Читать книгу The Children of the World - Paul Heyse - Страница 12

Her beauty was really so remarkable, that she might have unsettled the brains of a far more discerning admirer of womankind than our philosopher. He had described her tolerably well to his brother the preceding night, but here in the broad light of day, she seemed to him to have assumed an entirely different appearance; her complexion was more brilliant, her eyes wore a more dreamy expression, and she seemed to possess a quiet, careless indifference, such as we see in children who, loving nothing and hating nothing, are troubled at nought. Moreover the light dress that enwrapped her like a cloud was particularly becoming, and her hair, with the familiar little curls on the neck, seemed darker from the contrast.

She greeted the stranger with a scarcely perceptible bend of the head. "Herr--?" she began, and looked at him inquiringly.

"Pardon me, Fräulein," he replied in an unconstrained manner, which he feigned with very tolerable skill, "I have been unable to deny myself the pleasure of taking advantage of a lucky chance, and of presenting myself in person as the honest finder of your property. Besides, I hoped I might not be entirely unknown to you."

"You? To me?"

"I had the pleasure last evening of sitting next you in a box at the opera-house during the first act of the ballet."

A hasty glance from her wondering eyes scanned his face. "I do not remember it," she said curtly.

"Well, I must endure the mortification," he replied smiling. He was really glad that she treated him so coldly. His pride, which had been intimidated by her beauty, suddenly awoke and aided him to recover his equanimity.

"You have something to return to me?" she now said in a somewhat impatient tone. "I have not missed anything, but may I ask you, sir, to tell me--"

He drew the white satin ribbon from his pocket, and held it out to her. A sudden change took place in her cold bearing. She approached him, and her eyes sparkled with childish delight. "Ah! that," she exclaimed, "yes, indeed, that does belong to me. I must have dropped it scarcely an hour ago, and so have had no time to miss it. Thanks--a thousand thanks. It is a keepsake."

She took it from his hand, and in so doing vouchsafed him her first friendly glance, then with a bow which resembled a sign of dismissal, she moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless in the same spot.

"You know, Fräulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to answer a question?"

"What is it?"

"Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"

"Why do you wish to know that?"

"From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You know, Fräulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge those who do not write books by some piece of handiwork."

She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.

"This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I should have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even pretty. But it is a present from my youngest sister, who put it in my hymn-book the day I was confirmed."

"Strange!" he said, as if to himself.

"What is strange?"

"That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a hymn-book to Balzac!"

"Balzac? How to you know--"

"I beg your pardon, Fräulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"

Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.

"Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French literature; he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in Paris. His books recalled old memories."

"And do you like them? 'Père Goriot,' for instance?"

"He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and--the style is so good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters, who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them--it is horrible."

"Thank you, Fräulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever author can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should refuse to associate with them. In books we submit to the most disagreeable society."

She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a chambermaid entered and said a few words in a low tone.

"I will come directly," answered her young mistress, and then turned to Edwin. "Excuse me, sir, I am called away. Accept my best thanks again. Jean, show the gentleman to the door."

The lad instantly stepped forward, but Edwin did not seem to notice him.

"I should like to ask one more question," said he.

"Sir--?"

"I obtained a glimpse of your charming rooms through the open doors. Everything that the most capricious fancy can desire seems to be supplied, with the exception of what is to me a necessity of life."

"You mean--?"

"A small library. Even the copy of Balzac, I see you have ordered from a circulating library. Pardon my frankness, Fräulein, but I do not understand how such beautiful fingers can touch a book which has already been on so many tables and passed through so many hands of doubtful cleanliness."

He saw her blush and cast an almost startled glance at the book on the little marble table.

"I have not been here long," she replied, "and as yet have given no thought to procuring books."

"Then permit me to put my little stock at your disposal. True, it is not very rich in French literature, but if you have no aversion to German books--"

"I know so little about them," she replied with evident embarrassment, which lent to her features a still greater charm than their former aristocratic indifference. "There was not much conversation on literature in my parents' house. Just think, I have scarcely read anything by Gœthe."

"So much the better, for great pleasures are then in store for you. If you have no objection, I will take the liberty of bringing you a few volumes to-morrow." She seemed to reflect upon the proposal. "I cannot possibly permit you to take so much trouble for a total stranger. I will send to a bookseller."

"Are you afraid that I shall again intrude upon you in person?" he asked, pausing at the door. "I promise, Fräulein, that I will only consider myself your messenger, and deliver the books at the outer door. Or have you no confidence in my discretion, because I honestly confessed my curiosity?"

She looked at him intently a moment, and then said: "very well, bring me what you please; I shall be grateful. Adieu!"

With these words, she slightly bent her head and disappeared in the adjoining room. No choice was left Edwin but to retire also.

When he reached the entrance-hall of the house and the door had closed behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, as if to collect his thoughts. Again he saw her standing before him in her beauty and with her haughty ease of manner, and a great sorrow, he knew not why, overpowered him. Little as he knew of life in the great world, or the demi monde, he was convinced that all was not right with this enchanted princess, since she merely dwelt like a rare bird in a gilded cage, no longer her own mistress. Then again when he thought of her calm, wondering, childish eyes, and of the little proud mouth and the full lips, which quivered slightly when she was considering an answer to one of his questions, it seemed impossible to attach a thought of guilt or depravity to this mysterious life.

His own passion at the moment was completely forgotten in his unselfish interest in her fate. And yet he did not know much more about her than he knew an hour before. Not even her name, for it was not on the door. And from whom could he inquire about her, even if he had not an instinctive aversion to all underhanded measures?

Just at that moment fortune again befriended him.

A stout middle-aged woman in a bonnet and shawl, with a little basket on her arm, slowly descended the stairs; it was with evident surprise that she saw a stranger lingering in the hall, and, with the air of one responsible for the order of the house, she asked whom he wished to see. He replied that he had only brought back an article belonging to the young lady within, which he had found, and that he was just leaving; then pausing a few steps before her, as she followed him on foot, he murmured absently: "What a pity!"

At this the woman stopped also, standing with one arm akimbo. "What is a pity?" she asked. "What do you know about my lodgers, sir, that you dare to make use of such a sympathizing expression. I beg, sir, to inform you that there is no one in my house who stands in need of pity."

"Well," he said frankly, "I meant no harm. But, judging from her surroundings, the young lady seems to belong to an aristocratic family, and yet she lives so secludedly; who knows what sad reasons--"

As he spoke he began to descend the steps; the woman, however, stood still, leaned against the banister, seemingly unable to resist the temptation to display her superior knowledge of the world.

"Aristocratic?" she said with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Gracious me! It's all in her clothes, and Heaven knows how long the finery will last. I suppose you think the silk curtains, and the elegant furniture, and the silver all belong to her! Only hired, my dear sir! They don't even belong to me, for I have never rented furnished rooms; one can easily lose one's good name through people who don't even own their own beds. My name is Sturzmüller, and I've had this house these ten years; I'm a widow I'd have you know, and no man can breathe a word against me, and as for the aristocratic young lady up stairs, if I don't soon find out all about her, I'll ask her a price that will astonish her. I want no lodgers over whom people shake their heads and say 'it is a pity'!"

So saying she walked sturdily down stairs past Edwin, and seemed to have finished all that she had to say.

But now it was his turn to pause.

"So you, too, do not know what to make of this wonderful vision?" he asked in feigned surprise, while his heart beat violently from excitement. "Surely she has not concealed her name!"

The woman turned and looked again at her interrogator, as if to judge from his appearance if he was really as innocent as his questions would imply, or some cunning spy who wanted to draw her out. But his honest face, as well as his plain yet respectable attire, appeared to allay her suspicions.

"Her name!" she muttered. "What do I care for a name? Toinette Marchand--can't anybody call herself that and yet in reality bear a name quite unlike it? Besides, it's none of my business what my lodgers call themselves, provided I know where they come from and what they are. But this one, why, would you believe it! during all this fortnight I am not a whit the wiser as to whether she is really a respectable person, or a bit of plated ware; you understand? The truth is, I rented the rooms in the second story to Count ----, --but I must not mention his name--who had them furnished in this way, for a cousin, he said. What he meant by a 'cousin' one can easily guess, but we can't reform the world, sir, and if I were to play conscience-keeper to my lodgers, I should have enough to do. So at last everything was finished, as pretty as a doll's house; it must have cost the count a pile of money! and, after all, the cousin snapped her fingers at him and gave him the slip. It was some one belonging to the opera-house, the valet afterwards told me; a light-minded creature, who ran away one fine day with a Russian. Well, it was all the same to me. I received my rent regularly every quarter, could walk over the beautiful carpets in the empty rooms if I chose, and was not even obliged to connive at a breach of morality. But one fine morning--I was just watering the palms on the flower-stand--the count came marching in with a beautiful Frenchwoman, not the cousin, but--who? Ah, that is the question. He treated her very respectfully, but while she was looking around he told me, in a whisper, to represent that the furniture would be rented with the apartments, but to charge no more than twelve thalers a month. Well, I was ready enough to have my rent increased if she wanted to pay that amount, and besides that price is very low for five such rooms, with a kitchen and cellar. The young lady was charmed with them, took possession at once, and ordered her trunks to be brought from the railway station, I was to provide a servant to bring her meals from the restaurant, the maid and the little footman she hired herself. Well, since then though I've often asked whether I could be of any service, I have never exchanged twenty words with her. Did you ever hear of such a thing? So haughty and hardened at her age?"

"And the count?" said Edwin.

"That is the strangest part of all. Since that first day, when he went away directly, he hasn't set his foot across her threshold. I haven't even caught a glimpse of the valet, from whom I might have learned something. Heaven knows what has happened--perhaps they quarreled at the very beginning. However, it seems to trouble her very little; she certainly lacks nothing,--horses and carriages, the most elegant dresses, tickets to the theatre,--well, my good sir, you and I don't pay for it, so it's no concern of ours. But something's wrong, that's certain. Nothing times nothing is nothing, and I've never had anything of the kind happen to me. You won't believe me, but she never permits a living soul in the shape of man to cross her threshold. Not at any hour of the day or night, I tell you, for though I live on the third story, I know every cat that goes in and out, and besides her maid is by no means close-mouthed. Now I put it to you, would one so young, as handsome as a picture, and with so much money, be so much alone if there wasn't something to conceal, something for the new 'Pitaval,' you understand,--no, no, I won't have such proceedings in my house; 'everything open and above-board,' that's my motto, for what would be the use of a good character, if some fine day the police should come in upon me! But you will make no bad use of what I have said; I could not help speaking out, and my words and acts needn't shun the light. Yes, yes, dear sir, there is much to be learned from God's word."

While uttering these sentences, broken by numerous pauses, she had reached the street door; here, taking a friendly farewell of Edwin, she crossed the street to a shop.

He, too, turned away. He had not the courage to look back at the second story windows from the other side of the street; the fair occupant might think it strange that he was still hanging about the house. And yet how much he would have given, for even a fleeting glance which might dispel the dense cloud of suspicion and sorrow, which during the loquacious gossip of the landlady had fallen more and more heavily on his heart.