Part 27 (1/2)

They sat, and stood about, with gla.s.ses in their hands, and talked of the piece and the declamation. They all agreed that Doctor Winimer had this time, as always, surpa.s.sed them all, and that Miss Marie Kubel had not yet spoken loud enough, although, generally speaking, she might be said to have made some progress. The gentlemen gave each other marks, as they did with their school-boys, and of course all received the highest number. The ladies spoke of the sublime poet, of the chaste n.o.bility of his verses. Miss Ida Snellius insisted that Schiller reminded her frequently of Euripides, whereupon the circle fell into a learned discussion, in which the words Sophocles, Goethe, Schiller, Aristophanes, aeschylus, Euripides, Don Carlos, Oedipus upon Colonos, and Wallenstein, were tossed to and fro like snow-flakes.

Oswald looked for the author of the ”Cornflowers,” whom he had lost sight of since the beginning of the pause. He found her in a window-recess of the second room (otherwise the chaste bed-chamber of the two Misses Clemens), whispering eagerly to her husband. He was about to withdraw modestly so as not to disturb the _tete-a-tete_, but Primula rose as soon as she saw him, seized his hand and drew him into the recess.

”Speak low,” said Primula, with the hollow voice of a ghost.

”What is the matter?” asked Oswald, in the same tone.

”You shall tell me whether I ought to read!” breathed Primula; ”Jager has no sensibility for such a disgrace.”

”Oh! yes, dearest Augusta,” whispered the professor; ”but I should like to avoid a scene; I pray you, darling, what will the people say when--oh, I cannot think of it.”

”I should be disposed to agree with the professor,” said Oswald. ”I do not see how you can be saved after being once entrapped into this lion's den.”

”Is the author of the 'Cornflowers' a murderer--a wretched a.s.sa.s.sin?”

whined Primula. ”Never, never!”

”It is disgraceful,” chimed in Oswald; ”but the interpreter of Chrysophilos is in the same position, and you see he bears his hard fate with dignity.”

A pressure of the hand from the professor rewarded Oswald for this flattery.

”Oh, you men have no feelings for insults,” sobbed Primula. ”Well, I will try, but if----”

The stormy ringing of the president's bell from the adjoining room cut Primula short. She stepped ahead of the two gentlemen with the air of one who has formed a resolution, happen what may.

”Now it will soon be our turn,” said Doctor Winimer, as they took their seats under continued ringing of bells, to Oswald; ”don't be afraid, and read bravely on. Even if you do not do very well the first time, it will be better the second time, and practice makes the master.”

”Whom I admire and revere in you,” replied Oswald, bowing.

”Well, well,” said Doctor Winimer, rubbing his hair, with a smile; ”it might be better. To be sure when I recently heard Holtei, who is probably the best reader in Germany, the old saying _Anch' i sono pittore_ came at once into my mind.”

”I believe it,” said Oswald.

The bell ceased to ring, and Doctor Broadfoot, as Colonel Butler, raised his voice, and cried so that the windows rattled:

”He is inside. Fate led him hither.”

The murderous night at Castle Eger progressed now rapidly from scene to scene. Oswald was so curious about the manner in which Primula would take her fate, especially since he had seen her excitement grow apace as the fatal moment approached, that he could hear the words of Fraulein Neubrunn, ”The Swedish captain is here,” without excitement.

He actually asked Princess Thekla--Thusnelda, quite coolly, and without the slightest palpitation of the heart, to pardon him for his ”rash, inconsiderate words.” Nor did he notice the uncalled-for warmth of feeling with which Miss Clemens recited the words:

”A fatal chance has made you, A stranger, quickly my familiar friend,”

although her tone made Doctor Winimer feel bitter pangs in his heart.