THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

THE

BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BY

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.

Translated from the German

BY

S. E. A. H. STEPHENSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL II.

LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 1877.

(All Rights Reserved.)

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

---

BOOK III.--Continued.

CHAPTER III.

Philip had whispered to Reinhold that he would look him up presently; Reinhold trembled for the result of a meeting between father and son, which could not have occurred at a more unfortunate moment; but it could not be helped, and he determined to employ the interval in saying a few words of comfort, after the scene that had just taken place, to the old clerk whom he had spoken to several times during the last few days, and had learnt to look upon as certainly a peculiar but an excellent and upright man. He found the old man in the little arbour at the end of the narrow walk, between the garden and the building, in the upper story of which he and Anders lived. He was sitting quite broken down on the bench, while Cilli, who was with him, wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow. She recognised Reinhold's step at once, and said, as he entered the arbour:

"Thank God that you have come, sir! You were present. How did Herr Schmidt take my father's confession? From what my father says, I conclude very badly."

"On the contrary, Fräulein Cilli, my uncle is of opinion that between two such old friends as himself and your father, a merely theoretic difference is of no consequence."

"But if it should not stop at theory," exclaimed the old man, "if the practical consequences are carried out by everybody--"

"But not by you, my dear Herr Kreisel! Answer me one question: would you take advantage of any crisis in business to force from your employer an increase of salary?"

"Never!" exclaimed the old man, "never!"

"You see for yourself! Though you may be perfectly right in theory, between it and practice there lies, in the minds of educated people like yourself, a long and rough road, into which you will never enter, or on which, after the first few steps, you will stand still in horror."

"Ah! yes, my nerves!" murmured the old man; "my nerves are not strong enough for it. I am worn out; I believe he is right after all; an hour's sleep would do me good." He was persuaded by Reinhold and Cilli to go into the house; Reinhold went a little way with him; when he returned to the arbour, Cilli was sitting with her hands before her, and such an expression of deep sorrow and trouble on her pure, gentle face, that it went to Reinhold's heart.

"Dear little Cilli," said Reinhold, sitting down by her and taking her hands in his "do not be so anxious. I give you my word that my uncle does not dream of parting with your father; matters remain between them exactly as before."

"Not exactly," answered Cilli, shaking her head; "since Thursday my father has been quite changed. He has scarcely eaten or slept; and this morning, quite early, he came to my bedside and said that he had no longer any doubts, that he also was a Socialist, and he must tell Herr Schmidt. That was quite right, as we ought always to tell the truth, even in this case, when your uncle will not allow any Socialists on his works. And although, as you tell me, and I believed before, your uncle will make an exception in favour of my father, because he is old and feeble, my father is proud, and will not endure to be merely tolerated, all the more that he is undoubtedly in the right."

"How, my dear Cilli?" asked Reinhold, astonished. "Your father is in the right?"

"Certainly he is," answered Cilli warmly; "is it not wrong that even one man should suffer when others can prevent it? Did not Christ tell us to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to comfort the oppressed and heavy-laden? And if Christ had not commanded it, does not every good man's heart command it?"

"In that case, my dear Cilli, all good men must be Socialists, and even I myself may lay claim to the title; but between the love of our neighbours, as you describe it, and Socialism as these people desire it, there is a wide difference."

"I see none," said Cilli. Reinhold looked at the sightless eyes upraised with an expression of gentle enthusiasm.

"I can well believe that you do not see it, poor child," he said to himself.

"And on that point I am quite easy," continued the blind girl; "men must live up to their convictions, and bear the consequences patiently. And my father and I can do so the more easily, that at the worst we shall not have to bear them long."

"What do you mean, dear Cilli?"

"I know that my father will not live long; the doctor has always feared that he would sink under one of his nervous attacks; and once, when he was very bad, he told me so, that I might be prepared. I am prepared. And if my father could only believe that I should not outlive him long, he would be more easy in his mind. He thinks so much of you; perhaps he would believe you if you assured him of it."

"But how can I, dear Cilli?"

"Because it is only the truth. I am ill; dying of a nervous illness. My blindness, which came on when I was three years old, is only the result of this disease, which I doubtless inherited from my father. When I was eight years old, and had a very bad illness, my parents called in two doctors, and one said to the other as they went out--they said it in a whisper, and probably did not intend me to hear, but they did not know how sharp my hearing is--it would be a miracle if the child lived to be sixteen. I shall be sixteen next spring, and--I do not believe in miracles."

"Doctors often make mistakes; I hope they have made one in your case."

"I do not hope it--I do not wish it."

"But you love life."

"Only because I know that I must die soon, as you all say that I think the world so beautiful only because I am blind. And when my dear father is gone, whom shall I have to live for?"

"For your friends--myself, for example; for Justus, whom you love, and who loves you."

"Who loves me?" The blind girl's sweet mouth quivered. She drew two or three deep breaths, but the tears would not be kept back; they streamed from the poor blind eyes, and trickled through the slender white fingers with which she tried to hide them.

"Cilli! Cilli! what is the matter?" exclaimed Reinhold, seized with a painful foreboding.

"Nothing, nothing," murmured the blind girl. "You see yourself that I am ill--very ill. Hark! whose is that strange step in the courtyard?" Reinhold looked up and recognised Philip, who came rapidly along the walk in search of him without looking into the arbour. He could not bear the idea of being found here by Philip at this moment, he must therefore make up his mind to leave Cilli, who herself implored him to go.

"Leave me! leave me! before you I am not ashamed of my tears. You alone may see me weep." It was high time. Philip had

already turned back and came towards him.

"Where the devil have you been? I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the place."

"Your interview with your father cannot have lasted long." Philip laughed bitterly.

"As if it were possible to talk to him! But I swear this shall be the last time. No man in the world would endure it if he were a hundred times his father." Philip was furious; he stormed at his father's blindness and obstinacy. From what he could gather about the course of the interview, Reinhold could not quite justify his uncle, but he could not let pass the outrageous expressions of which the angry man made use.

"Are you going to begin now?" exclaimed Philip. "It is partly your fault. All that the old man said was only what you said to me yourself yesterday. What in the world induced you to set him against a project of which neither of you understand a word? He, in spite of his knowledge of business; you, in spite of your seamanship. What does it signify to you whether the harbour is east or north? Whether it is choked up in one place or goes to the devil in the other? Do you intend to invest your money in it? If others wish to do so, let them. Every one can use his own eyes, and if he comes to grief it is his own look-out. The best of it is that none of you who set your faces against it can hinder the matter from coming to a conclusion; in fact, it is as good as concluded now. Count Golm has joined the Provisional Board; and it would be a good joke if a harbour on the east were decided upon, and Golm and the daughter of our principal opponent, General Werben, who is as obstinate as my father--good heavens! there is young Werben! I hope he did not hear!" This conversation had taken place while they walked up and down between the blocks of marble in the courtyard. Ottomar had learnt at the house from Grollman that Reinhold was in the courtyard, and now came suddenly towards him from behind one of the blocks. He had heard nothing, although Reinhold feared at first that he had from his gloomy and embarrassed air. But his handsome young face cleared the next minute; he held out his hand to him with the greatest cordiality, and then to Philip with less cordiality.

"He had been meaning to come every day, but the worries of military duty! Quite unbearable, my dear fellow! You have no conception what it is; you, especially, my dear Schmidt; you never were in the army, for reasons best known to the doctors. If I had a hand in the matter you should serve your time yet in the Guards. But what brought me here in this hand-over-head fashion was to bring you this invitation from my father and the ladies, with a thousand excuses, but the card had somehow been mislaid yesterday; for this evening--quite a small party--a good many officers, of course, a few ladies, of course also. There will be a little dancing, my sister says, who counts upon you. Of course you dance; and my father, as he told me yesterday, wants very much to talk to you on important matters of which I know nothing; some question about the harbour, I fancy. You see it is absolutely necessary that you should accept. You will accept?"

"With much pleasure."

"That is capital." Ottomar had during the last few words completely turned his back on Philip; he now turned round.

"It will not be quite so lively as it was the other day at your house, my dear Schmidt; it was quite delightful. I heard from Golm that there was no end of a row afterwards, and the ladies were quite off their heads. So sorry I could not come; but I had a fearful headache; and headache, champagne, and pretty girls I have never yet been able to stand in that order, though in the reverse order I have suffered from them only too often."

"Bertalda was in despair," said Philip, who was inwardly greatly irritated at the off-hand manner of the young guardsman.

"Dear little thing!" said Ottomar, shrugging his shoulders. "She says just what comes into her head. She is a jolly little girl. I hope Golm will behave well to her. But is not Herr Anders' studio in this courtyard? His Satyr with the young Bacchus--or is it Cupid?--has made a tremendous sensation. I have never been in a sculptor's studio; would it be too much, my dear fellow, to ask you to get me admitted?" Reinhold was quite willing. Philip remarked carelessly that if the other gentlemen had no objection he would take the opportunity of inquiring about the four marble statues which he had ordered of Anders for his staircase, and of which two must be finished by this time. He had inwardly hoped that Ottomar would be impressed by "the four marble statues." Ottomar did not even appear to have heard him. He walked on in front, with his arm in Reinhold's, to whom he spoke in so low a tone that Philip could not hear what he said, probably was not meant to hear.

"Generous to remind me of it--a petit souper--in honour of Count Golm, who appears to be very susceptible of such ovations--slipped in quite by chance--came away immediately. Don't say anything about it."

"Can you suppose----"

"One drops a word sometimes without thinking of it--and it arouses suspicion--the ladies and--ces dames!--a very different matter, thank goodness! My sister--your cousin--had the honour casually a few days ago. Should be in despair if a word--the young lady is an artist, my sister tells me. One can hardly picture to oneself an artist, and a lady artist. After you, I beg!" Reinhold, who knew by experience that in consequence of the noise of hammers and chisels in Justus's studio, a knock at the door was seldom heard, had gone before and opened the door at once, and had got some way into the room before he saw, in a corner before a cast at which Justus was working, the latter standing with Ferdinanda. Ottomar and Philip had followed him so quickly, that they had all got into the middle of the large room before the two, who were engaged in earnest conversation and bewildered by the noise around them, heard them come in, till Justus's Lesto--a shaggy little monster, of whom it was difficult to tell which was his head and which was his tail--flew with a loud bark at Philip, whose polished boots seemed to arouse his wrath. In the tumult caused by this bold attack--while Philip, fearing for his trousers, took refuge on a stool, and Justus, nearly dying of laughter, vainly called "Lesto! Lesto!" and the four or five assistants, with Antonio amongst them, moved a few obstacles out of the way, and brought chairs--Reinhold had not noticed the deep blush that overspread Ferdinanda's beautiful face when she perceived Ottomar, and the embarrassment with which the latter greeted her. By the time the confusion was somewhat allayed, and Lesto had subsided into quiet, the two had recovered their presence of mind, and the more easily that the first glance that passed between them was one of reconciliation. He had returned to her after three long anxious days, which she had passed in longing and despair. Now all was made up--all was forgiven and forgotten. After the first happy and tremulous glance, she had not again looked at him, and was now chatting with Reinhold and Philip; but to Ottomar, the fact that she remained, that she did not after the first greeting retire into her studio, the door of which stood open, was an infallible proof of her penitence perhaps, certainly of her love. And then the full, somewhat deep tone of her voice--he seemed to hear it for the first time; and he did hear it for the first time. Till to-day they had only exchanged hasty whispered words. Her laugh--he had never thought that she could laugh--it seemed to him a very miracle; her figure, whose classical form appeared more beautiful in the straight, clinging, grey working dress than it could have done in the most coquettish attire; the rich brown hair, drawn simply back from her brows and loosely knotted together low

down in her neck--he had never known how beautiful she was! He stood before finished and unfinished works--they might have been the slides of a magic-lantern; he spoke to one and the other, chatted and joked; he had no idea what he said or what they answered; he was in a dream--a sweet and delicious dream--but for a few minutes only; then he awoke to a sense of the situation in which he found himself--a situation which he could hardly have wished more favourable, and the advantages of which he was determined to profit by with rapid soldier-like courage and rashness. And Ferdinanda was also dreaming the sweet, delicious dream of happy love, while she chatted and laughed with the others; only she never forgot or mistook the danger of the situation. From Reinhold, Justus, and Philip she feared nothing; a little prudence, a little clever acting, would suffice to protect her from any shadow of suspicion as far as they were concerned. But what prudence, however cunning, what acting, however clever, would protect her from Antonio's gleaming black eyes? It was true, he had returned to his work in the farthest corner of the room, and hammered and chiselled away, apparently quite unconcerned with anything that passed around him. But this very quietness, which was only apparent, alarmed her a thousand times more than if his glittering eyes had been continually upon her. What he did not see he heard. She knew the incredible sharpness of his senses; if he did not look round before, he would do so at the moment which she saw approaching. And that moment had come. Ottomar, thinking himself safe, approached her and whispered a word that she did not understand, so low was it breathed. But what matter? She read it in his eyes, on his lips: "I must speak to you alone--in your studio!" But how was it to be managed? The moments were passing; there was so much to be seen in Justus's studio, and the talk seemed endless. There were the four life-sized allegorical figures for Philip's staircase.

"Trade, a bearded man of Oriental appearance and dress, calling to mind Nathan on his journey home. Industry, as you will perceive, rather vaguely represented by a female figure of the present day, with some half-dozen emblems, which may mean anything you please--all possible things--exactly as Industry herself makes everything possible out of all possible things. This Greek youth, gentlemen, with his winged sandals and hat, may be recognised at any distance as the genius of railroads, as Hermes, if he had lived long enough, would undoubtedly have been appointed Postmaster-General in Olympus. The tall, beautiful, stately lady, in the dress of a Nuremberg lady of rank of the fifteenth century, will be recognised by the mural crown on her head and the square and level in her hand, as patroness of architecture--a neat allusion to the suburban streets which the worthy possessor has had to pull down, in order to build for himself in the middle of the town the house the vestibule of which these masterpieces are to adorn."

"You are responsible for at least half a street, Anders!" cried Philip, laughing.

"Ah!" said Justus, "that is the reason then that the lady looks so gloomy and melancholy under her mural crown! I could not imagine what was the meaning of the expression that, without my intending it--and even against my will--would come out clearer and clearer; the good lady has a pang of conscience which I ought to have had! Will any one say now that we do not bestow our best heart's blood on our creations?"

"This last figure strikes me as being particularly beautiful, if I may venture to make an observation on a matter on which I am profoundly ignorant," said Ottomar, with a glance at Ferdinanda, who strikingly resembled the lady with the mural crown, both in figure and in the haughty expression of the features. Justus, who had caught the glance, laughed. "You are not so ignorant as you pretend, Herr von Werben! You appear to know very well where we get our inspirations. But that you may see that other people can not only inspire forms, but also create very beautiful ones--may we, Fräulein Ferdinanda?" and Justus pointed to the door of her studio.

"Certainly," said Ferdinanda, while her heart beat fast. Now or never was the time. Antonio had not looked round; perhaps he had not heard. It might be possible to go in with Ottomar while the others lingered behind. And so it happened. Philip and Reinhold were disputing about one of the symbols assigned to Trade; Philip, annoyed and irritated by the contradiction that met him on all sides to-day, in a loud, excited voice. Justus, however, was following her and Ottomar closely. As she got to the door, she turned and whispered to him, "Philip is unbearable to-day; do try and make peace between them?" Justus answered, "Oh! it means nothing," but turned back. Ferdinanda entered quickly, followed by Ottomar. She walked a few steps to the left, till she was quite concealed from those in the other studio. Her arms encircled him, while she felt his arms around her. Their lips met, while he tasted the sweetness of her first kiss.

"This evening?"

"As you will."

"Eight o'clock, in the Bellevue Gardens!"

"As you will."

"Darling!"

"Darling!" They did not venture on a second kiss, fortunately, as Justus appeared, bringing with him, for greater security, the disputants. They stood before the "Reaper," while Justus explained that it had been begun in the spring and intended at first for a pendant to the kneeling "Roman Shepherd Boy" in the Exhibition--a girl, who, in the solitude of her maize field, deep in the Campagna, hears the Ave Maria ring out from the neighbouring convent, and who, laying aside her sickle and her sheaf, folds her hands for a moment in prayer; that the figure was nearly completed, attitude, gesture and expression, all quite admirable, and would have done honour to the greatest sculptors; that the greatest sculptors in Berlin had expressed their admiration; the Milanese Enrico Braga, who had been there on a visit in the summer, was quite overpowered. "And now, gentlemen, I ask you whether it is possible for any woman, even the most gifted, to carry out persistently a clearly defined aim! The statue is almost finished, only a few touches are wanted, but those touches are not given; we are not in the vein, we will wait for a more favourable day. One, two months pass, the day does not come; the clay dries up in the most unfortunate manner, breaks and splits everywhere--we have lost all inclination for the work. I had made up my mind, at the risk of the deepest displeasure, to have the 'Reaper' secretly cast at night before it quite fell to pieces; when about four weeks ago, one fine morning, I entered the studio--the sweet, dreamy face, was changed into a Medusa head, whose terrible eyes, under the hand that had in the meantime been laid on her brow, stared into the distance, apparently expecting some one. I should not like to be that some one. Would you, Captain?" Reinhold nodded to the sculptor; the statue had made exactly the same curiously mingled impression upon him, and he had almost expressed it in the same words. He said, smiling: "No, indeed!"

"Put it to the vote!" exclaimed Justus eagerly. "Would you, Herr von Werben?" Ottomar did not answer. The work was begun in the spring; in the spring he had exchanged the first tender love-tokens with Ferdinanda; then had ensued a long, weary interval, during which she had altogether avoided him; and though four weeks ago she had given way to his imploring glances and resumed again their secret understanding, it had acquired in the interval a totally different character; a gloomy, passionate character, from which even he sometimes shrank. Was this the image of her love? Was it he who was here waited for? All this passed through his brain with the speed of lightning, but his fixed glance had betrayed something of what

was in his mind.

"Why say so much about it?" exclaimed Ferdinanda; "a work that must be put to the vote is not worthy to exist." She had seized the heavy mallet which lay on the table amongst her other tools and swung it towards the statue. Justus caught hold of her arm.

"Are you mad, Fräulein Ferdinanda? Cannot you understand a joke? I swear to you that it was only a joke! That I admire it even more than the former one! That you have surpassed yourself and me." Justus was quite pale with excitement; the others hastened to assure her that they were quite of the master's opinion, that they thought the statue surpassingly beautiful, that they did not wish to see one feature altered. Ottomar was foremost with his praises, and his beautiful eyes entreated for forgiveness; but Ferdinanda was not to be appeased.

"It is too late," she said, "the sentence has gone forth, and I am too proud, I confess, to accept praise which comes as an afterthought. Calm yourself, Anders; I will not destroy the statue, but I will never finish it, that I swear!"

"And I am to be calm?" exclaimed Justus; "may I break stones in the road if I do, if I--what is it, Antonio?" Antonio had entered, whispered a few words to Anders and then retired; as he went out he cast a gloomy look at the statue of the "Reaper."

"A gentleman from the committee," said Anders, "there is always somebody coming; they will drive me wild. I will be back directly." He hurried into his studio; Ottomar suggested that they had already troubled the young lady too long: he expected that Ferdinanda would press them to stay, but she did not; he bowed. "I hope, Ferdinanda," said Reinhold, "that you will not distress us, I mean all of us, by carrying out your threat and leaving the statue unfinished."

"If you knew me better," said Ferdinanda, "you would know that I always keep my word to myself and to others." These last words she had, as if accidentally, addressed to Ottomar, and accompanied it with a glance which Ottomar understood and returned. Whatever became of the "Reaper," she would come that evening. The door had closed behind the gentlemen; Ferdinanda bolted it and then turned slowly round. Her fixed glance rested first on the spot where she had kissed Ottomar for the first time, and then passed on to the "Reaper." Was it an effect of light, or was it that others' words had first made it plain to her what she had produced? A shudder passed through her.

"I keep my word when I have given it--but I wish I had not given it!"

CHAPTER IV.

Ferdinanda had long ago emancipated herself from all control on the part of her aunt. She was accustomed to go and come as she pleased; the only point on which it was necessary to be attentive was punctuality at meals. Her father was very particular about this, only Aunt Rikchen declared, in order that he might worry her out of her five senses if she ever happened to be delayed by her household duties or other matters, as could hardly be avoided by such a poor creature. Ferdinanda was aware also that her father avoided every opportunity of being alone with his sister, and that it was therefore an especial annoyance to him if she herself stayed away from meals on any pretence. Under such circumstances her father always took his meals by himself in his own room. But this had very rarely happened, even in former days, and scarcely ever happened now. Ferdinanda had almost entirely withdrawn herself from all her friends; she said often that she had no friends, only acquaintances, and that she did not care much about them. To-day she must pretend to visit some friend, and leave word at home that she should not probably be back to supper, which was always served at nine o'clock punctually. Her pride revolted at the necessity of the lie, and such an improbable one, but she had given her word; whether good or evil came of it, her fate was decided--the deed must be done. She went therefore at half-past seven, with her bonnet and cloak on, down to her aunt, who was invariably to be found at that hour in the sitting-room behind the dining-room, where, in her seat near the window, she could count her stitches by the fading light, watch the passers-by without trouble, and, as Uncle Ernst said, indulge her fancies quite undisturbed. The latter employment was the most successful to-day; the stitches were very difficult to count, in consequence of the gloomy weather, and the same cause had diminished the number of passers-by, "as if they were all on strike, like those abominable work-people;" besides the butcher had brought for the next day a miserable leg of veal, which, that silly Trine, the cook, ought never to have taken in, and for her punishment must take back again, although Heaven only knew how she was to get the supper ready all alone, for as for Trine being back in less than an hour, she knew the idle thing better than that. And now Ferdinanda was going out--was going to spend the evening out! Aunt Rikchen in despair snatched her spectacles from her nose, and let her stocking, with the stitches she had only just picked up, fall into her lap.

"Good gracious! has everything combined against poor me to-day?" she exclaimed. "Reinhold has just been in to say that he will not be at home either."

"Where is Reinhold?"

"Oh! did not he tell you? Quite a large soirée--that is what you call it? He supposed he must put on his uniform."

"At whose house?"

"At the Werbens'! Young Herr von Werben came here himself this morning. You saw him in your studio, by-the-bye! I know nothing about it!--of course I know nothing about it. At eight o'clock. It must be half-past seven already." Ferdinanda's countenance fell. "At the Werben's! At eight o'clock! How could that be!"

"And where are you going, if I may venture to ask?" Ferdinanda told the lie she had prepared. She had spoken to Fräulein Marfolk the artist at the Exhibition; Fräulein Marfolk had given her such a pressing invitation to go and see her again; she had some curiosities and photographs to show her, which she had brought from Rome; this evening she happened to be disengaged. Professor Seefeld from Karlsruhe would be there also, who was most anxious to make Ferdinanda's acquaintance. She had accepted, and could not draw back now.

"And poor I must eat my supper alone again!" said Aunt Rikchen; "for he had rather eat a live crocodile with its skin and bones, in company with seven Hottentots, than a comfortable mutton-cutlet with his poor old sister. Well, I must bear it. I must bear everything. If the whole business stands still, my poor intellect can stand still too, and my poor old heart with it." Her misery was too great; Aunt Rikchen burst into tears.

"What is the good of exciting yourself so unnecessarily?" asked Ferdinanda impatiently.

"Exciting myself so unnecessarily!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. "Of course you think everything unnecessary. But I see it coming. I noticed the people as they went away this morning, how they stood there in the street and stared up at the house, and shook their fists threateningly, and abused the police who were dragging away those two wretches, Schwarz and Brandt, and that silly boy Carl Peters; and they abused your father, too. It was shocking to hear them! It makes me shudder when I think of it, and of what may still happen, for we have not seen the end yet--of that you may be sure. But you don't excite yourself of course--not you!"

"I could not prevent it, and can do nothing against it," said Ferdinanda.

"You might have prevented it, and you could still do something before matters come to the worst, and they burn the roof over our heads!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "but I cannot see my hand before my eyes;

I cannot distinguish a church-tower from a knitting-needle."

"The old song!" said Ferdinanda.

"Every bird sings as he has learned," exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "and if my ways do not please you, it is only because in these days every chicken is wiser than the hen; for if I am not your mother, I have worried myself as much as two mothers about you, and have asked myself a hundred thousand times what is to come of it? But perhaps Providence may have willed it so; it is always, one way or another, kinder to you than to other people. And I am not at all sure that your father has not always intended it so, for I always had my suspicions of that thick red pencil, when no one else was allowed to touch his plans with a finger; and any old woman can see how highly he thinks of him, and he is extremely brave and good, and it would keep the family together, if you were wise and married him before in these bad times everything flies up the chimney."

"Reinhold?"

"Did you think I meant the Emperor of Fez and Morocco? But you only pretend to be astonished, and jump up off your chair in order to make a poor old thing like me tremble in all her limbs, as if my nerves were not already sufficiently dérangés--that is what you call it, is not it?"

"I got up because it is high time for me to go," said Ferdinanda. "Good-bye, aunt." She had gone a few steps towards the door, when the portière which covered it was slowly drawn aside.

"Mi perdona, Signora! Signora Frederica, your most obedient servant!" Ferdinanda stood still in horror.

"What did Antonio come for at this moment?"

"Mi perdona!" repeated Antonio. "I fear that the ladies did not hear me knock at the door, so I ventured to walk in." And he pointed carelessly in his easy Italian fashion to some books which he held in his hand.

"This is not the day for our lesson," said Ferdinanda.

"I cannot come to-morrow, signora, so I ventured--"

"I have no time to-day. You see I am just going out." She said it in a hasty tone, for which there was apparently not the smallest occasion, and which was a wonderful contrast to the Italian's courteous, "Mi ritiro, e le domando perdona--buona sera, signora," and the low bow with which he passed again through the portière.

"Why were you so sharp with the young man?" asked Aunt Rikchen. Ferdinanda did not answer; she was listening for the soft footstep as it retired, and for the sound of the closing door. Would it be the glass door leading to the garden, or the other one which led to the entrance hall? It was the glass door; he had not gone out then. And yet. Why had she said that she was going out? Should she give it up? But there was no time to think. With a half-murmured: "Good-bye, aunt, I will make haste back," she had left the room and was standing in the street, almost without knowing how she had got there. She had intended to take a cab at the corner of the street, but the stand was empty; she must make up her mind to walk along the Springbrunnenstrasse as far as the Parkstrasse, where she hoped to find one. Perhaps it would be better; she could more easily make sure of not being followed than in a close carriage. As she walked hastily along she looked back two or three times; a few people met her; no one was behind her; she breathed more freely; he had not followed her. She feared no one but him. But he whom she feared to see behind her was at that moment far in front. Since this morning Antonio had felt certain that the relations between the handsome young officer and Ferdinanda had entered on a new stage, and probably something was going to take place, something that he must know at any price, that he would know, however secretly they might go about it. He had, therefore, made the lesson which he gave her once a week in his own language, an excuse for approaching her, in order to find fresh food for his jealous curiosity, which imagined all possible things. He had found her, who so seldom left the house in the evening, ready to go out, without having ordered the carriage as she usually did. She had sharply rebuffed him, as if she suspected his motive; and what at another time would have irritated him, now delighted him; his suspicions had taken a definite form; a rendezvous was in question! His determination to follow on her track was made even before the portière had closed behind him. He had purposely shut the garden door loudly in order that Ferdinanda might believe that he had not left the grounds. But when he got into the garden he had turned to the right and passed through an iron gate into the court-yard, and in a few steps was in the entrance hall, through which he passed into the street. The cab-stand at the corner was his first aim also; he was obliged to pass the window at which Aunt Rikchen sat; but if he stooped his head would be hidden by the elder bush in the front garden. It was a disappointment to find the cab-stand empty, but she would experience the same disappointment, but not before she got to the corner of the street. At this corner there was a small public-house which the workmen belonging to the studio were in the habit of frequenting. He sprang down the steps, and stationed himself at the window opposite the cab-stand. It was a mere chance--she might go towards the town, or might already have done so; but no! there she was! She paused a few moments exactly as he had done himself, and came then past the window behind which he was concealed; his eyes were on a level with the pavement; he could see her slender feet as she walked quickly along, with her dress slightly raised. He let her get a little in advance, then emerged again, assured himself that she was walking down the street, dashed across the street and ran up the Kanalstrasse towards a private path that ran between villas and gardens parallel with the Springbrunnenstrasse and led also to the Parkstrasse. This narrow lane was now, as almost always, quite deserted; he could run along it without exciting any attention--not that he would have cared about that; he should reach the Parkstrasse some minutes before she did. Arrived there, he flew across the street, and stationed himself between the shrubs in the Thiergarten, in such a manner that he could command the opposite side of the Parkstrasse and the opening of the three side streets. The opening of the private path immediately before him was no longer of any consequence to him, but she must come along the Springbrunnenstrasse on the left, and at the corner of the last side street to the right there was a cab-stand. She might, it was true, turn to the left, towards the town, but he would still see her, and he was convinced that she would turn to the right. And she did turn to the right. She emerged from the Springbrunnenstrasse and walked quickly along the opposite side by the houses, past the cross street to where the cabs stood. There were two cabs, she took the first; the driver of the second politely shut the door after her, and then as the first driver drove off, seized the reins and drew his horse forward. The next moment Antonio was by his side.

"Where to?" asked the driver,

"Where that cab goes."

"To the Grosse Stern, then." Antonio drew back his foot which was already on the step. The Grosse Stern, at the opposite side of the Thiergarten, where the Charlottenburg Avenue is crossed by several other paths, was not a favourable place for a pursuit in a carriage, which in the great Platz, and indeed on the way there, must excite remark and suspicion. There was a surer way. What signified to him the energetic curse which the disappointed cab-driver sent after him, as Antonio hastened past him along the road into the Thiergarten! The Grosse Stern Avenue, a broad ride, shadowed by old trees, by the side of which were foot-paths, led, as he knew, right across the Thiergarten to the Grosse Stern; Ferdinanda's

cab must go round by the Corso Avenue. It was not much out of the way, and her cab went unusually quickly; but he was in the direct path, and could depend upon his muscles and sinews. He ran the several thousand yards that he had to go with wonderful rapidity, heeding as little the beating of his heart as the bloodhound heeds it when on the track of a stag; in fact, the immense exertion seemed to refresh him by overpowering for the moment his pangs of jealousy. He had reached his destination; the Platz lay before him; an omnibus coming from Charlottenburg rattled by without stopping; a few carts were coming from the town; between them, and then in front of them, a cab came rapidly along. It must be he! Antonio had hidden himself amongst the bushes--he would be quite safe here: behind him was the entire park, where he could, at the worst, at any moment retreat into the darkness; and the bushes were so thick that the danger of being detected from the Platz was very slight, while he could see everything that passed there. The cab from the town had stopped; a gentleman sprang out. The cab immediately turned round and drove back to the town; the gentleman walked slowly along the Platz without stopping, looking around him on all sides. Antonio was startled at the first glance; the gentleman was not in uniform. Then with a scornful "Bestia!" he struck his forehead; and now that the gentleman passed his hiding-place at a short distance, he recognised his detested enemy by his slight figure and easy movements. It was too dark to see his features distinctly. But what matter? He knew quite well who was before him, and his hand grasped more firmly the handle of his stiletto, which he had drawn out, as a huntsman takes aim even when he knows that he is not within shot; and he gnashed his white teeth as at this moment the cab which he had passed came round the corner of the Corso Avenue, turned on to the Platz, and there stopped, but only for a moment, only that the man he hated might say a few words through the open door, then jump in and close the door behind him. The cab went on across the Platz, along the road to the Bellevue Schloss, and then disappeared amongst the trees. Antonio murmured through his teeth the bitterest curse that he knew. The pursuit was at an end. He could not take a short cut, because he did not know what direction they would take; he could not follow them, that was impossible along the public road. It mattered little, either, where the pursuit ended--for to-day! But he could not make up his mind to go back or quit the Platz. It was a splendid place for brooding over his revenge, while the darkness sank deeper and deeper, and the leaves around him hissed like serpents' tongues, and above him in the tops of the mighty trees there were sighings and groanings as of a victim lying mortally wounded on the ground.

CHAPTER V.

In the meantime the cab had only proceeded a short distance, to the entrance of the Bellevue Garden.

"We are quite secure here, I swear to you," Ottomar had whispered, as he helped Ferdinanda to alight. The driver contentedly pocketed his thaler and immediately drove off. Ottomar gave Ferdinanda his arm and led her, bewildered, frightened, and half stunned, into the garden. He could hear her gasping for breath. "I swear it!" he repeated.

"Swear that you love me! I only ask that!" Instead of answering he put his arm round her. She encircled him with both hers. Their lips met in a long, burning kiss. They then hastened, hand in hand, deeper into the park, till they were concealed by trees and shrubs and then sank again into one another's arms, exchanging burning kisses and words of love, intoxicated with the bliss of which they had so long been dreaming, and which was now more precious than they had ever imagined in their wildest dreams. So at least thought Ferdinanda, and so she said, while her lips again sought his, and so said Ottomar; and yet, at the very moment that he returned her burning kisses, there was a feeling in his heart that he had never known before, a dread of the flames that surrounded him, a sensation as of powerlessness in the presence of a passion which raged around and overpowered him with the irresistible might of a tempest. He had until now played at love, had looked upon his easy conquests as triumphs, had accepted the mute homage of beautiful eyes, the flattering words of gentle lips, as a tribute due to him, and not demanding any gratitude. Here, for the first time, he was the weaker. He would not acknowledge it to himself, and yet he knew it, as an experienced wrestler knows at the first touch that he has found his master, and that he must succumb, unless some accident gives him the advantage. Ottomar was already looking out for this accident, for some event to occur, some circumstance that should give him the advantage; then he blushed at his own cowardice, at his mean ingratitude towards this beautiful, gifted being, who so confidingly, so devotedly, and with such self-forgetfulness threw herself into his arms, and he redoubled the tenderness of his caresses and the sweet flattery of his loving words. And then, that uneasy feeling might be a delusion; but she who had done what he had so often, so pressingly implored of her, who had at length granted him an interview, in which he could put before her his plans for the future, she would and must expect that he would at length trace out that sketch of the future over which he had so long delayed, and which at this moment seemed to him as uncertain as ever. He did not believe what she assured him, that she wanted nothing more than to love him, to be beloved by him, that everything of which he spoke--his father, her father, circumstances which must be taken into consideration, difficulties which must be overcome--all, all was only a mist, which would disperse before the rays of the sun; trifles not worthy that they should expend upon them one moment of precious time, one breath! He did not believe her; but he only too willingly took her at her word, even now silently absolving himself from the responsibility of the consequences which might, which must follow such a neglect of the simplest rules of prudence and wisdom. And then he, too, forgot everything but the present moment, and she had to remind him that time was flying, that he was expected at home, and must not arrive too late for the party.

"But will you take me with you?" she asked. "Will you enter the room with me on your arm, and present me to all present as your bride? You have no need to be ashamed of me; there are not likely to be many women there whom I cannot look down upon, and I have always considered that to be able to look down upon others is half way at least towards being a fine lady. To you I shall always look up. Tall as I am, I must stretch myself higher to reach your dear lips." There lay a wonderful proud charm in these jesting words, and deep love in the kiss which her smiling lips breathed upon his. He was intoxicated and bewitched by this loving gentleness, this proud love; he said to himself that she was right, and he told her so, that she could bear comparison with any queen in the world, that she deserved to be a queen; and yet--and yet--if it had been no jest, if she had demanded in earnest what one day she would demand.

"That was the last kiss," said Ferdinanda. "As usual, I must be the most reasonable always. And now give me your arm, and come with me to the nearest cab, and then go straight home, and be very charming and amiable this evening, and break a few more hearts in addition to those you have already broken, and which you will hereafter lay at my feet in return for my heart, which is worth more than all of them put together." It was nearly dark when they quitted the silent, deserted park; the sky had clouded over, and heavy drops were beginning to fall. Fortunately an empty cab came by, in which Ferdinanda could go as far as the Brandenburg Gate, where she would take

another, and thus destroy every trace of her road. She only allowed Ottomar to kiss her hand once more, as he helped her into the cab. Then she leaned back in the corner, closed her eyes, and dreamed over again the happy hour. Ottomar looked after the carriage. It was a miserable vehicle, drawn by a wretched screw, and as it swayed backwards and forwards in the feeble light of a few lamps, and disappeared in the darkness, a strange sensation of horror and loathing came over him. "It looks like a hearse," he said to himself. "I could hardly bear to touch the wet handle. I could not have brought myself to get into it. The whole affair gets one into very uncomfortable situations. The walk home is no joke, either; it is nearly nine, and beginning to rain pretty hard." He turned into the Grosse Stern Avenue, which was his shortest way home. Under the great trees it was already so dark that he could only just distinguish the foot-path along which he hastily walked; on the other side of the broad road, along which ran a narrower foot-path, the trunks of the trees were hardly perceptible in the darkness. How many and many times had he ridden along this grand avenue--alone--with brother officers--in a brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen--how often with Carla! Elsa was right, Carla was a splendid rider, the best probably of all the ladies, certainly the most graceful. They had been so often seen and spoken of together--after all it was quite impossible to draw back now; it would make such a frightful scandal. Ottomar stood still. He had walked too fast. The perspiration was streaming from his brow; he felt stifled, and tore open his coat and waistcoat. He had never before experienced the sensation of physical fear, but now he started and his eyes peered anxiously into the darkness, as he heard behind him a slight rustle--probably a twig that had broken in its fall.

"I feel as if I had committed a murder, or as if in another moment I should be murdered," he said to himself, as almost running he continued on his way. He did not suspect that to the breaking of that twig he owed his life. Antonio had lingered, as if under the influence of a spell, at the entrance of the avenue, now sitting on the iron railing which separated the ride from the foot-path, now pacing up and down, now leaning against the trunk of a tree, always revolving the same dark thoughts, concocting plans of revenge, delighting himself with the idea of the torments he would inflict on her and on him, as soon as he had them in his power, from time to time directing his glance across the Platz towards the entrance of the other avenue, along which the carriage had disappeared with them, as if they must reappear in that direction, as if his revengeful soul had the power of compelling them. He could have spent the whole night there, as a beast of prey, furious at the loss of his victim, remains obstinately in his lair, in spite of the pangs of hunger. But what was that? There he came across the Platz directly towards him. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, recognised him as if it had been bright day. Would the bestia be such a fool as to venture into the avenue, to give himself into his hands? Per Bacco! he would--there. After a short pause he turned into the avenue; on the other side of the road, true, but so much the better, he could the more easily follow him on this side; he had only to dash across the ride when the moment came; in the deep sand his first steps would not be heard, and then in a few bounds he would reach him and bury the stiletto in his back, or if he should turn round, drive it up to the hilt under the seventh rib! And his hand closed on the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with the finger of the other hand he repeatedly tried the sharp point, while he glided with long steps from tree to tree--softly, softly--the tiger's velvet paw could not have fallen and been raised more softly. They had reached the centre of the avenue. The darkness could not get more intense; it was just light enough to see the blade of the stiletto. One moment more, to assure himself that they were alone in the dark wood--that other and himself--and now, crouching low, he crossed the soft sand, behind the thick trunk which he had already selected. But, quickly as he had crossed, the other had gained some twenty paces in advance. This was too much; they must be diminished by half. And it would not be difficult. He was in the soft sand of the road, to the right of the trees, while the other was on the hard foot-path to the left, where the sound of his steps would overpower any accidental noise. But, maledetto di Dio--his foot touched a dry twig, which broke with a snap. He stepped behind a tree--he could not be seen; but the other must have heard; he was standing still--listening, perhaps awaiting his assailant--at all events no longer unprepared. Who knew--he was a brave man and a soldier--perhaps he was turning to defy his assailant. So much the better! only one spring from behind the tree, and--he was coming! The Italian's heart throbbed as if it would choke him, as he now with his left foot advanced prepared for the spring; but his murderous thoughts had affected his usually sharp hearing. The steps were not coming towards him, but going away from him! By the time he became aware of his mistake, the distance between them was quite doubled; and trebled before, in his consternation, he could decide what was to be done. Give up the chase? There was nothing else to do. His prey was now almost running, and a late cab rolled along the drive which crossed the avenue, and on the other side of the drive were cross paths right and left--he had no certainty of being able to carry out his intention or of escaping afterwards; the moment was past--for this time, but the next time! Antonio murmured a fearful curse as he replaced his dagger in its sheath and concealed it in his coat pocket. The other man had vanished; Antonio followed slowly along the same path, out of the park, along the Thiergartenstrasse, into the Springbrunnenstrasse, and to the house in which the man he hated lived, the windows of which were brightly lighted. A carriage drove up, an officer and some ladies in evening dress, wrapped in their shawls, got out; a second carriage followed. He, above, was now laughing and feasting, and whispering at that moment to one of the pretty girls who had just arrived what ten minutes before he might have whispered to Ferdinanda. If he could only pour into her heart the poison of jealousy which burnt in his own! If he could put some impossible barrier between her and him! If the whole affair could be betrayed to the stern signor, her father, or to the haughty capitano, his father, or to both----

"Hallo!" A man coming along the pavement had run up against him, as he leaned with folded arms against the iron railing of the front garden, and had called out rudely.

"Scusi!" said the Italian, lifting his hat. "I beg your pardon!"

"Hallo!" repeated the man, "is it you, Antonio?"

"Ah! Signor Roller, the overseer!"

"Signor Roller! overseer! No more signors and overseers for me," said the man, with a loud laugh, "for the present at least--till we have served out the old man; he and his nephew and the whole lot of them! If I only had them by the throat! If I could only do them some injury! I would not mind what it cost me, so it were not money! That is all gone." The man laughed again; he was evidently half drunk.

"I have money," said Antonio quickly--"and----"

"We'll have a drink then, Signor Italiano!" exclaimed the other, clapping him on the shoulder; "una bottiglia--capisci!--ha, ha! I have not quite forgotten my Italian!--Carrara marble--capisci, capisci?"

"Eccomi tutto a voi," said the Italian, taking the man's arm. "Where to?"

"To drink, to the devil, to the public-house!" exclaimed Roller, laughing and pointing to the red lamp over the public-house at the

corner of the Springbrunnenstrasse.

CHAPTER VI.

The three moderate-sized rooms in the upper floor of the small villa inhabited by the General, in the Springbrunnenstrasse, were got ready for the reception of the company; the larger room at the back was for the present closed. The supper was to be served there, and later it would be used as the dancing-room. Elsa went once more through the rooms to see that everything was in order. She did not usually do this, as she could quite depend upon the care and attention of the perfectly trained August; to-day, for the first time, he seemed to have taken his duties more easily. Or was it only her fancy? She asked herself this while she moved a few candlesticks and put them back again, and altered the arrangement of some nicknacks without being any better pleased with their appearance. "I do not know what is the matter with me to-day," said Elsa. She stepped before the looking-glass and contemplated her reflection with the greatest attention: she did not think herself looking the least pretty to-day. She was disappointed in her new blue dress; her hair was done much too loosely, the rosebuds were decidedly too dark, and were put in too far back; her eyes were not the least bright, and her nose was perceptibly red on the left side. "I really do not know what is the matter with me to-day," said Elsa. She sank into an arm-chair, laid her fan and gloves in her lap, and rested her head on her hand.

"I was looking forward so to this evening; but it is all Ottomar's fault. How can any one marry without love?--it happens often enough though. Wallbach certainly does not love Louise, any more than she loves him; but Ottomar, who is so tender-hearted and can be so good and dear! That detestable money! how can one man spend such a sinful amount? I can't think how they manage it. Horses!--they always say they have sold them for so many guineas more than they gave for them; I don't believe it; I am sure they always lose; but even that would not come to so much. I do not know; they say Wartenberg cannot manage with twenty thousand, and, that Clemda, with fifty thousand, incurs debts to that amount every year--it is incredible! What good would my poor five thousand do him, and he would have to wait, one way and another, nearly five years for it. And if I fell in love with somebody who was not noble, and lost my portion--I should not care, of course not, but I could not give him anything if I had not got it myself--to say nothing of papa, who would certainly not allow it, though he is always talking about him; but it is all about the harbour, which is never out of his head--but I am so glad that he always talks so kindly of him--so glad--"

"Good heavens, child, what are you doing?"

"What is it?" exclaimed Elsa, starting up from her dreams, and looking with a startled expression at her aunt, who, no less startled, stood before her.

"Your new tarlatane dress! You are completely crushing it."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Elsa, drawing a deep breath.

"Oh, it is nothing to you!" exclaimed Sidonie. "You do not care about things that I care about very much, but I am getting accustomed to that by degrees!"

"Dear aunt!" Elsa had thrown her arms round her aunt and kissed her; the kind creature wanted nothing more. "Well, well," she said, "you careless child! You will quite spoil your pretty dress." She had freed herself from Elsa's embrace, and was smoothing and arranging her darling's dress. "There, step back a little; you look charming this evening, Elsa."

"I don't think so at all."

"Like my Princess! The evening that the Duke, her present illustrious husband, was to be presented to her for the first time, 'I don't think I look at all pretty to day,' said she."

"But I am not going to be presented to a Duke," said Elsa.

"How you do mix things up, child! As if you could marry a reigning prince, except by the left hand! Besides, we shall only have a member of a former reigning house here. Prince Clemda, and he is already betrothed. So I could not be thinking of him."

"And of no one else, I hope, aunt."

"I must be very much mistaken, Elsa, or your blushes--yes, you are blushing, my dear child, and you blush more and more, though it is quite unnecessary before your aunt. I can assure you, on the contrary, that I consider the match in every respect a most proper and desirable one, and the chance--if it is not a crime against Providence to speak of chance in such important matters----"

"For heaven's sake, aunt, if you love me, say no more," exclaimed Elsa. The terror that seized her at the idea of hearing her aunt speak of Count Golm, after Ottomar had already alarmed her in the morning on the same subject, was too evident in the tone of her voice to escape even Sidonie.

"Good gracious!" she said, "can I really have been mistaken! I had been thinking over the extraordinary dispute which we had this morning, and could only account for it by the explanation that you wished to conceal the inclination you have for the Count by an affectation of indifference, and even of want of consideration towards him."

"I did not intend anything of the kind," said Elsa.

"I am really sorry for it," said Sidonie, who now, under the pressure of her disappointment, seated herself--though with due regard to her brown silk gown--while Elsa walked up and down the room in some agitation; "really very sorry; I know nothing that would have given me greater pleasure, next to Ottomar's betrothal to Carla, which, in my opinion, has been too long delayed. The Count is thirty--a very good age for a man of his position to marry--he must and will marry one of these days, and he might seek long before he would find a young lady who would so entirely satisfy all the pretensions he has a right to make, and no doubt does make. His circumstances are somewhat embarrassed, but that is almost always the case nowadays with large properties; men always settle down when they are married. Besides, he will gain enormously by the new railroad, so Schieler says, who told me all these particulars. The Councillor was with me yesterday, and I almost fancied he must have come on purpose to tell me, and to hear what I said about it, as he has always had a great regard for my opinion. He is a charming man, and discretion itself; so I did not hesitate to tell him exactly what I thought; in these cases openness is always the best diplomacy, and when advances are made there is no harm in meeting them half way."

"It is too bad, aunt!" exclaimed Elsa, turning round and standing with her lace handkerchief crushed between her hands, while burning tears of shame and anger started to her eyes. Sidonie was so startled by this outburst, for which she was not in the least prepared, that she sat motionless and speechless with wide open eyes, while Elsa, instead of immediately begging her pardon, or calming herself, continued with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes: "To talk me over like that with a stranger! and with Schieler, of all people, whom I detest as much as I do the other whom you have chosen for me, and whom I would never marry, not if he had a crown to lay at my feet, never--never!"

"What is the matter, Elsa?" asked the General, who entered the room at that moment and had heard the last words.

"A slight difference of opinion between me and my aunt," answered Elsa, hastily wiping her eyes.

"Well, well," said the General, "I thought you ladies left that sort of thing to us men. Is Ottomar not here?" He left the room again to inquire after Ottomar.

"Forgive me, aunt," said Elsa, holding out her hand; "it was very wrong of me.

You do not know, but--I do not know myself, what is the matter with me this evening." It was with some hesitation that Sidonie took her hand; the General came in again.

"It is too bad," he said; "Ottomar went out again quite an hour ago and has not yet returned."

"He must be delayed by some important matter," said Sidonie.

"No doubt!" said the General, frowning, and pulling his grey moustaches.

"Councillor Schieler!" announced August, opening the folding-doors. The Councillor kissed Sidonie's hand and bowed low to Elsa, then turned to the General:

"I have heaps of news for you, my dear friend."

"Few things happen now to interest me, and still fewer that give me any pleasure," answered the General, with a courteous yet melancholy smile.

"I fear I cannot promise that my news will give you any pleasure," said the Councillor; "but at least it is interesting even to you, ladies, that the Baroness, instead of arriving on the 1st as she originally intended, will arrive on the 10th, and will therefore be here in three days."

"I had a letter this morning which said nothing about it," said the General.

"My letter arrived this afternoon, and is, therefore, doubtless the latest; it is not from herself, however, but----" The Councillor was interrupted by a slight cough.

"You may say the name out, my dear friend," said the General; "it cannot be avoided when once our meetings begin."

"You are right!" exclaimed the Councillor; "and I am happy----" The widowed Countess von Fischbach arrived at this moment with her two daughters; the ladies were engaged with their guests, and the Councillor was able to draw the General aside. "I was about to say that I am happy to find you so well prepared for what awaits you from Munich. I know how painful everything connected with the subject is to you, and yet I must ask your patience for a few minutes before you are called away by your other guests. My second piece of news is that the concession is granted."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the General.

"As good as granted."

"We had a meeting only this morning; it is true we were engaged upon other matters, but his Excellency would at least----"

"He knows your dislike to the project; I repeat, as good as granted, and that 'as good' is at the present moment better than good. I implore you, my honoured friend, to listen to me patiently; the matter is of the greatest importance, not only to me, who have only an indirect interest in it, but more especially and directly to you. The concession will of course only have been granted for a harbour on the north, against which you have no immediate objection; is not that true? Good. Now I know for certain that, behind your back, there was to the very last moment a hesitation between the North and the East Harbour, and that the pressure used has only just failed in turning the scale to the East. I need not tell you by whom pressure was put; you know better than any one the interest that Golm, who by the way will join the management, has in the existence of the railroad; and his connections in a certain region are better, very much better than I could have dreamt of. I tell you it only wanted the merest trifle. And just imagine, Signor Giraldi--I must mention his name now--has written to me to-day that the sale of part of the property appears to him advisable for the better regulation and easier administration of the rest; and that the Baroness--that is to say he--for here as everywhere he is the mouthpiece of the Baroness--will propose the sale at our meeting. Wallbach is in favour of it as he always has been; as a man of business I cannot oppose it; in short, the property will, as far as I can see, be sold. It is almost impossible, or at least most improbable, that Giraldi should know the state of affairs here, and that an eager purchaser is ready to hand in Golm. But if Golm sees a possibility of concluding the bargain, he will move heaven and hell to carry through the East Harbour at the last minute. And now, my honoured, my excellent friend, allow an old friend, of whose devotion you are aware, one word in confidence--a bold one if you will: you are not rich; Ottomar is extravagant; it is no small matter for Ottomar to see his portion with one stroke doubled if not quadrupled in value with the rest, and Fräulein Elsa will be richer in the same proportion; and if at the death of the Baroness they inherit the remaining half, and Fräulein Elsa makes a suitable marriage--with Count Golm for instance, to name the first that occurs to me--you may close your eyes--God in His providence grant not for many a long day--with the comforting reflection that the external well-being of your family is secured for all futurity, so far as man's foresight can determine. Be wise then, my honoured friend. You need do nothing. You have only to refrain from opposition and give in to what you cannot prevent. Lastly, you must remember the good old saying: 'Well to endure what cannot well be cured;' which you will doubtless remember in your youth." The General had listened without a sign of the impatience that was usual with him when an adverse opinion was put before him; his brow had not clouded; there was even an unusually gentle, almost sad, tone in his deep voice, as he now, without raising his eyes, said, as if to himself: "I remember the saying well. It dates from the time of the wars, of liberation, and many an oppressed heart derived comfort from it in those troubled times, and many a broken courage has been supported by it. It hung framed and glazed on the wall of my father's best room; I can still see my dear mother standing before it and reading what she had read a thousand times before: