked permission to keep the little one with her
overnight. She wanted to do this, she said, in order to surprise the
father; and having dispatched the letter she enjoyed herself playing
with the child, whose affections she now felt as if she had thoroughly
won and deserved. She made a cup of chocolate, and looked on while it
eagerly drank it; for it had not touched the sweetmeats Lucie had given
it.
She acknowledged such an evident interposition of friendly powers in
all that she had just passed through, and the good gods seemed to have
taken the part of her love and hopes so earnestly, that she had no
doubt but what the remaining difficulties would be also satisfactorily
solved.
In this opinion she was shaken, though only for a moment, by the news
Frances's foster-mother brought. That good woman was still full of the
fright that had been caused by the supposed abduction of the child, and
had no sooner received Erich's message than she set out to convince
herself with her own eyes that at all events the worst had not
happened, and that little Frances was in safety. The excitement of the
last few hours, the self-reproach she felt, and the thought of the
consequences that might follow, had so worked upon her that, at the
sight of the child smiling a welcome to her, she burst into tears and
could with difficulty be quieted. As for the permission, she said she
no longer had any right whatsoever to give such a thing, now that it
appeared that the child had not been safe from such an invasion under
her own roof; and if the father should withdraw all his confidence from
her she felt she would have no right to complain.
"Let me have her just for this night," Julie begged. "I have a
presentiment that Jansen must return to-night, and then he will be so
rejoiced to find us together. After to-morrow, you shall once more
enjoy your mother's privileges without stint, until I take your place
with still better rights."
But her presentiment deceived her.
The child was put to bed early, and, with its head resting on Julie's
pillow, had long since dropped off to sleep in the midst of a loving
chat with its "beautiful mamma." Julie sat and listened to the storm,
starting to her feet every time she heard a man's step approach the
house. But the hours slipped by, and she remained alone. At last, about
midnight, she gave up all hope. She dismissed her old servant,
noiselessly undressed herself, and lay down on the bed by the side of
the sleeping child. It was long before she closed her eyes.
When she awoke next morning her little bedfellow soon roused herself,
and was very much surprised not to find herself in her accustomed
place. The preceding day, with its adventures, only floated before her
like a confused dream. She had a strange dislike to asking Julie how it
had all come about, but allowed Julie to dress her, amid much petting
and caressing, and to carry her home. Julie herself was depressed, and
felt her confidence in the helping powers of fate much shaken. She
resigned little Frances to the foster-mother, and then immediately
started for the studio.
The weather had cleared, and a warm though pale winter sun shone down
upon the streets, covered with a thin layer of snow. The long walk did
Julie good. When she finally reached the house, her cheeks were
glowing, her blood was quickened, and her spirits had recovered their
former confidence. She was, therefore, all the more alarmed to find
four well-known figures in the courtyard, all of whom greeted her with
a look of profound distress--Angelica, Rosenbusch, Kohle, and Fridolin,
the janitor. They were standing in a group, and appeared to be eagerly
discussing something, when Julie's sudden arrival frightened them
apart.
"What has happened?" she cried to them. "Has he returned? For God's
sake, what has happened?"
"Dear Fraeulein," said Rosenbusch, who was the first to stammer out an
answer, "we know as little as you what has happened; but he has
returned, and last night too, and not very late either; he gave back
his horse to the stable-keeper himself; or, at all events, when I
inquired about it early this morning, the two animals stood in the
stalls, but the hostlers knew nothing of their riders. 'Well,' thought
I to myself, 'that affair passed off better than we had a right to
expect,' and hurried over here. But when I asked Fridolin, he knew
nothing except that the 'professor' must have returned, for he had not
been able to open the door of the studio; the key was inside, and he
had received no answer to his knocking. In the mean time, as the sun
rose quite high, I thought he certainly must have slept enough, and I
also knocked and gave him good-morning through the keyhole. No answer.
The marble-cutters, who wanted to get into the saints' studio, found
the door locked likewise; and after waiting for a time, they went away
again. As time went on I began to think there was something very odd
about it all. So I climbed up to the window on the garden side, and
looked into the ateliers--first into his own. Everything there was in
the best of order, only there was no trace of him. So I climbed down
again, and then up to the other window--well, in there things looked
oddly enough. Just picture it, Fraeulein: all his worthy saints, with
the exception of the models which he had made himself, were smashed
into fragments; and what was worse than all, in the midst of all this
wreck I saw him--our poor friend--stretched out on the floor as if he
were lying on the softest mattress; don't be frightened, Fraeulein, he
is alive and conscious, but so tired apparently that he cannot even
rouse himself enough to go into the other studio and lie down on the
sofa. For, upon my beating a most devilish reveille upon the closed
window and shouting out his name, he raised himself half up, made a
motion with his hand for me to leave him in peace, and then sank back
again on the heap of fragments, with nothing under his head but a
corner of his cloak."
He broke off, as he saw Julie turn away hastily and hasten toward the
building. Angelica was about to follow, but she made a sign that she
wanted to go alone, and hurriedly entered the house.
Inside, she listened for a moment at the door of the "saint-factory;"
as all was quiet she knocked with a trembling hand and called Jansen's
name. Immediately after the door opened, and he stood before her.
He was wrapped in his cloak, his hair hung disheveled about his
temples, all the blood seemed to have left his face, and his eyes had
neither a wild nor a sad look; but their tired, wandering gaze pained
Julie more than the most passionate excitement.
"It is you!" he said. "You are a little too early for me. I, as you
see--won't you come in? To be sure, it doesn't look very inviting
here--I have been clearing out a little, and because I did it in the
dark--"
She had to exert all her strength in order to cast an apparently
composed look around the room.
"What harm have these innocent figures done you?" she asked, closing
the door behind her.
"Innocent?--ha, ha! They only pretend to be so. In reality they all
have the devil in them, in spite of their saints' halo. Not a single
one of them is really innocent. I ought to know that best, for I made
them. And I tell you, the reflection from the snow outside made it
bright enough for me to see the lie grinning from these stupid faces.
So I made an end of it and smashed them all to bits--another lie wiped
out of the world. I have been doing things by halves long enough; the
other half always avenges itself. Now I feel better again, especially
since I have seen you."
He pressed her hand: his voice sounded hoarse and strained; his eyes
were bloodshot. She had to forcibly keep down her tears, as she stepped
over the wreck upon the floor.
"I am glad that it all lies behind you now," she said. "I can feel with
you how it must pain you to make something in which your whole heart is
not interested. But come away from this destruction. We will make a
fire in the studio, and talk. Did you know that little Frances spent
the night with me? The darling child! It was hard for me to give her
back to the foster-mother. But then it won't be for long now."
He made no answer, but submissively allowed himself to be led away
without raising his eyes from the ground. While she kindled the fire,
he sat on the sofa, his arms hanging down between his knees, and began
to hum a tune as if in accompaniment to the music made by the crackling
flames in the iron stove. He did not appear to notice that she had
again stepped to his side. It was not until she bent over, threw her
arms round his neck, and, with the tears streaming down her face,
kissed him again and again, that he became conscious of what was
passing; and, even then, he seemed to see everything as if through a
mist.
"What are you crying for?" he asked, in surprise. "Am I not quite
cheerful and sensible? You, surely, are not afraid of me? Don't be
afraid, the worst is over. Last night, it is true, if any one had said
to me, 'Stamp with your foot on the ground and the whole world will
fall in ruins and bury you and all that is good and beautiful,' I
believe I would have done it. Well, those poor innocents there had to
bear the brunt of my fury; and now a little child might lead me by a
string."
"Won't you tell me how it all happened?"
"What would be the use? It is vile. It's bad enough that two persons
know of it besides myself. Besides, it can't be changed. Don't you know
that you must never draw the iron out of the wound unless you want the
man to bleed to death? What time is it? Is it evening or morning? I
believe I am hungry. The animal in man is immortal, and outlives all
the nobler impulses. Pardon me for talking so. The words fall from my
lips; I cannot hold them back."
"I will go up to Angelica's room--she always has a little supply on
hand--or shall we go to my house?"
"No matter about it. I feel a disgust for all food. Hunger and disgust
at the same time--a fine outlook for life! But it's no wonder. When one
has nourished himself with something that appears perfectly innocent,
and suddenly discovers that it has been gathered from the vilest
refuse--"
She seated herself beside him on the sofa, and laid her arm on his
shoulder; but he seemed to be quite unmoved by her touch, though
usually her slightest caress would fairly intoxicate him.
"You must tell me all!" she whispered, stroking his rigid face, while
the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Are we not one? Is not your life
mine, just as everything I am and have belongs to you? And yet you
would keep something from me, because it might give me pain! I demand
my full half of your pain, or I shall begin to doubt whether I was ever
anything more to you than a living picture in which your eyes found
pleasure."
He slowly shook his head. "I must make an end of that, too," he said,
as if to himself. "I must have done with this half-way work. But that
pains me more; and it is not the beautiful image that must be dashed to
pieces, but he who moulded it out of clay. Ha, ha! As if it did not
follow that everything which comes from the earth must go back to the
earth again. A fine thought that, a truly charming prospect--ha, ha!"
"Speak sensibly, dearest! Now I can't understand a word."
"Well, then, to speak sensibly, I must go away--the sooner the better.
Do you understand what that means? I, myself--to tell the truth--I
don't quite understand it yet; but that comes from my weariness. As
soon as I have had a good sleep--"
"Go away! And why go away? And where to?"
"Why? You ask strange questions, dearest. As if we ever knew why we
live, why the sun shines on us today and to-morrow the storm rages. And
where it whirls us to--what matters it? Do you believe that any spot
will be dearer to me than another where I have to do without you?"
"Without me? You are raving! O my God!--the--but I am crazy to let
myself be frightened by anything so--so impossible!"
"Yes, yes!" he said, in a hollow voice, and with a bitter smile;
"impossible. So many things seem to us, until those two great
magicians, chance and crime, complete the trick, and make the
impossible only too actual. I candidly confess to you that, when my
sound reason leaves me for a moment, I also hear a voice within me
crying: 'It is impossible!' And yet it must be so--and we can do
nothing but kick our bleeding heels against the thorns of fate. What is
the matter with you all at once? You have let your arm fall from my
shoulder. Are you angry with me, poor woman, because I am a beaten man?
Say yourself what is there left for us to do but to renounce and
despair? Because I am so quiet with it all, do you think I have grown
cold overnight? But it is only, as I said, because all strength has
left me; even the strength to feel the deadliest pains. Let me sleep an
hour, and then you will be satisfied with the pitiable way in which my
heart will behave."
He attempted to rise, but sank back again on his couch. Just at
this moment a knock was heard. They heard Angelica's voice on the
landing-place outside: "Only a word, Julie; I have something to give
you."
Julie arose, and opened the door. Immediately she returned to Jansen,
who sat there perfectly indifferent, bearing a letter in her hand.
"It is for you," she said. "It is Felix's handwriting. Will you open
it? I think you had better first go home with me and rest awhile, and
try to eat and sleep. You must have pretty well talked over everything
last night, so that it is hardly probable the letter can contain
anything new or important."
"Do you think so?" he said, in a peculiar tone. "Because we were
friends, I suppose you think that each of us must know all about the
other. Well, then, my poor darling, open the letter yourself, and you
will get at the tricks by which chance has made the impossible
possible. Read it, read it whatever it is, it can't tell me anything
more that is worth knowing!"
Breathlessly, she tore open the envelope; and standing at the window,
leaning her trembling figure against the sill for support, she read the
following lines.