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.
CHAPTER IX.
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