"I? To see you----" He broke off with wrathful abruptness. "Thanks, I

would rather be shot." But at the mingled anger and blankness of her

face, he coloured. "Louise, put an end to all this. Marry me--now, at

once!"

"Marry you? I? No, thank you. We're past that stage, I think.--Besides,

are you so simple as to believe it would make any difference?"

"Oh, stop tormenting me. Come here!"--and he pulled her to him.

From this day forward, the direction of his thoughts was changed. The

incident of Herries's visit, her refusal to promise what he asked, and,

above all, the matter of the coming ball, with regard to which he could

not get certainty from her: these things seemed to open up nightmare

depths, to which he could see no bottom. Compared with them, the vague

fears which had hitherto troubled him were only shadows, and like

shadows faded away. He no longer sought out superfine reasons for their

lack of happiness. The past was dead and gone; he could not alter jot

or tittle of what had happened; he could only make the best of it. And

so he ceased to brood over it, and gave himself up to the present. The

future was a black, unknown quantity, but the present was his own. And

he would cling to it--for who knew what the future held in store for

him? In these days, he began to suspect that it was not in the nature

of things for her always to remain satisfied with him; and, ever more

daring, the horrid question reared its head: who will come after me?

Another blind attraction only needed to seize her, and what, then,

would become of constancy and truth? If he had doubted her before, he

was now suspicious from a different cause, and in quite a different

way. The face of the trim little man who had sat beside her, and smiled

at her, was persistently present to him. He did not question her

further; but the poison worked the more surely in secret; he never for

an instant forgot; and jealousy, now wide awake, had at last a definite

object to lay hold of.

In his lucid moments, he knew that he was making her life a burden to

her. What wonder if she did, ultimately, turn from him? But his evil

moods were now beyond command. He began to suspect deceit in her

actions as well as in what she said. The idea that this other, this

smirking, wax-faced man, might somehow steal her from him, hung over

him like a fog, obscuring his vision. It necessitated continued

watchfulness on his part. And so he dogged her, mentally, and in fact

until his own heart all but broke under the strain.

One afternoon they walked to Connewitz. It had rained heavily during

the night, and the unpaved roads were inchdeep in mud. The sky was a

level sheet of cloud, darker and more forbidding in the east.

Their direction was Maurice's choice. Louise would have liked better to

keep to the town: for, though the streets, too, were mud-bespattered,

there would soon be lights, and the reflection of lights in damp

pavements. She yielded, however, without even troubling to express her

wish. But just because of the dirt and naked ugliness which met her, at

every turn, she was voluble and excited; and an exaggerated hilarity

seized her at trifles. Maurice, who had left the house in a more

composed frame of mind than usual, gradually relapsed, at her want of

restraint, into silence. He suffered under her looseness of tongue and

laughter: her sallow, heavy-eyed face was ill-adapted to such moods;

below her feverish animation there lurked, he was sure of it, a deadly

melancholy. He had always been rendered uneasy by her spurts of gaiety.

Now in addition, he asked himself: what has happened to make her like

this?

Feeling his hostility, Louise grew quieter, and soon she, too, was

silent. Having gained his end, Maurice wished to atone for it, and

slipping his arm through hers, he took her hand. For a few steps they

walked on in this fashion. Then, he received one of those sudden

impressions which flash on us from time to time, of having seen or done

a certain thing before. For a moment, he could not verify it; then he

knew, just in this way, arm in arm, hand in hand, had she come towards

him with Schilsky, that very first day. It was no doubt a habit of

hers. Like this, too, she would, in all probability, walk with the one

who came after. And the picture of Herries, in the place he now

occupied, was photographed on his brain.

He withdrew his arm, as if hers had burnt him: his mind was off again

on its old round. But she, too, had to suffer for it. As he stood back

to let her pass before him, on a dry strip of the path, his eye caught

a yellow rose she was wearing at her belt. Till now he had seen it

without seeing it.

"Why are you wearing that rose?"

Louise looked down from him to the flower and back again. "Why?--you

know I like to wear flowers."

"Where did you get it?"

She foresaw what he was driving at, and did not reply.

"You were wearing a rose like that the first time I saw you. Do you

remember?"

"How should I remember? It's so long ago."

"Where had you got that one from, then?"

She repeated the same words. "How should I know now?"

"But I know. It was from him--he had given it to you."

She raised her shoulders. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps? No. For certain."

"Well, and if so--was there anything strange in that?"

They walked a few paces without speaking. Then he asked: "Who has given

you this one?"

"Maurice!" There was a note of warning in her voice. He heard it in

vain. "Give it to me, Louise."

"No--let it be. It will wither soon enough where it is."

"Please give it to me," he urged, rendered the more determined by her

refusal.

"I wish to keep it."

"And I mean to have it."

To avoid the threatening scene, she took the rose from her belt and

gave it to him. He fingered it indecisively for a moment, then threw it

over the bridge they were crossing, into the river. It struggled,

filled with muddy water, and floated away.

In the next breath, however, he asked himself ruefully what he had

gained by his action. She had given him the rose, and he had destroyed

it; but he would never know how she had come by it, and what it had

been to her.

He was incensed with himself and with her for the whole length of the

SCHLEUSSIGER WEG. Then the inevitable regret for his hastiness

followed. He took her limply hanging hand and pressed it. But there was

no responsive pressure on her part. Louise looked away from him, beyond

the woods, as far as she could see, in the vain hope of there

discovering some means of escape.

VIII.

In descending one evening the broad stair of the Gewandhaus, and

forced, by reason of the crowd, to pause on every step, Madeleine

overheard the talk of two men behind her, one of whom, it seemed, had

all the gossip of the place at his fingertips. From what she caught up

greedily, as soon as Maurice's name was mentioned, she learnt a

surprising piece of news. "A cat and dog life," was the phrase used by

the speaker. As she afterwards picked her way through snow and slush,

Madeleine confessed to herself that it was impossible to feel regret at

what she had heard. Perhaps, after all, things would come right of

themselves. In order to recover from his infatuation, to learn what

Louise really was, it had only been necessary for Maurice to be

constantly at her side.--Was it not Goethe who said that the way to

cure a bad habit was to indulge it?

But a few days afterwards, her satisfaction was damped. Late one

afternoon she had entered Seyffert's Cafe, to drink a cup of chocolate.

At a table parallel with the one she chose, two fellow-students were

playing draughts. Madeleine had only been there for a few minutes, when

their talk, which went on unrestrainedly between the moves of the game,

leapt, with a witticism, to the unlucky pair in whom she was

interested. To her astonishment, she now heard Louise's name, coupled

with that of another man.

"Well, I never!" said the second of the two behind her. "I say it's

your move.--That's rough on Guest, isn't it?"

Madeleine turned in her chair and faced the man who had spoken.

"Excuse me, who is Herries?" she asked without ceremony.

In her own room that evening, she pondered long. It was one thing for

the two to drift naturally apart; another for Maurice to see himself

superseded. If this were true, jealousy, and nothing else, would be at

the root of their disunion. Madeleine felt very unwilling to mix

herself up in the affair: it would be like plunging two clean hands

into dirty water. But then, you never could tell how a man would act in

a case like this: the odds were ten to one he did something foolish.

And so she wrote to Maurice, making her summons imperative. This

failing, she tried to waylay him going to or from his classes; but the

only satisfaction she gained, was the knowledge of his irregularity:

during the week she waited she did not once come face to face with him.

Next, she looked round her for some common friend, and found that he

had not an intimate left in all Leipzig. She wrote again, still more

plainly, and again he ignored her letter.

One Saturday afternoon, she was walking along the crowded streets of

the inner town. She had been to the MOTETTE, in the THOMASKIRCHE, and

was now on her way home, carrying music from the library. The snow had

melted to mud, and sleet was falling. Madeleine had no umbrella; the

collar of her cloak was turned up round her ears, and her small felt

hat covered her head like an extinguisher.

On entering the PETERSTRASSE, she was jostled together with Dove. It

was impossible to beat a retreat.

Dove seldom hurried. On this day, as on any other, he walked with a

somewhat pompous emphasis through slush and stinging rain, holding his

umbrella straight aloft over him, as he might have carried a banner. He

was shocked to find Madeleine without one, at once took her under his,

and loaded himself with her music--all with that air of

matter-of-course-ness, which invariably made her keen to decline his

aid. Dove was radiant; he prospered as do only the happy few; and his

satisfaction with himself, and with the world in general, was somehow

expressed even through the medium of his long neck and gently sloping

shoulders. He greeted Madeleine with an exaggerated pleasure,

accompanying his words by the slow smile which sometimes set her

wondering if he were not, perhaps, being inwardly satirical at the

expense of other people, fooling them by means of his own foolishness.

But, however this might be, the cynical feelings that took her in his

presence, mounted once more; she knew his symptoms, and an excess of

content was just as distasteful to her as gluttony, or wine-bibbing, or

any other self-indulgence.

However, she checked the desire to snub him--to snub until she had

succeeded in raising that impossible ire, which, she believed, MUST

lurk somewhere in Dove--for, as she plodded along at his side,

sheltered from the brunt of the weather, it occurred to her that here

was some one whom she might tap on the subject of Maurice. She opened

fire by congratulating her companion on his recent performance in an

ABENDUNTERHALTUNG; at the time, even she had been forced to admit it a

creditable piece of work. Dove, who privately considered it

epochmaking, was outwardly very modest. He could not refrain from

letting fall that the old director had afterwards thanked him in

person; but, in the next breath, he pointed out a slip he had made in a

particular passage of the sonata. It had not, it was true, been

observed, he believed, by anyone except Schwarz and himself; still it

had caused him considerable annoyance; and he now related how, as far

as he could judge, it had come about.

The current inquiries concerning the PRUFUNGEN then passed between them.

"Poor old Schwarz!" said Madeleine. "We shall be few enough, this year.

Tell me, what of Heinz? I haven't seen him for an age."

"I regret to say that Krafft is making an uncommon donkey of himself,"

said Dove. "He had another shocking row with Schwarz last week."

"Tch, tch, tch!" said Madeleine. "Heinz is a freak.--And Maurice Guest,

what about him?"

"I haven't seen him lately."

"Indeed? How is that?"

"I'm not in the same class with him now. His hour has been changed."

"Has it indeed?" said Madeleine thoughtfully. This accounted for her

having been unable to meet Maurice. "What's he playing, do you know?"

"The G major Mendelssohn, I understand;" and Dove looked at her out of

the corner of his eye.

"How's he getting on with it?" she queried afresh, in the same

indifferent tone.

"I really couldn't say. As I mentioned, he's in another class."

"Oh, but you must have heard!" said Madeleine. "It's no use putting me

off," she added, with determination. "I want to find out about Maurice."

"And I fear I can't assist you. All I HAVE chanced to hear--mere

rumour, of course--is that ... well, if Guest doesn't pull himself

together, he won't play at all.--By the way, what did you think of

James the other night, in the LISZTVEREIN?"

"Oh, that his octaves were marvellous, of course!" said Madeleine

tartly. "But I warn you," she continued, "it's of no use changing the

subject, or pretending you don't know. I intend to speak of Maurice."

"Then it must be to some one else, Miss Madeleine, not to me."--Dove

could never be induced to call her Madeleine, as her other friends did.

"And why, pray, are you to be the exception?"

"Because, as I've already mentioned, I don't see any more of Guest. He

mixes in a different set now.--And as for me, well, my thoughts are

occupied with, I trust, more profitable things."

"What? You have thoughts, too?"

"I hope you don't claim a monopoly of them?" said Dove, and smiled in

his imperturbable way. As, however, Madeleine persisted, he grew grave.

"It's not a pleasant subject. I should really rather not discuss it,

Miss Madeleine."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't let us play the prudish or sentimental!"

cried Madeleine, in a burst of impatience. "Of course, it isn't

pleasant. Do you think I should "--"bother with you," was on her

tongue. She checked herself, and substituted--"trouble you about it, if

it were? But Maurice was once a friend of ours--you don't deny it, I

hope?" she threw in challengingly; for Dove muttered something to

himself. "And I want to get at the truth about him. I'm sorrier than I

can say, to hear, on all sides, what a fool he's making of himself."

Dove was suavely silent.

"Of course," continued Madeleine with a sarcastic inflection--"of

course, I can't expect you to see it as I do. Men look at these things

differently, I know. Possibly if I were a man, I, too, should stand by,

with my hands in my pockets, and watch a friend butt his head against a

stone wall--thinking it, indeed, rather good fun."

She had touched Dove on a tender spot. "I can assure you, Miss

Madeleine," he said impressively, as they picked their steps across a

dirty road--"I can assure you, you are mistaken. I think just as

strictly in matters of this kind as you yourself.--But as to

interfering in Guest's ... in his private affairs, well, frankly, I

shouldn't care to try it. He was always a curiously reserved fellow."

"Reserved--obstinate-pig-headed!--call it what you like," said

Madeleine. "But don't imagine I'm asking you to interfere. I only want

you to tell me, briefly and simply, what you know about him. And to

make it easier for you, I'll begin by telling you what I know.--It's an

old story, isn't it, that Maurice once supplanted some one else in a

certain young woman's favour? Well, now I hear that he, in turn, is to

be laid on the shelf.--Is that true, or isn't it?"

"Really, Miss Madeleine!--that's a very blunt way of putting it," said

Dove uncomfortably.

"Oh, when a friend's at stake, I can't hum and haw," said Madeleine,

who could never keep her temper with Dove for long. "I call a spade a

spade, and rejoice to do it. What I ask you to tell me is, whether I've

been correctly informed or not. Have you, too, heard Louise Dufrayer's

name coupled with that of a man called Herries?"

But Dove was stubborn. "As far as I'm concerned, Miss Madeleine, the

truth is, I've hardly exchanged a word with Guest since spring. Into

his ... friendship with Miss Dufrayer, I have never felt it my business

to inquire. I believe--from hearsay--that he is much changed. And I

feel convinced his PRUFUNG will be poor. Indeed, I'm not sure that he

should not be warned off it altogether."

"Could that not be laid before him?"

"I should not care to undertake it."

There was nothing to be done with Dove; Madeleine felt that she was

wasting her breath; and they walked across the broad centre of the

ROSSPLATZ in silence.

"Do you never think," she said, after a time, "how it would simplify

life, if we were able to get above it for a bit, and see things without

prejudice?--Here's a case now, where a little real fellowship and

sympathy might work wonders. But no!--no interference!--that's the

chief and only consideration!"

It had stopped raining. Dove let down his umbrella, and carried it

stiffly, at some distance from him, by reason of its dampness. "Believe

me, Miss Madeleine," he said, as he emerged from beneath it. "Believe

me, I make all allowance for your feelings, which do you credit. A

woman's way of looking at these things is, thank God, humaner than

ours. But it's a man's duty not to let his feelings run away with him.

I agree with you, that it's a shocking affair. But Guest went into it

with his eyes open. And that he could do so--but there was always

something a little ... a little peculiar about Guest."

"I suppose there was. One can only be thankful, I suppose, that he's

more or less of an exception--among his own countrymen, I mean, of

course. Englishmen are not, as a rule, given to that kind of thing."

"Thank God they're not!" said Dove with emotion.

"We'll, our ways part here," said Madeleine, and halted. As she took

her music from him, she asked: "By the way, when shall we be at liberty

to congratulate you?"

It was not at all "by the way" to Dove. However, he only smiled; for he

had grown wiser, and no longer wore his heart on his coat-sleeve. "You

shall be one of the first to hear, Miss Madeleine, when the news is

made public."

"Thanks greatly. Good-bye.--Oh, no, stop a moment!" cried Madeleine. It

was more than she could bear to see him turn away thus, beaming with

self-content. "Stop a moment. You won't mind my telling you, I'm sure,

that I've been disappointed with you this afternoon. For I've always

thought of you as a saviour in the hour of need, don't you know? One

does indulge in these fancy pictures of one's friends--a strong man,

helping with tact and example. And here you go, toppling my picture

over, without the least remorse.--Well, you know your own business

best, I suppose, but it's unkind of you, all the same, to destroy an

illusion. One has few enough of them in this world.--Ta-ta!"

She laughed satirically, and turned on her heel, regardless of the

effect of her words.

But Dove was not offended; on the contrary, he felt rather flattered.

He did not, of course, care in the least about what Madeleine called

her illusions; but the mental portrait she had drawn of him

corresponded exactly to that attitude in which he was fondest of

contemplating himself. For it could honestly be said that, hitherto, no

one had ever applied to him for aid in vain: he was always ready, both

with his time and with good advice. And the idea that, in the present

instance, he was being untrue to himself, in other words, that he was

letting an opportunity slip, ended by upsetting him altogether.

Until now, he had not regarded Maurice and Maurice's doings from this

point of view. By nature, Dove was opposed to excess of any kind; his

was a clean, strong mind, which caused him instinctively to draw back

from everything, in morals as in art, that passed a certain limit.

Nothing on earth would have persuaded him to discuss his quondam

friend's backsliding with Madeleine Wade; he was impregnated with the

belief that such matters were unfit for virtuous women's ears, and he

applied his conviction indiscriminately. Now, however, the notion of

Maurice as a Poor erring sheep, waiting, as it were, to be saved--this

idea was of undeniable attractiveness to Dove, and the more he revolved

it, the more convinced he grew of its truth.

But he had reasons for hesitating. Having valiantly overcome his own

disappointments, first in the case of Ephie, then of pretty Susie, he

now, in his third suit, was on the brink of success. The object of his

present attachment was a Scotch lady, no longer in her first youth, and

several years older than himself but of striking appearance, vivacious

manners, and, if report spoke true, considerable fortune. Her

appearance in Leipzig was due to the sudden burst of energy which often

inspires a woman of the Scotch nation when she feels her youth escaping

her. Miss MacCallum, who was abroad nominally to acquire the language,

was accompanied by her aged father and mother; and it was with these

two old people that it behoved Dove to ingratiate himself; for,

according to the patriarchal habits of their race, the former still

guided and determined their daughter's mode of life, as though she were

thirteen instead of thirty. Dove was obliged to be of the utmost

circumspection in his behaviour; for the old couple, uprooted violently

from their native soil, lived in a mild but constant horror at the

iniquity of foreign ways. They held the profession of music to be an

unworthy one, and threw up their hands in dismay at the number of young

people here complacently devoting themselves to such a frivolous

object. It was necessary for Dove to prove to them that a student of

music might yet be a man of untarnished principles and blame less

honour. And he did not find the task a hard one; the whole bent of his

mind was towards sobriety. He frequented the American church with his

new friends on Sunday after noon; gave up skating on that day; went

with the old gentleman to Motets and Passions; and eschewed the opera.

But now, his ambition had been insidiously roused, and day by day it

grew stronger. If only the affair with Maurice had not been of so

unsavoury a nature! Did he, Dove, become seriously involved, it might

be difficult to prove to judges so severe as his future parents-in-law,

that he had acted out of pure goodness of heart. For, that he would be

embroiled, in other words, that he would have success in his mission,

there was no manner of doubt in his mind--a conviction he shared with

the generality of mankind: that it is only necessary for an offender's

eyes to be opened to the enormity of his wrongdoing, for him to be

reasonable and to renounce it.

While Dove hesitated thus, torn between his reputation on the one hand,

his missionary zeal on the other; while he hesitated, an incident

occurred, which acted as a kind of moral fingerpost. In the

piano-class, one day, just as Dove was about to leave the room, Schwarz

asked him if he were not a friend of Herr Guest's. The latter had been

absent now from two lessons in succession. Was he ill? Did no one know

what had happened to him? Dove made light of the friendship, but

volunteered his services, and was bidden to make inquiries.

He went that afternoon.

Frau Krause looked a little gruffer than of old; and left him to find

his own way to Maurice's room. In accordance with the new state of

things, Dove knocked ceremoniously at the door. While his knuckles

still touched the wood, it was flung open, and he stood face to face

with Maurice. For a moment the latter did not seem to recognise his

visitor; he had evidently been expecting some one else.

Then he repaired his tardiness, ceased to hold the door, and Dove

entered, apologising for his intrusion.

"Just a moment. I won't detain you. As you were absent from the class

all last week, Schwarz asked to-day if you were ill, and I said I would

step round and see."

"Very good of you, I'm sure. Sit down," said Maurice. His face changed

as he spoke; a look of relief and, at the same time, of disappointment

flitted across it.

"Thanks. If I am not disturbing you," answered Dove. As he said these

words, he threw a glance, the significance of which might have been

grasped by a babe, at the piano. It had plainly not been opened that

day.

Maurice understood. "No, I was not practising," he said. "But I have to

go out shortly," and he looked at his watch.

"Quite so. Very good. I won't detain you," repeated Dove, and sat down

on the proffered chair. "But not practising? My dear fellow, how is

that? Are you so far forward already that it isn't necessary? Or is it

a fact that you are not feeling up to the mark?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I get my work over in the morning."

Now he, too, sat down, at the opposite side of the table. Clearing his

throat, Dove gazed at the sinner before him. He began to see that his

errand was not going to be an easy one; where no hint was taken, it was

difficult to insert even the thinnest edge of the wedge. He resolved to

use finesse; and, for several of the precious moments at his disposal,

he talked, as if at random, of other things.

Maurice tapped the table. He kept his eyes fixed on Dove's face, as

though he were drinking in his companion's solemn utterances. In

reality, whole minutes passed without his knowing what was said. At

Dove's knock, he had been certain that a message had come from

Louise--at last. This was the night of the ball; and still she had

given him no promise that she would not go. They had parted, the

evening before, after a bitter quarrel; and he had left her, vowing

that he would not return till she sent for him. He had waited the whole

day, in vain, for a sign. What was Dove with his pompous twaddle to

him? Every slight sound on the stairs or in the passage meant more. He

was listening, listening, without cessation.

When he came back to himself, he heard Dove droning on, like a machine

that has been wound up and cannot stop.

"Now, I hope you won't mind my saying so," were the next words that

pierced his brain. "You must not be offended at my telling you; but you

are hardly fulfilling the expectations we, your friends, you know, had

formed of you. My dear fellow, you really must pull yourself together,

or February will find you still unprepared."

Maurice went a shade paler; he was clear, now, as to the object of

Dove's visit. But he answered in an off-hand way. "Oh, there's time

enough yet."

"No. That's a mistaken point of view, if I may say so," replied Dove in

his blandest manner. "Time requires to be taken by the forelock, you

know."

"Does it?" Maurice allowed the smile that was expected of him to cross

his face.

"Most emphatically--And we fellow-students of yours are not the only

people who have noticed a certain--what shall I say?--a certain

abatement of energy on your part. Schwarz sees it, too--or I am much

mistaken."

"What?--he, too?" said Maurice, and pretended a mild surprise. For some

seconds now he had been mentally debating with himself whether he

should not, there and then, show Dove the door. He decided against it.

A "Damn your interference!" meant plain-speaking, on both sides; it

meant a bandying of words; and more expenditure of strength than he had

to spare for Dove. Once more he drew out and consulted his watch.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Dove, ignoring the hint. "I assume it, from

something he let drop this afternoon. Now, you know, your Mendelssohn

ought to have been a brilliant piece of work--yes, the expression is

not too strong. And it still must be. My dear Guest, what I came to say

to you to-day--one, at any rate, of the reasons that brought me--was,

that you must not allow your interest in what you are doing to flag at

the eleventh hour."

Maurice laughed. "Oh, certainly not! Most awfully good of you to

trouble."

"No trouble at all," Dove assured him. He flicked some dust from his

trouser-knee before he spoke again. "I ... er ... that is, I had some

talk the other day with Miss Wade."

"Indeed!" replied Maurice, and was now able accurately to gauge the

motor origin of Dove's appearance. "How is she? How is Madeleine?"

"She was speaking of you, Guest. She would, I think, like to see you."

"Yes. I've rather neglected her lately, I'm afraid.--But when there's

so much to do, you know ..."

"It's a pity," said Dove, passing over the last words, and nodding his

head sagaciously. "She's a staunch friend of yours, is Miss Madeleine.

I think it wouldn't be too much to say, she was feeling a little hurt

at your neglect of her."

"Really? I had no idea so many people took an interest in me."

"That is just where you are mistaken," said Dove warmly. "We all do.

And for that very reason, I said to myself, I will be spokesman for the

rest: I'll go to him and tell him he must pull through, and do himself

credit--and Schwarz, too. We are so few this year, you know."

"Yes, poor old man! He has got badly left."

"Yes. That was one reason. And then ... but you assure me, don't you,

that you will not take what I am going to say amiss?"

"Not in the least. It's awfully decent of you. But I'm sorry to say my

time's up. And every minute is precious just now--as you know yourself."

He rose, and, for the third time, referred to his watch. After an

ineffectual attempt to continue, Dove was also forced to rise, with the

best part of his message unuttered. And Maurice hurried him, glum and

crestfallen, to the door, for fear of the still worse tactlessness of

which he might make himself guilty.

They groped in silence along the dark lobby. For the sake of parting

with a friendly and neutral word, Maurice said, as he opened the door:

"By the way, I hear we shall soon have to offer congratulations and

good wishes."

To his surprise, Dove, who had already crossed the threshold, looked

blank, and drew himself up.

"Indeed?" he said, and the tone was, for him, quite short. "I ... the

fact is ... I've no idea of what you are referring to."

On re-entering his room, Maurice went back to the window, and taking up

his former attitude, began to beat anew that tattoo on the panes, which

had been his chief employment during the day. His eyes were sore with

straining at the corner of the street, tired of looking at his watch to

see how the time passed. He had steadfastly believed that Louise would

yield in this matter, and, at the last, recall him in a burst of

impulsive regret. But, as the day crawled by without a word from her,

his confident conviction weakened; and, at the same time, his resolve

not to go back till she sent for him, failed. He repeated, in memory,

some of the bitter things they had said to each other, to see if he had

not left himself a loophole of escape; but only with one half of his

brain: the other was persistently occupied with the emptiness of the

street below. When a clock struck half-past seven, he could bear the

suspense no longer: he put on his hat and coat, and went out. He felt

tired and unslept, and dragged along as if his body were a weight to

him. A fine snow was falling, which froze into icicles on the beards of

the passers-by, and on the glistening pavements. The distance had never

seemed so long to him; it had also never seemed so short.

A faint and foolish hope still refused to be extinguished. But it went

out directly he had unlocked the door; and he learned what he had come

to learn, without the exchange of a word. The truth met him, that he

should have been here hours ago, commanding, imploring; instead of

which he had sat at home, nursing a futile and paltry pride.

The room was warm, and bright with extra candles. It was also in that

state of confusion which accompanied an elaborate toilet on the part of

Louise. Fully dressed, she stood before the console-glass, and arranged

something in her hair. She did not turn at his entrance, but she raised

her eyes and met his in the mirror, without pausing in what she was

doing.

He looked over her shoulder at her reflected face. The cold steadiness,

the open hostility of her look, took his strength away. He sat down on

the foot-end of the bed, and put his head in his hands. Minutes passed,

and still he remained in this position. For what was the use of his

speaking? Her mind was made up; nothing would move her now.

Then came the noise of wheels in the street below. Uncovering his eyes,

Maurice looked at her again; and, as he did so, his feelings which,

until now, had had something of the nature of a personal wound, gave

place to others with the rush of a storm. She wore the same sparkling,

low-cut dress as on the previous occasion; arms and shoulders were as

ruthlessly bared to view. He remembered what he had heard said of her

that night, and felt that his powers of endurance were at an end. With

a stifled exclamation, he got up from the bed, and going past her, into

the half of the room beyond the screen, caught up the first object that

came to hand, and threw it to the floor. It was a Dresden-china figure,

and broke to pieces.

Louise gave a cry, and came running out to see what he had done. "Are

you mad? How dare you! ... break my things."

She held a candle above her head, and by its light, he saw, in the skin

of neck and shoulder, all the lines and folds that were formed by the

raising of her arm. He now saw, too, that her hair was dressed in a

different way, that her dark eyebrows had been made still darker, and

that she was powdered. This discovery had a peculiar effect on him: it

rendered it easier for him to say hard things to her; at the same time,

it strengthened his determination not to let her go out of the house.

Moving aimlessly about the room, he stumbled against a chair, and

kicked it from him.

"A month ago, if some one had sworn to me that you would treat me as

you are doing to-night, I should have laughed in his face," he said at

last.

Louise had put the candle down, and was standing with her back to him.

Taking up a pair of long, black gloves, she began to draw one over her

hand. She did not look up at his words, but went on stroking the kid of

the glove.

"You're only doing it to revenge yourself--I know that! But what have I

done, that you should take less thought for my feelings than if I were

a dog?"

Still she did not speak.

"You won't really go, Louise?--you won't have the heart to.--I say you

shall not go! It will be the end--the end of everything!--if you leave

the house to-night."

She pulled her dress from his hand. "You're out of your senses, I

think. The end of everything! Because, for once, I choose to have some

pleasure on my own account! Any other man would be glad to see the

woman he professes to care for, enjoy herself. But you begrudge it to

me. You say my pleasures shall only come through you--who have taken to

making life a burden to me! Can't you understand that I'm glad to get

away from you, and your ill-humours and mean, abominable jealousy.

You're not my master. I'm not your slave." She tugged at a recalcitrant

glove. "It is absurd," she went on a moment later. "All because I wish

to go out alone for once.--But did I even want to? Why, if it means so

much to you, couldn't you have bought a ticket and come too? But no!

you wouldn't go yourself, and so I was not to go either. It's on a

level with all your other behaviour."

"I go!" he cried. "To watch you the whole evening in that man's

arms!--No, thank you! It's not good enough.--You, with your indecent

style of dancing!"

She wheeled round, as if the insult had struck her; and for a moment

faced him, with open lips. Then she thought better of it: she laughed

derisively, with a wanton undertone, in order to hurt him.

"You would at least have had me under your own eyes."

As she spoke, she nodded to the old woman who opened the door to say

that the droschke waited below. A lace scarf was lying on the table;

Louise twisted it mechanically round her head, and began to struggle

with an evening cloak. Just as she had succeeded in getting it over her

shoulders, Maurice took her by the arms and bent her backwards, so that

the cloak fell to the floor.

"You shall not go!"

She stemmed her hands against him, and determinedly, yet with caution,

pushed herself free.

"My dress--my hair! How dare you!"

"What do I care for your dress or your hair? You make me mad!"

"And what do I care whether you're mad or not? Take your hands away!"

"Louise! ... for God's sake! ... not with that man. At least, not with

him. He has said infamous things of you. I never told you--yes, I heard

him say--heard him compare you with ... soiled goods he called

you.--Louise! Louise!"

"Have you any more insults for me?"

"No, no more!" He leaned his back against the door. "Only this: if you

leave this room to-night, it's the end."

She had picked up her cloak again. "The end!" she repeated, and looked

contemptuously at him. "I should welcome it, if it were.--But you're

wrong. The end, the real end, came long ago. The beginning was the

end!--Open that door, and let me out!"

He heard her go along the hall, heard the front door shut behind her,

and, after a pause, heard the deeper tone of the house door. The

droschke drove away. After that, he stood at the window, looking out

into the pitch-dark night. Behind him, the landlady set the room in

order, and extinguished the additional candles.

When she had finished, and shut the door, Maurice faced the empty room.

His eyes ranged slowly over it; and he made a vague gesture that

signified nothing. A few steps took him to the writing-table, on which

her muff was lying. He lifted it up, and a bunch of violets fell into

his hand. They brought her before him as nothing else could have done.

Beside the bed, he went down on his knees, and drawing her pillow to

him, pressed it round his head.

The end, the end!--the beginning the end: there was truth in what she

had said. Their love had had no stamina in it, no vital power. He was

losing her, steadily and surely losing her, powerless to help

it--rather it seemed as if some malignant spirit urged him to hasten on

the crisis. Their thoughts seemed hopelessly at war.--And yet, how he

loved her! He made himself no illusions about her now; he understood

just what she was, and what she would always be; the many conflicting

impulses of her nature lay bare to him. But he loved her, loved her:

all the dead weight of his physical craving for her was on him again,

confounding, overmastering. None the less, she had left him; she had no

need for him; and the hours would come, oftener and oftener, when she

could do without him, when, as now, she voluntarily sought the company

of other men. The thought suffocated him; he rose to his feet, and

hastened out of the house.

A little before one o'clock, he was stationed opposite the sideentrance

to the HOTEL DE PRUSSE. He had a long time to wait. As two o'clock

approached, small batches of people emerged, at first at intervals,

then more and more frequently. Among the last were Herries and Louise.

Maurice remained standing in the shadow of some houses, until they had

parted from their companions. He heard her voice above all the rest; it

rang out clear and resonant, just as on that former occasion when she

had drunk freely of champagne.

With many final words and false partings, she and Herries separated

from the group, and turned to walk down the street. As they did so,

Maurice sprang out from his hiding-place, and was suddenly in front of

them, blocking their progress.

At his unexpected apparition, both started; and when he roughly took

hold of her arm, Louise gave a short cry. Herries put out his hand, and

smacked Maurice's down.

"What are you doing there? Take your hands off this lady, damn you!" he

cried in broken German, not recognising Maurice, and believing that he

had to deal with an ordinary NACHTSCHWARMER.

The savageness with which he was turned on, enlightened him. "Damn

you!" retorted Maurice in English. "Take your hands off her yourself I

She belongs to me--to me, do you hear?--and I intend to keep her."

"You drunken cur!" said Herries. He had instinctively allowed Louise to

withdraw her arm; now he stood irresolute, uncertain how she would wish

him to act. She had gone very pale; he believed she was afraid. "Isn't

there a droschke anywhere?" he said, and looked angrily round. "I

really can't see you exposed to this ... this sort of thing, you know."

Louise answered hurriedly. "No, no. And please go! I shall be all

right. I'm sorry.--I had enjoyed it so much. I will tell you another

time, how much. Good night, and thank you. No ... PLEASE!> ... yes, a

delightful evening." Her words were almost inaudible.

"Delightful indeed!" said Herries with warmth. Then he stood aside,

raised his hat, and let them pass.

Maurice had his hand on her wrist, and he dragged her after him, over

the frozen pavements, far more quickly than she could in comfort go,

hampered as she was by snow-boots and by her heavy cloak. But she

followed him, allowed herself to be drawn, without protest. She felt

strangely will-less. Only sometimes, when the thought of the indignity

he had laid upon her came over her anew, did she whisper: "How dare

you! ... oh, how dare you!"

He did not look at her, or answer her, and all might have gone well, so

oddly did this treatment affect her, had he only persisted in it. But

the mere contact of her hand softened him towards her; her nearness

worked on him as it never failed to do. He was exhausted, too, mentally

and physically, and at the thought that, for this night at least, his

sufferings were over, he could have shed tears of relief. Slackening

his pace, he began to speak, began to excuse and exculpate himself

before ever she had blamed him, endeavouring to make her understand

something of what he had gone through. In advance, and before she had

expressed it, he sought to break down her spirit of animosity.

The longer he spoke, the harder she felt herself grow. He was at it

again, back at his eternal self-justification. Oh, why, for this one

evening at least, could he not have enforced his will, and have made

her do what he wished, without explanation! But the one plain, simple

way was the only way he never thought of taking. "I hate you and

despise you! I shall never forgive you for your behaviour

to-night!--never!" And now it was she who pressed forward, to get away

from him.

He turned the key in the house-door. But before he could open the door,

Louise, pushing in front of him, threw it back, entered the house, and,

the next moment, the door banged in his face. He had just time to

withdraw his hand. He heard her steps on the stair, mounting, growing

fainter; he heard the door above open and shut.

For a second or two, he stood listening to these sounds. But when it

dawned on him that she had shut him out, he pressed both hands against

the wood of the heavy door, and tried to shake it open. He even beat

his fist against it, and only desisted from this when his knuckles

began to smart.

Then, on looking down, he saw that the key was still in the lock. He

stared at it, stupidly, without understanding. But, yes--it was his own

key; he himself had put it in. He took it out again, and holding it in

his hand, looked at it, after the fashion of a drunken man, who does

not recognise the object he holds. And even while he did this, he burst

into a peal of laughter, which made him lean for support against the

wall of the house. The noise he made sounded idiotic, sounded mad, in

the quiet street; but he was unable to contain himself. She had left

him the key--had left the key! Oh, what a fool he was!

His laughter died away. He opened the door, noiselessly, as he had

learned by practice to do, and as noiselessly entered the vestibule and

went up the stairs.

IX.

Several versions of the contretemps with Herries were afloat

immediately. All agreed in one point: Maurice Guest had been in an

advanced stage of intoxication. A scuffle was said to have taken place

in the deserted street; there had been tears, and prayers, and shrill

accusing voices. In the version that reached Madeleine's cars, blows

were mentioned. She stood aghast at the disclosures the story made, and

at all these implied. Until now, Maurice had at least striven to

preserve appearances. If once you became callous enough not to care

what people said of you, you wilfully made of yourself a social outcast.

That same afternoon, as she was mounting the steps of the

Conservatorium, she came face to face with Krafft. They had not met for

weeks; and Madeleine remarked this, as they stood together. But she was

not thinking very deeply of him or his affairs; and when she asked him

if he would go across to her room, and wait for her there, she was

following an impulse that had no connection with him. As usual, Krafft

had nothing particular to do; and when she returned, half an hour

later, she found him lying on her sofa, with his arms under his head,

his knees crossed above him. The air of the room was grey with smoke;

but, for once, Madeleine set no limit to his cigarettes. Sitting down

at the table, she looked meditatively at him. For some moments neither

spoke.

But as Krafft drew out his case to take another cigarette, a tattered

volume of Reclam's UNIVERSAL LIBRARY fell from his pocket, and spread

itself on the floor. Madeleine stooped and pieced it together.

"What have we here?--ah, your Bible!" she said sarcastically: it was a

novel by a modern Danish poet, who died young. "You carry it about with

you, I see."

"To-day I needed STIMMUNG. But don't say Bible; that's an error of

taste. Say 'death-book.' One can study death in it, in all its forms."

"To give you STIMMUNG! I can't understand your love for the book,

Heinz. It's morbid."

"Everything's morbid that the ordinary mortal doesn't wish to be

reminded of. Some day--if I don't turn stoker or acrobat beforehand,

and give up peddling in the emotions--some day I shall write music to

it. That would be a melodrama worth making."

"Morbid, Heirtz, morbid!"

"All women are not of your opinion. I remember once hearing a woman

say, had the author still lived, she would have pilgrimaged barefoot to

see him."

"Oh, I dare say. There are women enough of that kind."

"Fools, of course?"

"Extravagant; unbalanced. The class of person that suffers from a

diseased temperament.--But men can make fools of themselves, too. There

are specimens enough here to start a museum with."

"Of which you, as NORMALMENSCH, could be showman."

Madeleine pushed her chair back towards the head of the sofa, so that

she came to sit out of the range of Krafft's eyes.

"Talking of fools," she said slowly, "have you seen anything of Maurice

Guest lately?"

Krafft lowered a spike of ash into the tray. "I have not."

"Yes; I heard he had got into a different hour," she said

disconnectedly. As, however, Krafft remained impassive, she took the

leap. "Is there--can nothing be done for him, Heinz?"

Here Krafft did just what she had expected him to do: rose on his

elbow, and turned to look at her. But her face was inscrutable.

"Explain," he said, dropping back into his former position.

"Oh, explain!" she echoed, firing up at once. "I suppose if a

fellow-mortal were on his way to the scaffold, you men would still ask

for explanations. Listen to me. You're the only man here Maurice was at

all friendly with--I shouldn't turn to you, you scoffer, you may be

sure of it, if I knew of anyone else. He liked you; and at one time,

what you said had a good deal of influence with him. It might still

have. Go to him, Heinz, and talk straight to him. Make him think of his

future, and of all the other things he has apparently forgotten.--You

needn't laugh! You could do it well enough if you chose--if you weren't

so hideously cynical.--Oh, don't laugh like that! You're loathsome when

you do. And there's nothing natural about it."

But Krafft enjoyed himself undisturbed. "Not natural? It ought to be,"

he said when he could speak again. "Oh, you English, you English!--was

there ever a people like you? Don't talk to me of men and women, Mada.

Only an Englishwoman would look at the thing as you do. How you would

love to reform and straitlace all us unregenerate youths! You've done

your best for me--in vain!--and now it's Guest. Mada, you have the

Puritan's watery fluid in your veins, and Cain's mark on your brow: the

mark of the raceace that carries its Sundays, its--language, its

drinks, its dress, and its conventions with it, whereever it goes, and

is surprised, and mildly shocked, if these things are not instantly

adopted by the poor, purblind foreigner.--You are the missionaries of

the world!"

"Oh, I've heard all that before. Some day, Heinz, you really must come

to England and revise your impressions of us. However, I'm not going to

let you shirk the subject. I will tell you this. I know the MILIEU

Maurice Guest has sprung from, and I can judge, as you never can, how

totally he is unfitting himself to return. The way he's going on--I

hear on all sides that he'll never 'make his PRUFUNG,' now, and you

yourself know his certificate won't be worth a straw."

"There's something fascinating, I admit," Krafft went on, "about a

people of such a purely practical genius. And it follows, as a matter

of course, that, being the extreme individualists you are, you should

question the right of others to their particular mode of existence. For

individualism of this type implies a training, a culture, a grand

style, which it has taken centuries to attain--WE have still centuries

to go, before we get there. If we ever do! For we are the artists among

nations--waxen temperaments, formed to take on impressions, to be

moulded this way and that, by our age, our epoch. You are the

moralists, we are the ..."

"The immoralists."

"If you like. In your vocabulary, that's a synonym for KUNSTLER."

"You make me ill, Heinz!"

"KUSS' DIE HAND!" He was silent, following a smoke-ring with his eyes.

"Seriously, Mada," he said after a moment--but there was no answering

seriousness in his face, which mocked as usual. "Seriously, now, I

suppose you wouldn't admit what this DRESSUR, this HOHE SCHULE Guest is

going through, might be of service to him in the end?"

"No, indeed, I wouldn't," she answered hotly. "You talk as if he were a

circus-horse. Think of him now, and think of him as he was when he

first came here. A good fellow--wasn't he? And full to the brim of

plans and projects--ridiculous enough, some of them--but the great

thing is to be able to make plans. As long as a man can do that, he's

on the upward grade.--And he had talent, you said so yourself, and

unlimited perseverance."

"Good God, Madeleine" burst out Krafft. "That you should have been in

this place as long as you have, and still remain so immaculate!--Surely

you realise that something more than talent and perseverance is

necessary? One can have talent as one has a hat ... use it or not as

one likes.--I tell you, the mill Guest is going through may be his

salvation--artistically."

"And morally?" asked Madeleine, not without bitterness. "Must one give

thanks then, if one's friend doesn't turn out a genius?"

Krafft shrugged his shoulders. "As you take it. The artist has as much

to do with morality, as, let us say, your musical festivals have to do

with art.--And if his genius isn't strong enough to float him, he goes

under, UND DAMIT BASTA! The better for art. There are bunglers

enough.--But I'll tell you this," he rose on his elbow again, and spoke

more warmly. "Since I've seen what our friend is capable of; how he has

allowed himself to be absorbed; since, in short, he has behaved In such

a highly un-British way--well, since then, I have some hope of him. He

seems open to impression.--And impressions are the only things that

matter to the artist."

"Oh, don't go on, please! I'm sick to death of the very words art and

artist."

"Cheer up, Mada! You've nothing of the kind in your blood." He

stretched himself and yawned. "Nor has he, either, I believe. A face

may deceive. And a clear head, and unlimited perseverance, and

intelligence, and ambition--none of these things is enough. The Lord

asks more of his chosen."

Madeleine clasped her hands behind her head, and tilted back her chair.

"So you couldn't interfere, I see? Your artistic conscience would

forbid it."

"Why don't you do it yourself?" He scrutinised her face, with a

sarcastic smile.

"Oh, say it out! I know what you think."

"And am I not right?"

"No, you're not. How I hate the construction you put on things! In your

eyes, nothing is pure or disinterested. You can't even imagine to

yourself a friendship between a man and a woman. Such a thing isn't

known here--in your nation of artists. Your men are too inflammatory,

and too self-sufficient, to want their calves fatted for any but the

one sacrifice. Girls have their very kitchen-aprons tied on them with

an undermeaning. And poor souls, who can blame them for submitting!

What a fate is theirs, if they don't manage to catch a man! Gossip and

needlework are only slow poison."

"Now you're spiteful. But I'll tell YOU something. Such friendships as

you speak of are only possible where the woman is old--or ugly--or

abnormal, in some way: a man-woman, or a clever woman, or some other

freak of nature. Now, our women are, as a rule, sexually healthy. They

know what they're here for, too, and are not ashamed of it. Also, they

still have their share of physical attraction. While yours--good God! I

wonder you manage to keep the breed going!"

"Stop, Heinz!" said Madeleine sternly. "You are illogical, and

indecent; and you know there's a limit I don't choose to let you

pass.--You're wrong, too. You've only to look about you, here, with

unbiassed eyes, to see which race the prettiest girls belong to.--But

never mind! You only launch out in this way that you may not be obliged

to discuss Maurice Guest. I know you. I can read you like a book."

"You are not very old ... or ugly ... or abnormal, Mada."

She smiled in spite of herself. "And are we not friends, pray?"

"Something that way.--But in all you say about Guest, the impersonal

note is wanting. You're jealous."

"I'm nothing of the sort!--But you'll at least allow me to resent

seeing a friend of mine in the claws of this ... this vampire?"

Krafft laughed. "Vampire is good!--A poor, distraught--"

"Spare your phrases, Heinz. She's bad through and through, and stupid

into the bargain."

"Lulu stupid? EI, EI, Mada! Your eyes are indeed askew. She has a touch

of the other extreme--of genius."

"NA!--Well, if this is another of your manifestations of genius, then

permit me to hate--no, to loathe it, in all its forms."

"GANZ NACH BELIEBEN! It's a privilege of your sex, you know. There

never was a woman yet who didn't prefer a good, square talent."

"A crack this way, and it's madness; that, and the world says genius.

And some people have a peculiar gift for discovering it. Those who set

themselves to it can find genius in a flea's jump."

"But has it never occurred to you, that the power of loving--that some

women have a genius for loving?--No, why do I ask! For if I am a book,

you are a poster--a placard."

"What a people you are for words! You make phrases about everything.

That's a ridiculous thing to say. If every fickle woman--"

"Fickle woman! fickle fiddle-sticks!" he interrupted. "That's only a

tag. The people whose business it is to decide these things--DIE HERREN

DICHTER--are not agreed to this day whet it's man who's fickle or

woman. In this mood it's one, in that, the other; and the silly world

bleats it after them, like sheep."

"Well, if you wish me to put it more plainly: if what you say were

true, vice would be condoned."

"Vice!!" he cried with derision, and sat up and faced her. "Vice!--my

dear Mada!--sweet, innocent child! ... No, no. A special talent is

needed for that kind of thing; an unlimited capacity for suffering; an

entire renunciation of what is commonly called happiness! You hold the

good old Philistine opinions. You think, no doubt, of two lovers living

together in delirious pleasure, in SAUS UND BRAUS.--Nothing could be

falser. A woman only needs to have the higher want in her nature, and

the suffering is there, too. She's born gifted with the faculty. And a

woman of the type we're speaking of, is as often as not the flower of

her kind.--Or becomes it.--For see all she gains on her way: the mere

passing from hand to hand; the intense impressionable nature; the

process of being moulded--why, even the common prostitute gets a

certain manly breadth of mind, such as you other women never arrive at.

Each one who comes and goes leaves her something: an experience--a turn

of thought--it may be only an intuition--which she has not had before."

"And the contamination? The soul?" cried Madeleine; two red spots had

come out on her cheeks.

"As you understand it, such a woman has no soul, and doesn't need one.

All she needs is tact and taste."

"You are the eternal scoffer."

"I never was more serious in my life.--But let us put it another way.

What does a--what does any beautiful woman want with a soul, or brains,

or morals, or whatever you choose to call it? Let her give thanks,

night and day, that she is what she is: one of the few perfect things

on this imperfect earth. Let her care for her beauty, and treasure it,

and serve it. Time enough when it is gone, to cultivate the soul--if,

indeed, she doesn't bury herself alive, as it's her duty to do, instead

of decaying publicly. Mada! do you know a more disgusting, more

humiliating sight than the sagging of the skin on a neck that was once

like marble?--than a mouth visibly losing its form?--the slender

shoulders we have adored, broadening into massivity?--all the fine

spiritual delicacy of youth being touched to heaviness?--all the

barbarous cruelty, in short, with which, before our eyes, time treats

the woman who is no longer young.--No, no! As long as she has her

beauty, a woman is under no necessity to bolster up her conscience, or

to be reasonable, or to think.--Think? God forbid! There are plain

women enough for that. We don't ask our Lady of Milo to be witty for

us, or to solve us problems. Believe me, there is more thought, more

eloquence, in the corners of a beautiful mouth--the upward look of two

dark eyes--than in all women have said or done from Sappho down.

Springy colour, light, music, perfume: they are all to be found in the

curves of a perfect throat or arm."

Madeleine's silence bristled with irony.

"And that," he went on, "was where the girl you are blaspheming had

such exquisite tact. She knew this. Her instinct taught her what was

required of her. She would fall into an attitude, and remain motionless

in it, as if she knew the eye must feast its full. Or if she did move,

and speak--for she, too, had hours of a desperate garrulity--then one

was content, as well. Her vitality was so intense that her whole body

spoke when her lips did; she would pass so rapidly from one position to

another that you had to shut your eyes for fear that, out of all this

multitude, you would not be able to carry one away with you.--If some

of her ways of expressing herself in motion could be caught and fixed,

a sculptor's fame would be made.--A painter's, if he could reproduce

the trick she has of smiling entirely with her eyes and eyebrows.--And

then her hands! Mada, I wonder you other women don't weep for envy of

them. She has only to raise them, to pass them over her forehead, or to

finger at her hair, and the world is hers.--Do you really think a man

asks soul of a woman with such eyes and hand as those?--Good God, no!

He worships her and adores her. Were is only one place for him, and

that's on his knees before her."

"Well, really, Heinz!" said Madeleine, and the spots on her cheeks

burnt a dull red. "In imagination, do you know, I'm carried just three

years backwards? Do you remember that spring evening, when you came

rushing in here to me? 'I've seen the most beautiful woman in the

world, and I'm drunk with her.' And how I couldn't understand? For I

thought her plain, just as I still do.--But then, if I remember aright,

your admiration was by no means the platonic, artistic affair it ...

hm! ... is now."

"It was not.--But now, you understand, Mada, that I think a man makes a

good exchange of career, and success, and other such accidents of his

material existence, for the right to touch these hands at will. The one

thing necessary is, that he be fit for the post. I demand of him that

he be a gourmand, a connoisseur in beauty. And it's here, mind you,

that I have doubts of our friend.--Is it clear to you?"

"As clear as day, thanks. And you may be QUITE sure: of me never

applying to you for help again. I shall respect your principles."

"And mind you, I don't say Guest may not come out of the affair all

right--enriched for the rest of his life."

"Very good. And now you may go. I regret that I ever bothered with you."

Krafft went across to where Madeleine was standing, put his hands on

her two shoulders, and laid his head on his right arm, so that she, who

was taller than he was, looked down on the roundnesses of his curly

hair. "You're a good fellow, Mada--a good fellow! JA, JA--who knows! If

you had had just a little more of the EWIGWEIBLICHE about you!"

"Too much honour ... But you don't expect Englishwomen to join your

harem, do, you?"

"There would have been a certain repose in belonging to a woman of your

type. But it's the charm--physical charm--we poor wretches can't do

without."

"Upon my word, it's almost a declaration!" cried Madeleine, not

unnettled. "Take my advice, Heinz. Hie you home, and marry the person

you ought to. Take pity on the poor thing's constancy. Unless," she

added, a moment later, with a sarcastic laugh, "since you're still so

infatuated with Louise, you persuade her to transfer her favours to

you. That would solve all difficulties in the most satisfactory way.

She would have the variety that seems necessary to her existence; you

could lie on your knees before her all day long; and our friend would

be restored to sanity. Think it over, Heinz. It's a good idea."

"Do you think she'd have me?" he asked, as he shook himself into his

coat.

"Heaven knows and Heaven only! Where Louise is concerned, nothing's

impossible--I've always maintained it."

"Well, ta-ta!--You shall have early news, I promise you."

Madeleine heard him go down the stair, whistling the ROSE OF SHARON.

But he could not have been half-way to the bottom, when he turned and

came back. Holding her door ajar, he stuck a laughing face into the

room.

"Upon my word, Mada, I congratulate you! It's a colossal idea."

But Madeleine had had enough of him. "I'm glad it pleases you. Now go,

go! You've played the fool here long enough."

When he emerged from the house, Krafft had stopped whistling. He walked

with his hands in his pockets, his felt hat pulled down over his eyes.

At the corner, he was so lost in thought as to be unable to guide his

feet: he stood and gazed at the pavement. Still on the same spot, he

pushed his hat to the back of his head, and burst into such an eerie

peal of laughter that some ladies, who were coming towards him, started

back, and, picking up their skirts, went off the pavement, in order to

avoid passing him too nearly.

The following afternoon, at an hour when Maurice was safely out of the

way, Krafft climbed the stair to the house in the BRUDERSTRASSE.

The landlady did not know him. Yes, Fraulein was at home, she said;

but-- Krafft promptly entered, and himself closed the door.

Outside Louise's room, he listened, with bent head. Having satisfied

himself, he turned the handle of the door and went in.

Louise stood at the window, watching the snow fall. It had snowed

uninterruptedly since early morning; out of the leaden sky, flake after

flake fluttered down, whirled, spun, and became part of the fallen

mass. At the opening of the door, she did not stir; for it would only

be Maurice coming back to ask forgiveness; and she was too unspeakably

tired to begin all over again.

Krafft stood and eyed her, from the crown of her rough head, to the

bedraggled tail of the dressing-gown.

"GRUSS' GOTT, LULU!"

At the sound of his voice, she jumped round with a scream.

"You, Heinz! YOU!"

The blood suffused her face a purplish red; her voice was shrill with

dismay; her eyes hung on the young man as though he were a returning

spirit.

With an effort, she got the better of her first fright, and took a step

towards him. "How DARE you come into this room!"

Krafft hung his wet coat over the back of a chair, and wiped his face

dry of the melted snow.

"No heroics, Lulu!"

But she could not contain herself. "Oh, how dare you, It's a mean,

dishonourable trick--only you would do it!"

"Sit down and listen to what I have to say. It won't take long. And

it's to your own advantage, I think, not to make a noise.--May I smoke?"

She obeyed, taking the nearest chair; for she had begun to tremble; her

legs shook under her. But when he held out the case of cigarettes to

her, she struck it, and the contents were spilled on the floor.

"Look here, Lulu," he said, and crossing his legs, put one hand in his

pocket, while with the other he made gestures suitable to his words.

"I've not come here to-day to rake up old sores. Time has gone over

them and healed them, and it's only your--NEBENBEI GESAGT, extremely

bad-conscience that makes you afraid of me. I'm not here for myself,

but--"

"Heinz!" The cry escaped her against her will. "For him? You've come

from him!"

He removed his cigarette and smiled. "Him? Which? Which of them do you

mean?"

"Which?" It was another uncontrollable exclamation. Then the expression

of almost savage joy that had lighted up her face, died out. "Oh, I

know you! ... know you and hate you, Heinz! I've never hated anyone as

much as you."

"And a woman of your temperament hates uncommonly well.--No, all jokes

aside,"--the word cut her; he saw this, and repeated it. "Joking apart,

I've come to you to-day, merely to ask if you don't think your present

little affair has gone far enough?"

She was as composed as he was. "What business is it of yours?"

"Oh, none. Except that the poor fool was once my friend."

She gave a daring laugh, full of suggestion.

But Krafft was not put out by it. "Don't do that again," he said. "It

sounds ugly; and you have nothing to do with ugliness, you know. No, I

repeat once more: this is not a personal matter."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

It was now she who smiled derisively. "Have you forgotten a certain

evening in this room, three years ago?"

But he did not flinch. "Upon my word, if you are bold enough to recall

that!--However, the reminder was unnecessary. Tell me now: aren't you

about done with Guest?"

For still a moment, she fought to keep up her show of dignity. Then she

broke down. "Heinz!--oh, I don't know! Oh, yes, yes, yes--a thousand

times, yes! Oh, I'm so tired--I can't tell you how tired I am--of the

very sight of him! I never wanted him, believe me, I didn't! He thrust

himself on me. It was not my doing."

"Oh, come now! Tell that to some one else."

"Yes, I know: you only think the worst of me. But though I was weak,

and yielded, anyone would have done the same. He gave me no peace.--But

I've been punished out of all proportion to the little bit of happiness

it brought me. There's no more miserable creature alive than I am."

"What interests me," continued Krafft, in a matter-of-fact tone, "is,

how you came to choose so far afield from your particular type. It's

well enough represented here."

She saw the folly of wasting herself upon him, and gave a deep sigh.

Then, however, the same wild change as before came over her face.

Stooping, she took his hand and fondled it.

"Heinz! Now that you're here, do one thing--only one--for me! Have pity

on me! I've gone through so much--been so unhappy. Tell me--there's

only one thing I want to know. Where is he? Will he NEVER come back?

For you know. You must know. You have seen him."

She had sunk to her knees; her head was bent over his hand; she laid

her cheek against it. Krafft considered her thoughtfully; his eye dwelt

with approval on the broad, slender shoulders, the lithe neck--all the

sure grace of the crouching body.

"Will you do something for me, Lulu?"

"Anything!"

"Then let your hair down."

He himself drew out the pins and combs that held it, and the black mass

fell, and lay in wide, generous waves round face and neck.

"That's the idea! Now go on."

Louise kissed his hand. "Tell me; you must know."

"But is it possible that still interests you?"

"Oh, no! My life depends on it, that's all. You are cruel and bad; but

still I can speak to you--for months now, I haven't had a soul to speak

to. Be kind to me this once, Heinz. I CAN'T go on living without him. I

haven't lived since he left me--not an hour!--Oh, you're my last hope!"

"You'll have plenty of hopes in your life yet."

"In those old days, you hated me, too. But don't bear malice now.

There's nothing I won't do for you, if you tell me. I'll never speak

to--never even think of you again."

"I'm not so long-suffering."

"Then you won't tell me?"

"I didn't say that."

She crushed his hand between hers. "Here's the chance you asked for--to

save your friend! Oh, won't you understand?"

An inward satisfaction, of which only he himself knew the cause, warmed

Krafft through at seeing her prostrate before him. But as he continued

to look at her, a thought crossed his mind, and quickly resolved, he

laid his cigarette on the table, and put his hands, first on her head,

amid the tempting confusion of her hair, which met them like a thick

stuff pleasant to the touch, and from there to her shoulders, inclining

her towards him. She looked up, and though her eyes were full of tears,

her white face was alight in an instant with hope again, as he said:

"Would you do something else for me if I told you?"

She strained back, so that she might see his face. "Heinz!--what is

it?" And then, with a sudden gasp of comprehension:

"Oh, if that's all!--I will never see Maurice Guest again."

"That's not it."

"What is it then?"

"Will you listen quietly?"

"Yes, yes." She ceased to draw back, let herself be held. But he felt

her trembling.

He whispered a few words in her ear. Almost simultaneously she jerked

her head away, and, turning a dark red, stared incredulously at him.

Then she sprang to her feet.

"Oh, what a fool I am! To believe, for one instant, there was a human

spot in you I could get at!--Take your hands away--take them off me!

Because I've had no one to speak to for so long: because I know YOU

could understand if you would--Oh, when a woman is down, anyone may hit

her."

"Gently, gently!--You're too good for such phrases."

"I'm no different from other women. It's only you--with your horrible

thoughts of me. YOU! Why, you're no more to me than the floor I stand

on."

"And matters are simplified by that very fact.--I can give you his

address, Lulu."

"Go away! I may hurt you. I could kill you.--Go away!"

"And this," said Krafft, as he put on his coat again, "is how a woman

listens quietly. Well, Lulu, think it over. A word at any time will

bring me, if you change your mind."

One evening, about a week later, Maurice entered Seyffert's Cafe. The

heavy snowfall had been succeeded by a period of thaw--of slush and

gloom; and, on this particular night, a keen wind had risen, making the

streets seem doubly cheerless. It was close on nine o'clock, and

Seyffert's was crowded with its usual guests--young people, who had

escaped from more or less dingy rooms to the warmth and light of the

cafe, where the yellow blinds were drawn against the inclement night.

The billiard table in the centre was never free; those players whose

turn had not yet come, or was over, stood round it, cigarette or large

black cigar in hand, and watched the game.

Maurice had difficulty in finding a seat. When he did, it was at a

table for two, in a corner. A youth who had already eaten his supper,

sat alone there, picking his teeth. Maurice took the opposite chair,

and made his evening meal with a languid appetite. At the other side of

the room was a large and boisterous party, whose leader was

Krafft--Krafit in his most outrageous mood. Every other minute, his

sallies evoked roars of laughter. Maurice refrained from glancing in

that direction. When, however, his VIS-A-VIS got up and went away, he

was startled from his conning of the afternoon paper by seeing Krafft

before him. The latter, who carried his beer-mug in his hand, took the

vacated scat, nodded and smiled.

Maurice was on his guard at once; for it seemed to him that they were

being watched by the party Krafft had left. Putting down the newspaper,

he wished his friend good-evening.

"I've something to say to you," said Krafft without responding, and,

having drained his glass, he clapped the lid to attract the waiter's

attention.

With the over-anxious readiness to oblige, which was becoming one of

his most marked traits, and, in reality, cloaked a deathly

indifference, Maurice hung up his paper, and sat forward to listen.

Crossing his arms on the table, Krafft began to speak, meanwhile fixing

his companion with his eye. Maurice was at first too bewildered by what

he heard to know to whom the words referred. Then, the colour mounted

to his face; the nerves in his temples began to throb; and his hand

moved along the edge of the table, in search of something to which it

could hold fast.--It was the first time the name of Louise had been

mentioned between them--and in what a tone!

"Heinz!" he said at last; his voice seemed not to be his own. "How dare

you speak of Miss Dufrayer like that!"

"PARDON!" said Krafft; his flushed, transparent cheeks were aglow, his

limpid eyes shone like stars. "Do you mean Lulu?"

Maurice grew pale. "Mind what you're saying!"

Krafft took a gulp of beer. "Are you afraid of the truth?--But just one

word, and I'm done. You no doubt knew, as every one else did, that Lulu

was Schilsky's mistress. What you didn't know, was this;" and now,

without the least attempt at palliation, without a single extenuating

word, there fell from his lips the quick and witty narration of an

episode in which Louise and he had played the chief parts. It was the

keynote of their relations to each other: the story, grossly told, of a

woman's unsatisfied fancy.

Before the pitiless details, not one of which was spared him, were

checked off, Maurice understood; half rising from his chair, he struck

Krafft a resounding blow in the face. He had intended to hit the mouth,

but, his hand remaining fully open, caught on the cheek, and with such

force that the delicate skin instantly bore a white imprint of all five

fingers.

Only the people in their immediate neighbourhood saw what had happened;

but these sprang up; a girl gave a nervous cry; and in a minute, the

further occupants of the room had gathered round them, the

billiard-players with their cues in their hands. Two waiters, napkin on

arm, hastened up, and the proprietor came out from an inner room, and

rubbed his hands.

"MEINE HERREN! MEINE HERREN!"

Krafft had jumped to his feet; he was also unable to refrain from

putting his hand to his tingling face. Maurice, who was very pale,

stood staring, like a person in a trance, at the mark, now deep red,

which his hand had left on his friend's cheek. There was a solemn

pause; all eyes were fixed on Krafft; and the stillness was only broken

by the proprietor's persuasive: "MEINE HERREN! MEINE HERREN!"

In half a minute Krafft had collected himself. Turning, he jauntily

waved his hand to those pressing up behind; though one side of his face

still blazed and burned.

"Don't allow yourselves to be disturbed, gentlemen. The incident is

closed--for the present, at least. My friend here was carried away by a

momentary excitement. Kindly resume your seats, and act as if nothing

had happened. I shall call him to account at my own convenience.--But

just one moment, please!"

The last words were addressed to Maurice. Opening a notebook, Krafft

tore out one of the little pages, and, with his customary indolence of

movement, wrote something on it. Then he folded it through the middle,

and across again, and gave it to Maurice.

Maurice took it, because there seemed nothing else for him to do; he

also, for the same reason, took his coat and hat, which some one handed

to him. He saw nothing of what went on--nothing but the five outspread

marks, which had run together so slowly. He had, however, enough

presence of mind to do what was evidently expected of him; and, in the

hush that still prevailed, he left the cafe.

The wind sent a blast in his face. Round the corners of the streets,

which it was briskly scavenging, it swept in boisterous gusts, which

beat the gas-flames flat as soon as they reared themselves, and made

them give a wavering, uncertain light. Not a soul was visible. But in

the moment that he stood hesitating outside the brilliancy of the

yellow blinds, the hubbub of voices burst forth again. He moved hastily

away, and began to walk, to put distance between himself and the place.

He did not shrink before the wind-scourged meadows, but fought his way

forward, till he reached the woods. There he threw himself face

downwards on the first bench he came to.

A smell of rotting and decay met his nostrils: as if, from the

thousands of leaves, mouldering under the trees on which they had once

hung, some invisible hand had set free thousands of odours, there

mounted to him, as he lay, all that rich and humid earthiness that

belongs to sunless places. And for a time, he was conscious of little

else but this morbid fragrance.

An open brawl! He had struck a man in the face before a crowd of

onlookers, and had as good as been ejected from their midst. From now

on, he was an outcast from orderly society, was branded as one who was

not wholly responsible for his actions--he, Maurice Guest, who had ever

been so chary of committing himself. What made the matter seem still

blacker, too, in his own eyes, was the fact of Krafft having once been

his intimate, personal friend. Now, he could never even think of him

again, without, at the same time, seeing the mark of his hand on

Krafft's cheek. If the blow had remained invisible, it might have been

more easily forgotten; but he had seen it, as it were, taken shape

before him.--Or, had it only been returned, it would have helped to

lessen the weight of his present abasement--oh, he would have given all

he had to have felt a return blow on his own face! Even the smallest

loss of selfcontrol on the part of Krafft would have been enough. But

the latter was too proud to give himself away gratuitously: he

preferred to take his revenge in the more unconventional fashion of

leaving his friend to bear the ignominy alone.

Maurice lay stabbing himself with these and similar thoughts. Only

little by little did the tumult that had been roused in him abate.

Then, and just the more vividly for the break in his memory, the gross

words Krafft had said, came back to him. Recalling them, he felt an

intense bitterness against Louise. She was the cause of all his

sufferings; were it not for her, he might still be leading a quiet,

decent life. It was her doing that he was compelled to part, bit by

bit, with his selfrespect. Not once, in all the months they had been

together, had the smallest good come to him through her. Nothing but

misery.

Now, he had no further rest where he was. He must go to her, and tax

her with it, repeat what Krafft had said, to her very face. She should

suffer, too--and the foretasted anguish and pleasure of hot

recriminations dulled all other feelings in him.

He rose, chilled to the bone from his exposure; one hand, which had

hung down over the bench, was wet and sticky from grasping handfuls of

dead leaves.

It was past eleven o'clock. Louise wakened with a start, and, at the

sight of his muddy, dishevelled dress, rose to her elbow.

"What is it? What's the matter? Where have you been?"

He stood at the foot of the bed, and looked at her. The loose masses of

her hair, which had come unplaited, arrested his attention: he had

never seemed to know before how brutally black it was. With his eyes

fixed on it, he repeated what Krafft had told him.

Louise lay with the back of one hand on her forehead, and watched him

from under it. When he had finished, she said: "So Heinz has raked up

that old story again, has he?"

Maurice had expected--yes, what had he expected?--anger, perhaps, or

denial, or, it might be, vituperation; only not the almost impartial

composure with which she listened to him. For he had not spared her a

word.

"Is that all you've got to say?" he cried, suffocated with doubt. "Then

you ... you admit it?"

"Admit it! Maurice! Are you crazy?--to wake me up for this! It happened

YEARS ago!"

His recoil of disgust was too marked to be ignored. Louise half sat up

in bed again, supporting herself on one hand. Her nightgown was not

buttoned; he saw to the waist a strip of the white skin beneath, saw,

too, how a long black strand of her hair fell in and lay on it.

"You won't tell me you didn't know from the first there had been ...

something between Heinz and me?" she cried, roused to defend

herself.--"And look here, Maurice, as he told you that, it's my turn

now. I'll tell you why!" And sitting still more upright, she gave a

reason which made him grasp the knob of the bed-post so fiercely that

it came away in his hand. He threw it into a corner.

"Louise! ... you! to take such words on your tongue! Is there no shame

left in you?" His throat was dry and narrow.

"Shame! You only mean the need for concealment. Before you had got me,

there was no talk of shame."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

"Oh, that's your eternal cry!" and, suddenly spurred to anger, she rose

again. "I know--yes, I know! Do you think I'm a fool? Why must you

alone be so innocent! Why should you alone not know that I was only

jealous of a single person, and that was Krafft?"

Maurice turned away. In the comparative darkness behind the screen, he

sat down on the sofa, put his arms on the table, and his head on his

arms. He was exhausted, and found he must have slept as he sat; for

when he lifted his head again, the hands of the clock had moved forward

by several hours.

X.

One morning towards the end of January, Krafft disappeared from

Leipzig, and some days later, the body of Avery Hill was found in a

secluded reach of the Pleisse, just below Connewitz. Some workmen,

tramping townwards soon after dawn, noticed a strip of light stuff

twisted round a snag, which projected slightly above the surface of the

water. It proved to be the skirt of her dress, which had been caught

and held fast. Ambulance and police were summoned, and the body was

recovered and taken to the police-station.

The last of his friends to see Krafft was Madeleine, and the number of

those interested in his departure, and in Avery's quick suicide, was so

large that she several times had to repeat her lively account of the

last visit he paid her. He had come in, one afternoon, and settling

himself on the sofa, refused to be dislodged. As he was in one of his

most ambiguous moods, she left him to himself, and went on with her

work.

On rising to go, he had stood for a moment with his hands on her

shoulders.

"Well, Mada, whatever happens, remember I was sorry you wouldn't have

me."

"Oh, come now, Heinz, you never really asked me!"

It was snowing hard that night, a moist, soft snow that melted as it

touched the ground, and Krafft borrowed her umbrella. As usual,

however, he returned before he could have got half-way down the stairs,

to say that he had changed his mind and would not take it.

"But you'll get wet through."

"I don't want your umbrella, I tell you.--Or have you two?"

"No; but I'm not going out.--Oh, well, leave it then. And may you reap

a frightful rheumatism!"

As he went down, for the second time, he whistled the ROSE OF SHARON:

she listened to it grow fainter in the distance: and that was the last

she or anyone had heard of Krafft. The following morning, his landlady

found a note on her kitchen-table, instructing her to keep his

belongings for four weeks. If, by that time, they had not been claimed,

she might sell them, and take the money obtained for herself. Only a

few personal articles were missing, such as would be necessary for a

hurried journey.--Of course, so Madeleine wound up the story, she had

never expected Heinz to behave like a normal mortal, and to take leave

of his friends in the ordinary way, and she was also grateful to him

for not pilfering her umbrella, which was silvertopped. All the same,

there was something indecent about his behaviour. It showed how little

he had, at heart, cared for any of them. Only a person who thoroughly

despised others, would treat them in this way, playing with them up to

the last minute, as one plays with dolls or fools.

Avery Hill was laid out in a small room adjoining the policestation. It

was evening before the business of identification was over. Various

members of the American colony had to give evidence, and the services

of the consul were called into play, for there were countless

difficulties, formalities and ceremonies attached to this death by

one's own hand in a foreign country. Before all the technical details

were concluded, there were those who thought--and openly said so--that

an intending suicide might cast a merciful thought on the survivors.

Only Dove made no complaint. He had been one of the first to learn what

had happened, and, in the days that followed, he ran to and fro, from

one BUREAU to another, receiving signatures, and witnessing them,

bearing the whole brunt of surly Saxon officialdom on his own shoulders.

Twenty-four hours later, it had been arranged that the body should be

buried on the JOHANNISFRIEDHOF, and the consul was advised by cablegram

to lay out the money for the funeral. Under the eyes of a

police-officer and a young clerk from the consul's office, Madeleine,

assisted by Miss Jensen, went through the dead girl's belongings, and

packed them together.

Miss Jensen kept up, in a low voice, a running commentary on the

falsity of men and the foolishness of women. But, at times, her natural

kindness of heart asserted itself, to the confusion of her theories.

"Poor thing, poor young thing!" she murmured, gazing at a pair of

well-patched boots which she held in her hand. "If only she had come to

us!--and let us help her!"

"Help her?" echoed Madeleine in a testy way; she was one of those who

thought that the dead girl might have shown more consideration for her

friends, standing, as they did, immediately before their PRUFUNGEN.

"Could one help her ever having set eyes on that attractive

scoundrel?-- And besides, it's easy enough thinking afterwards, one

might have been able to help, to do this and that. It's a mistake.

People don't want help; and they don't give you a thank-you for

offering it. All they ask is to be let alone, to muddle and bungle

their lives as they like."

As they walked home together, Miss Jensen returned once more to the

subject of Krafft's failings.

"I've known many men," she said, "one more credulously vain and stupid

than another; for unless a man is engaged in satisfying his brute

instincts, he can be twisted round the finger of ANY woman. But Mr.

Krafft was the only one I've met, who didn't appear to me to have a

single good impulse."

The big woman's high-pitched voice grated on Madeleine.

"You're quite wrong there," she said more snappily than before. "Heinz

had as many good impulses as anyone else. But he had reduced the

concealing of them to a fine art. He was never happier than when he had

succeeded in giving a totally false impression of himself. Take me for

this, for that!--just what I choose. Often it was as if he flung a bone

to a dog: there! that's good enough for you. No one knew Heinz: each of

us knew a little bit of him, and thought it was all there was to

know.--He never showed a good impulse: that is as much as saying that

he swarmed with them. And no doubt he would have considered that, with

regard to you, he had been entirely successful. You have the idea of

him he meant you to have."

"He was never her lover," said Louise with a studied carelessness.

Maurice, to whom nothing was more offensive than the tone of bravado in

which she flaunted subjects of this nature, was stung to retaliation.

"How do YOU know?"

"Well, if you wish to hear--from his own lips."

"Do you mean to say you've spoken to Heinz about things of that

kind?--discussed his relations with other women?"

"Do you need reminding that I knew Heinz before I had ever heard of

you?"

He turned away, too dispirited to cross words with her. The events of

the past week had closed over his head as two waves Close over a

swimmer, cutting off light and air. Since the night on which he had

left his whilom friend the mark of his spread fingers as a parting

gift, he had ceased to care greatly about anything.

Compared with his pessimistic absorption in himself, Avery's suicide

and Krafft's departure touched him lightly. For the girl, he had never

cared. As soon, though, as he heard that Krafft had disappeared, he

turned out his pockets for the scrap of paper Heinz had given him that

evening in the cafe. But it threw no light on what had happened. It was

merely an address, and, twist it as he would, Maurice could make no

more of it than the words: KLOSTERGASSE 12. He resolved to go through

the street of that name in the afternoon; but, when the time came, he

forgot about it, and it was not till next morning that he carried out

his intention. There was, however, nothing to be learned; number twelve

was a gunsmith's shop, and at his hesitating inquiry, if anything were

known there of a music-student called Krafft, the owner of the shop

looked at him as if he were a lunatic, and answered rudely: was the

Herr under the impression that the shop was an information BUREAU?

Louise was dressed to go out. Pressed as to her destination, she said

that she was going to see the body. Maurice sought in vain to dissuade

her.

"It's a perverse thing to do," he cried. "You didn't care a fig for the

girl when she was alive. But now she can't forbid it, you go and stare

at her, out of nothing but curiosity."

"How do you know whether I cared for her or not?" Louise threw at him:

she was tying on her' veil before the glass. "Do you think I tell you

everything?--And as for your 'perverse,' it's the same with all I ever

do. You have made it your business always to find my wishes absurd."

She took up her gloves and, holding them together, hit her muff with

them. "In this case, it doesn't concern you in the least. I don't ask

you to come. I want to go alone."

The more shattered and unsure he grew, the more self-assertive was she.

There was an air of bravado in all she did, at this time--as in the

matter of her determination to go to the dead-house--and she hurt him,

with reckless cruelty, whenever a chance offered. Her pale mouth seemed

only to open to say unkind things, and her eyes weighed him with an

ironic contempt. To his jarred ears, her very laugh sounded less fine.

At moments, she began almost to look ugly to him; but it was a

dangerous ugliness, more seductive than her beauty had ever been. Then,

he knew that she was not too good for him, nor he for her, nor either

of them for the world they lived in.

They walked side by side to the mortuary. It was a very cold day, and

Louise wore heavy furs, from which her face rose enticingly. The

attention she attracted was to Maurice like gall to a wound.

There was not much difficulty in gaining admittance to the dead. A

small coin changed hands, and a man in uniform opened the door.

The post-mortem examination had been held that day, and the body was

swathed from head to foot in a white sheet. It lay on a long,

projecting shelf, and a ticket was pinned on the wall at its head. On

the opposite side of the room, on a similar shelf, was another shrouded

figure--the body of a workingman, found that morning on the outskirts

of the town, with an empty bottle which had contained carbolic acid by

its side. The LEICHENFRAU, the public layer--out of the dead, told them

this; it was she, too, who drew back the sheet from Avery's face in

order that they might see it. She was a rosy, apple-cheeked woman, and

her vivid colouring was thrown into relief by the long black cloak and

the close-fitting, black poke-bonnet that she wore. Maurice, for whom

the dead as such had no attraction, turned from his contemplation of

the stark-stretched figure on the shelf, to watch the living woman. The

exuberance of her vitality had something almost insultant in the

presence of these two rigid forms, from whose faces the colour had fled

for ever. Her eyes were alert like those of a bird; her voice and

movements were loud and bustling. In thought he compared her to a

carrion-crow. It was this woman's calling to live on the dead; she

hastened from house to house to cleanse poor, inanimate bodies, whose

dignity had departed from them. He wondered idly whether she gloated

over the announcements of fresh deaths, and mentally sped the dying.

Did she talk of good seasons and of slack seasons, and look forward to

the spread of contagious disease?--Well, at least, she throve on her

trade, as a butcher thrives by continually handling meat.

Louise had eyes only for the face of the dead girl. She stood gazing at

it, with a curious absorption, but without a spark of feeling. The

LEICHENFRAU, having finished tying up a basket, crossed the room and

joined her.

"EINE SCHONE LEICHE!" she said, and nodded, appreciating the fact that

a stranger should admire what was partly her own handiwork.

It was true; Avery's face looked as though it were modelled in wax. She

had not been in the water for more than half an hour, had said the

doctor, not long enough to be disfigured in any way. Only her hair

remained dank and matted, and, although it was laid straight out over

the bolster, it would probably never be quite dry again. No matter,

continued the woman; on the morrow would come the barber, a good friend

of hers, to dress it for the tomb; he would bring tongs and irons, and

other heating-apparatus with him, and, for certain, would make a good

job of it, so skilled was he: he had all the latest fashions in

hair-dressing at his finger-ends. The face itself was as placid as it

had been in life; the lids were firmly closed--no peeping or squinting

here--and the lips met and rested on each other round and full. Seen

like this, it now became evident that his face was one of those which

are, all along, intended for death--intended, that is, to lie waxen and

immobile, to show to best advantage. In life, there had been too marked

a discrepancy between the extreme warmth of the girl's colouring and

the extreme immobility of her expression. Now that the blood had, as it

were, been drained away to the last drop, now that temples and nostrils

had attained transparency, the fine texture of the skin and the beauty

of the curves of lips and chin were visible to every eye. Only one

hand, so the LEICHENFRAU babbled on, was convulsively closed, and could

not be undone; and, as she spoke, she drew the sheet further down, and

displayed the naked arm and hand: the long, fine fingers were clenched,

the thumb inside the rest. Otherwise, Avery appeared to sleep, to sleep

profoundly, with an intensity such as living sleep never attains

to--the very epitome of repose. It seemed as if her eyelids were

pressed down by some unseen force; and, in her presence, the feeling

gained ground in one, that it was worth enduring much, to arrive at a

rest of this kind at last.

"JA, JA," said the woman, and rearranged the covering. "It's a pleasure

to handle such a pretty corpse. That one there, now,"--with her chin

she pointed to the other figure, and made a face of disgust. "EIN

EKLIGER KERL! There was nothing to be done with him."

"Let me see what he's like," begged Louise.

"It's an ugly sight," said the woman. However, she pulled the sheet

down, and so far that not only the face, but also a part of the hairy

black breast was visible.