On the trip from Hanau to Frankfort the automobile accident occurred in
which young Alfred Meerholz lost his life. Christian was driving, but,
as in the old days when the great tree fell, he remained unharmed.
Crammon had accompanied Christian and Alfred as far as Hanau. There
he wanted to visit Clementine von Westernach and then proceed to
Frankfort by an evening train. Christian had sent the chauffeur ahead
to Frankfort the day before in order to make certain purchases.
Christian at once drove at high speed, and toward evening, as the road
stretched out before him empty and free of obstacles, he made the car
fly. Alfred Meerholz urged him on, glowing in the intoxication of
speed. Christian smiled and let the machine do its utmost.
The trees on both sides looked like leaping animals in a photograph;
the white riband of the road rolled shimmering toward them and was
devoured by the roaring car; the reddening sky and the hills on the
horizon seemed to swing in circles; the air seethed in their ears;
their bodies vibrated and yearned to be whirled still more swiftly
over an earth that revealed all the allurement of its smoothness and
rotundity.
Suddenly a black dot arose in the white glare of the road. Christian
gave a signal with his horn. The dot quickly assumed human form. Again
the signal shrieked. The figure did not yield. Christian grasped
the steering wheel more firmly. Alfred Meerholz rose in his seat
and shouted. It was too late for the brake. Christian reversed the
wheel energetically; it went a trifle too far. There was a jolt, a
concussion, a crash, the groan of a splintering tree, a hissing and
crackling of flame, a clash and rattle of steel. It was over in a
moment.
Christian lay stunned. Then he got up and felt his limbs and body. He
could think and he could walk. “All’s right,” he said to himself.
Then he caught sight of the body of his friend. The young man lay
under the twisted and misshapen chassis with a crushed skull. A little
trickle of scarlet blood ran across the white dust of the road. A few
paces to one side stood in surprised stupor the drunken man who had not
made way.
People at once began gathering hurriedly from all directions. There
was a hotel near by. Christian answered many questions briefly. The
drunken man was taken in custody. A physician came and examined young
Meerholz’s body. It was placed on a stretcher and carried into the
hotel. Christian telegraphed first to General Meerholz, then to Crammon.
His travelling bag had not been injured. While he was changing his
clothes, police officers arrived, and took down his depositions
concerning the accident. Then he went to the dining-room and ordered a
meal and a bottle of wine.
He barely touched the food. The wine he gradually drank.
He saw himself standing in the dim hot-house awaiting Letitia. She
had come animated by her excitement. Languishing and jesting she had
whispered: “Well, my lord and master?” And he had said to her: “Have
the image of a small toad made of gold, and wear the charm about your
throat in order to avert the evil magic.”
Her kiss seemed still to be burning on his lips.
At eleven o’clock that night came Crammon, the faithful. “I beg of you,
my dear fellow, attend to all necessary arrangements for me,” Christian
said. “I don’t want to pass the night here. Adda Castillo will be
getting impatient.” He handed Crammon his wallet.
Christian was thinking again of the romantic girl who, like all of her
temper, gave without knowing what she gave or to whom, nor knew how
long life is. But her kiss burned on his lips. He could not forget it.
Crammon returned. “Everything is settled,” he said in a business like
way. “The car will be ready in fifteen minutes. Now let us go and say
farewell to our poor friend.”
Christian followed him. A porter led them to a dim storeroom in which
the body had been placed until the morrow. A white cloth had been
wrapped about the head. At the feet crouched a cat with spotted fur.
Silently Crammon folded his hands. Christian felt a cold breath on his
cheeks, but there was no stirring in his breast. When they came out
into the open he said: “We must buy a new car in Frankfort. We need not
be back here before noon to-morrow. The general cannot possibly arrive
until then.”
Crammon nodded. But a surprised look sought the younger man, a look
that seemed to ask: Of what stuff are you made?
About him, delicate, noble, proud, there was an icy air--the infinitely
glassy clarity that rests on mountains before the dawn.