"The dead travel fast! You have seen that in Paris."
"At that moment a man approached them who had for some time looked at the two gentlemen as if he did not quite trust his own eyes, and said to Berger,
"Is this really you, professor?"
"Why, see there! my old friend!" replied Berger, letting go Oldenburg's arm, and offering his hand to the new-comer. "How did you get here?"
"Alas!" said the man, "that is a sad story. If you will come with me a little way--I would rather speak to you alone."
"Excuse me a moment," said Berger to Oldenburg, and went aside with the man.
Oldenburg looked at the latter not without astonishment. His was a powerful body, with a broad, well-developed chest and long arms, while the head appeared not less massive. In the coarse, bloated features one might read, by the side of much good-nature, and jovial humor also, not a little cunning, but of a perfectly harmless nature. To judge by his appearance the man was not exactly well-to-do. His gray felt hat had evidently seen many a stormy day before it had been reduced to its forlorn condition. The black velvet coat, very shabby and covered with rusty-looking frogs, had evidently seen better days; so also the large linen trousers, the color of which was not easily distinguished, and the boots, which began to burst in a threatening manner. A red-silk handkerchief, boldly twisted around the sunburnt, muscular neck, completed the expression of reduced artistic merit which the whole person bore in all its features.
Berger spoke a few minutes earnestly with the man; then they went a little further aside, and Oldenburg's sharp eye saw how Berger pulled out his purse and pressed a few pieces of money in the hands of the stranger. Then they separated; the man disappeared in the crowd, the professor came back.
"Who was that strange person?"
"A man of whom I have often spoken to you: Director Caspar Schmenckel, of Vienna."
"Ah!" exclaimed Oldenburg; "why did you not tell me so at once. I should like to make the acquaintance of a man with whom Czika has lived so long."
"He will call upon us in a few days. The poor man is in despair since Xenobia and Czika have left him; he has met with nothing but misfortune. First, his clown died; then his first artist ran away; and the others he has been compelled to dismiss on account of chronic want of money. Now he lounges about in all the inns of the city, and gives performances on his own account."
"We must take care of him," said Oldenburg. "He has treated Czika well, and I am under obligations to him. Besides, he seems to be a good fellow. But let us go home. The thing here comes to nothing, as I expected, at least for to-day."
As the two friends were leaving, a young man had just gone up on the stand and demanded to speak. He was of a coarse, thick-set figure, but the handsome, well-shaved face was full of life and cleverness; and as he now took off his hat, brushed his long light hair from his white, well-shaped forehead, he looked more like a precocious boy who has put on spectacles for fun, than like a man who has a right to address thousands. If the finely-cut features had something aristocratic, his more than modest costume placed him far from the privileged classes.
His voice was peculiarly high and sharp and clear, and when he became more animated it sounded somewhat like the clang of a trumpet, so that it could be heard all over the large square to the furthest corner.
"Gentlemen," he said, and a smile of irony played around his lips, "what would you say of a man who has a pointed arrow in his quiver, and the strongest bow to shoot that arrow; and who, nevertheless, is good-natured enough to send the sharp arrow, not by means of the strong bow, but with his feeble hand? Well, gentlemen, we are exactly like that foolish man. The arrow in the quiver is the petition with the nine articles, as we modestly call the just demands of a nation; the deputation chosen from among us, which is to present the address to-morrow to the king, is the feeble hand. How far will it send the arrow? To the threshold of the king's palace--no further! I tell you, gentlemen, the feeble hand of the deputation will in vain knock at the gate. His majesty will be graciously pleased to refuse accepting our petition, and the deputation will return without having accomplished anything."
When the orator had finished the phrase, raising his voice very high, a murmur passed through the assembly not unlike a violent gust of wind that sweeps over the sea. A few cried "bravo!" among them the gentleman in the shabby velvet coat, who had pushed his way close to the platform, and who had listened to the speaker with great delight, which he tried to express by nods, grunts, and more violent applause. The majority, however, was evidently opposed to energetic measures. For one who cried bravo, there were a hundred who shook their heads and whispered their misgivings.
The young man was not intimidated by these signs of dissatisfaction. He repeated with great emphasis,
"The deputation will return without having accomplished anything! And it serves us right. Why do we use the hand, when the bow lies idle in the grasp, close by us? Do you want to know who the bow is? We are the bow; I mean the whole assembly. If we went four, five, or six thousand, as many as we are here, in close phalanx, and carried the petition, our speaker ahead, up to the palace, I should like to see the gates that would not open, the menials who would refuse to admit us, the chamberlain who would dare to say: Gentlemen, his majesty is at tea, and cannot see you."
"Bravo! bravo!" cried, the gentleman in the velvet coat, and clapping his hands furiously. But the crowd was not at all pleased with this humorous way of treating so serious a matter. They hissed and whistled and cried from all sides. It was only with great difficulty that the president, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and with a long beard, who looked somewhat like an author, could restore peace by repeatedly knocking with his cane on the table. The orator, quite unconcerned, gathered the whole strength of his clear voice, and trumpeted down upon the assembly:
"I have not offered the resolution to proceed in a body to the palace because I expected it to be adopted, but simply in order to show you what manner of men you are. Pioneers of freedom, my predecessor called you. Yes, indeed! Freedom will be much benefited by you, if you are not even now able to rouse yourself from the sleepy confidence in which you have rested these thirty years----"
Whatever else the young man said could not be heard, for the last words had brought down the storm which had been brewing for some time. "Down with him!" cried those who stood nearest; "Knock him down!" those at a distance.
It is not improbable that the last threat would have been carried out by the insulted men if the powerful man in the velvet coat had not embraced the orator enthusiastically as soon as he came down from the platform, declaring himself thus openly his friend and protector. No one seemed to desire engaging in a fight with a man of such herculean build; at least they allowed the two to leave the assembly unmolested, in spite of the striking minority in which they had found themselves.
The new friends turned into one of the avenues which lead near the stand from the open space of the "Booths" into the park. As soon as they were alone the man in the velvet coat once more shook hands with the young man of the light hair, and said, with great cordiality,
"I am exceedingly delighted to make the acquaintance of such a capital fellow."
"So am I! So am I!" replied the young man, examining his admirer with a quick, sharp glance from his blue eyes, and pushing his spectacles with his finger higher up on his nose in order to be the better able to do so. "With whom have I the honor?"
The gentleman in the velvet coat stepped back, threw his chest out, lifted his much-tried hat, and said,
"I am Director Caspar Schmenckel, from Vienna."
"Ah," replied the other, lightly; "glad to make your acquaintance. My name is Timm, Albert Timm."
"You are not an artist?" said Mr. Schmenckel, confidentially.
"How so?" asked Mr. Timm, evasively.
Director Schmenckel imitated the gesture of one who throws a very heavy object with both hands straight up in the air, in order to let it fall again upon the neck.
"Aha!" said Mr. Timm, who quickly understood in which region of the fine arts the director had been gathering his laurels; "pardon me that I was not personally acquainted with a man of your distinction; but I have only been here a few days."
"Well, I thought so," replied Mr. Schmenckel, as they proceeded arm in arm. "You are a noble fellow; very different from these poor creatures hereabouts. You speak as you think; as you feel in your heart. Caspar Schmenckel likes such fellows, and if he can be of any service to you say the word and it's done."
"Much obliged, director. Delighted to have the honor of your acquaintance. I presume you are performing here in the capital with your troupe?"
"Performing?--Hem! hem!" said Mr. Schmenckel, clearing his throat. "To tell the truth, you do not see Director Schmenckel just now _in floribus_, I have been compelled by many reasons to disband my old troupe, and I am just now engaged in forming a new one--a task which has its difficulties, as you may imagine. In the meantime----"
"You are living in private?"
"In a certain way, yes; that is to say, I perform from time to time before a few friends; but, you know, only to keep my hand in, that is all."
"Of course."
"Thus I am in a certain way engaged to perform to-night in a very noble locality, where I meet the very best society; and if you will do me the honor----"
"You are very kind."
"You will find very nice people there; perfectly free and easy; all of them democrats to the core, although they drink prodigiously little water, I should think. Ha, ha, ha! I have been a daily guest at the 'Dismal Hole' ever since the winter began, and yet I have never liked it so well as since we have gotten a new landlady. She has been there about a week."
"Indeed!"
"I shall be proud to make you acquainted with her. Mrs. Rose Pape is a model of a woman."
"What did you say?" suddenly asked Mr. Timm, with great animation.
"I said Mrs. Rose Pape is a capital woman."
"Did you not say she had taken the business quite lately?"
"Yes; for she used to be a midwife. The French revolution has made her an innkeeper."
"That is original."
"Isn't it? But then Mrs. Rose is an original, too. She has a wonderful knack for business; and when the trouble commenced in Paris, she said: 'Now golden days are coming for beer-houses with female waiters!' The next day she had rented the 'Dismal Hole.'"
"I am exceedingly anxious to make the acquaintance of the excellent lady."