Part 59 (2/2)

Whose fault was it that the young man left the room with hanging head and miserable face, instead of with the beaming eyes of an accepted lover? Whose fault was it that the happiness of two young people had thus been shattered to pieces?

The colonel sat down before his writing-table and let his clenched fist fall in helpless anger upon the desk. He had not even the satisfaction of being able to direct his wrath against anybody or anything. The fault lay in something uncalled-for and apparently unavoidable, an evil, and at the same time necessary, outcome of the existing order of things.

Then he began to reflect. How should he break the bad news to Mariechen? By many little scarcely noticeable signs he had become convinced that she loved the unfortunate young officer. There was a delicate understanding, an unspoken engagement, between the two. How should he explain to her Reimers' sudden withdrawal?

This talk about the examination at the Staff College, and Reimers'

necessary care of his health, was not sufficient to break off an honourable attachment. He must rather think of some means for effecting a permanent, even if painful, cure, and put an end once for all to his daughter's dream of love.

The colonel made out a regular plan of campaign. Among his relations there had been a cousin, Otto von Krewesmuhlen, the owner of a large property in Franconia. The poor wretch had pa.s.sed more of his lifetime in Meran and Cannes than on his own estate; but he had married in spite of that for the sake of the entail, and unfortunately had married an acquaintance in the Riviera who also was not on the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean solely for pleasure. Two boys had been born to them, but Otto von Krewesmuhlen had not long survived their birth. The eldest child had followed the father not only in the entail but also in the manner of his death, and the widow and the second son were only like two feeble flames which the wind of life permits out of charity still to flicker for a while.

This cousin must serve to point the moral for his poor Mariechen, and help her to forget her young love in as painless a manner as possible.

It happened fortunately that Marie kept up a correspondence with her Franconian relations.

”I had something to ask you, Mariechen,” began Falkenhein at supper.

”Oh yes, of course; have you had any more news from your Aunt Krewesmuhlen?”

”No, father,” answered the girl, ”not since the last letter, which you remember.”

”I do not recollect quite well. Where was she then?”

”At Cannes, I think. Or it might have been San Remo.”

”They have gone back again then?”

”Yes, unfortunately. And my aunt wrote in perfect despair.”

The desired point had been reached; but his carefully-thought-out plan now seemed to the colonel inexpressibly clumsy and cruel. Nevertheless, he could not let the opportunity go by.

”I am really very much grieved,” he said. His voice sounded to himself hollow and flat, like an ill-tuned instrument. But he went on speaking painfully and with difficulty, whilst his fingers kept clutching his collar. ”As a matter of fact, Otto von Krewesmuhlen committed a crime in marrying at all. He is responsible for an enormous amount of trouble and sorrow. He would have done a better and a n.o.bler thing if he had renounced the idea of happiness in marriage. We cannot but ask ourselves: Was not this marriage simply a source of misery?”

He stopped. Marie looked at him thoughtfully.

Everything was very still in the lofty dining room. The colonel felt as if his words must re-echo like a trumpet-call from the walls, and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

”Of course it requires strength and self-control to give everything up when one is in love. But an honourable man should have both; he is equally to be pitied and respected. And imagine, Mariechen, dear Mariechen--one of our best friends--Senior-lieutenant Reimers--that's how it is with him--just as with poor Otto Krewesmuhlen; but he--will renounce his happiness. He is a brave man.”

Falkenhein breathed more freely. Thank G.o.d! the mischief was out.

He looked anxiously across at Marie. Her face had become as white as the table-cloth. He was afraid she might faint. But no, the child pulled herself together; the trembling hand laid down the fork, which rattled gently against the plate and fell on the table.

The colonel went round the table softly to his daughter and stroked her fair golden hair with a gentle hand. Marie's shoulders began to heave, and suddenly she threw herself on his breast, weeping bitterly. The colonel was not quite sure what was the best way to meet this outburst.

He did not like to touch too pointedly upon the cause of his child's grief. Then he fell back on a method with which he had quieted Marie in days of old, before she had ever gone to school.

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