"And now, setting aside these inner and moral motives, which bind you to answer to your friend's summons with an obedient Here! the actual circumstances also are more in favor of the step than against it. I know very well what motives you had for your refusal, but--pardon me, Franz, if I speak candidly--have you not perhaps underrated my strength, even if you did not overestimate your own? I am what the world calls a candidate for death; death has marked me already as his own, in order to hit me all the more certainly the next time, but the next time need not come so very soon. If you do not object to it peremptorily, I estimate my probable life yet some four or five years, perhaps even longer. During that time I shall hold my lectures and visit my patients as before, and if I cannot do it all by myself I shall choose an assistant, who will not be so dangerous a rival as my excellent son-in-law whom they already begin to prefer to myself.
Seriously Franz we are here in each other's way. And when the question is, after all, how to make money, why then it is better you go to the east and shear your sheep there, and I do my shearing in the west."
Franz was not quite convinced by these arguments, but he felt that the privy councillor could not well act differently as a man of honor. So he went to his betrothed and told her he had received an offer to go to the capital. What did she say to that?
"Whether you ought to accept the call," replied Sophie, after a short reflection, "that I must leave of course to you and to papa to decide; for I do not understand that. But if it must be done, I shall certainly not say No! When do we leave?"
"I must be there at least at Christmas, but I have to go at once for a few days, in order to reconnoitre."
"Then I will go with you. You shall see that I am not so unpractical as you think."
One would have thought Sophie cold and unfeeling, from hearing her speak so calmly, almost coolly, of a plan which was decisive for her and Franz's future, and which separated her, if carried out, perhaps forever from her native town and her paternal home, from her friends and acquaintances, and from a thousand familiar habits. And yet she suffered unspeakably from the thought that she should have to leave her father, whom she loved so dearly and who loved her so devotedly. But she knew that he would adhere in the hour of decision to the principles which he had inculcated in his daughter, and that he would expect the same firmness from her. It was a hard struggle which these two noble hearts had to endure the night after the evening on which Franz had decided to leave Grunwald; a struggle such as every son of man has to go through once or twice--and alas! in many cases again and again--in his life; a struggle during which the perspiration runs in big drops from the pain-furrowed brow, and the suffering heart prays: Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass by me! But when on the next morning father and daughter embraced each other without saying a word, and held each other a long, long time, their eyes might gently overflow, but their brows were clear and their hearts sang heavenly melodies.
From that moment Sophie gave her whole mind to the one great purpose to arrange everything in the house so that her father might at least not miss the accustomed comfort when she should leave him. Especially was she anxious to find a person of her own sex who could fill her place at table and in the evening, and assume the general direction of domestic affairs. Her choice was soon made. The very day after that memorable conversation before the fire-place, Bemperlein had, at Sophie's express desire, brought Mademoiselle Marguerite to the privy councillor's house. Sophie had been much pleased with the pretty, black-eyed French woman, and congratulated Bemperlein sincerely on his selection. Then already it had occurred to Sophie, that Marguerite might, after her own marriage, manage her father's household. Now she hastened to carry out this plan. The father, upon whom the "little Lacerta," as he called the slim, slight figure, had made a very favorable impression, thought the plan "not so bad;" Franz "approved," and as for Bemperlein, it was a matter of course, that he adopted it with enthusiasm. He being the most suitable person for the purpose, was therefore deputed to sound Marguerite about her own views; and with such a fine diplomat as Anastasius Bemperlein, it was not surprising that his most delicate mission was crowned with the most brilliant success. Marguerite declared that she was willing to accept the proffered honor _de tout son coeur_, as soon as she was released from her present engagement.
Nothing, therefore, was now wanting but to obtain the gracious dismissal of the Demoiselle Marguerite Martin from the position of subject to Baron Grenwitz. This was more readily accomplished, to everybody's surprise, than had been expected. The bright, sharp eyes of the governess had long been a serious inconvenience to the baroness, especially since many things had happened in her house, and were still happening, which could not bear very close examination. Besides, she had always had the principle that it was better to change her servants at certain intervals, since she thought she had found out by experience that "new brooms sweep well," and Marguerite had been allowed to remain long beyond the ordinary term. She therefore gave her, willingly the desired _conge_, and permitted her even in consideration of the peculiar circumstances, to go after a few days at once to the privy councillor's house. It was a matter of course that Marguerite had to sacrifice a quarter's salary, "in consideration of the serious inconvenience and evident pecuniary loss which her sudden departure caused the baroness," for the young "person" who had served the baroness during five years with indefatigable zeal, had, after all, done nothing but her bounden duty.
Thus Marguerite had become a member of the privy councillor's family, and could of course not fail to be present to-night at the great solemnity in the family circle.
She was, moreover, the only one who could keep up the conversation to-night without great effort. She tried, to be sure, to adapt herself as well as she could to the solemn aspect of things, and not to offend the feelings of the others by her own cheerfulness, but her innate vivacity did not allow her to be silent for any length of time, and every moment she broke out into a "_dites moi donc, mademoiselle, savez vous me dire, monsieur le docteur?_" like a merry little canary bird who begins to sing loud and joyously again after the first fright has passed away when it finds its cage buried in darkness.
"But I should really like to know where in all the world Bemperlein can be to-night," said Sophie, looking at her watch; "he promised to be here by eight, and now it is half-past ten."
"Perhaps miss Marguerite can explain the matter," said the privy councillor.
"_Moi pas du tout!_" replied Marguerite, glad to have a chance to say something. "I have not seen him since last night. I am almost afraid he is sick; he has looked quite excited and _nerveux_ for some days."
"I was at his lodgings to-day," said Franz.
"Well?" inquired Sophie.
"Well, just think, I did not see the odd fellow at all. He called through the closed door that he could not see me; he had an important chemical investigation to carry on, and could not leave it for an instant."
"I hope nothing has happened?" said Sophie. "Had you not better go to his house and see, Franz?"
"Very well!" replied Franz, emptying his glass and rising.
At the same moment, however, there was heard suppressed laughing in the hall, where the servants seemed to be assembled. The door opened and a strangely accoutred personage entered. Two huge goose-wings fastened to the shoulders and a bow in the hand, with the requisite quiver and arrows on the shoulder, together with a wreath on the head, proclaimed him undoubtedly as Amor, although the spectacles on his nose hardly agreed with the proverbial blindness of the god of love, nor the black evening costume with the classic simplicity on which the Son of Venus generally presents himself.
This strange figure approached the company with graceful steps, remained standing at a respectful distance, bowed and spoke:
"Most highly honored, happy pair, most worthy father of the bride and most darling demoiselle:
"I am--to see it is not hard-- The great god Amor.
Where'er my flames burn in a heart, There I am, rich or poor.
Whoever hears my arrows rattle, Forsakes the hope of doing battle; The arrow sent from my good bow, Strikes great and small and high and low.
And who is wounded by my hand, Drops conquer'd on the sand.
I now will show you of my art, A sample, which will make you start."
Here Amor took with great solemnity an arrow from his quiver, saying: Do not fear, ladies and gentlemen, the string is loose, and the arrows have, as you will please notice, huge India-rubber balls instead of points. Thereupon he placed the harmless arrow on the harmless bow and aimed it at Sophie, who caught it cleverly in her hand and pressed it with comic pathos to her heart. The same proceeding was repeated with Franz, except that it hit him on the head. After Amor had thus demonstrated that he was not idly threatening, he continued,
"Now two have been dispatched, And all their peace is gone; It can be clearly seen That they're forever done.
They know no rest and no repose, If snow comes down, or blooms the rose, Until the parson makes them one, And they are altogether gone.
Then fare thee well, paternal home, I must through all the world now roam!
Then fare thee well, oh father dear, We never shall again be here!
Then fare ye well, oh friends of ours, Who were our joy at all good hours!
Then fare ye well, good people all, I have to follow another call!
To-morrow, with the evening star, I shall be gone, oh ever so far!"
The last words Amor uttered with deeply-moved voice. The faces of the company around the fire-place, which had at first beamed with merriment, had become graver and graver, and through the half-opened door, around which the servants were crowding, suppressed sobs were heard.
"Take a glass of our brewing, Bemperly," said Sophie, offering Amor a glass.
"Your health, Miss Sophie," replied Amor, emptying the glass at one gulp. "But now, sit down again; I have not done yet."
Amor stepped back again, rattled his quiver as if to convince himself that there were some arrows left, and then said:
"So fierce, as you have just now seen, Are Amor's arrows sharp and keen, Yet does at times he find it hard, When SHE keeps anxious watch and ward, The good young god is full of zeal--"
At these words he glanced adoringly at mademoiselle--
"But she thinks not of woe or weal, When he of tender love then speaks, 'I do not understand!' she shrieks."
This allusion, quite intelligible to all present, called forth a universal smile, which changed into loud laughter when Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had hardly understood a single word of all that Amor had said, but who clearly saw from the laughter of her friends that something particularly witty had been uttered, turned round to Sophie and asked aloud: "I do not understand, _qu'est-ce qu'il dit?_"
Amor was clever enough to fall in with his own hearty laugh; but immediately he continued with greater gravity than before:
"Then comes the youth in greatest haste And begs of me, who am Amor chaste, 'With sharpest arrow hit, I pray, That wicked girl, so that she may--'"
With these words Amor laid his hand upon his heart:
"'Hereafter know how one does feel When one does love her with true zeal.'
And I replied: 'my dear good boy, I help you forthwith with this toy, The sharpest arrow that is here, I'll shoot it at her from quite near, Whoever feels this sharp, good dart, With love will burn deep in his heart.'"
Amor showed the arrow which he had taken from the quiver while reciting the last words. To the India-rubber ball a slip of paper was fastened on which something was written, though it could not be read at such a distance. He aimed at Mademoiselle Marguerite and called out with a loud voice,
"'If that's not good to awaken love, Tell me what better is, my dear sweet dove?'"