Giulia nursed Blanden unweariedly; she let the performance of "Il BarbiÈre di Sevilla" be postponed again and again, to the great annoyance of the impressario, and only when Blanden began to recover did she attend the rehearsals.

Calm as she appeared by the bedside, a mighty struggle was disturbing her soul.

She often gazed with silent emotion upon his noble gentle features, as he lay there with closed eyes, when his wounded chest heaved with convulsive breathing. For her he had gone to meet death. Was he the victim of a lie? Her passionate love was indeed truth, although all else might be deception.

She had but one alternative, the fearful alternative of losing him for ever, or of conquering him by impious defiance of law and custom.

She was an Italian; she possessed fiery blood, and the language which passion spoke, even if it drove her out into the boundless, was to her almost irresistible.

Grown up in a stage world, in which adventures are represented before the footlights and experienced behind the scenes, she had no true comprehension of the limits of respectable life; she was inclined in it to perceive a restraint over which the laws of the heart had the right to triumph. Brigandage lives in the blood of Italians; there is also a brigantaggio of the heart, which breaks into the sanctuaries of the law with daring boldness, and deems the power of life higher than that which only seems to be a lifeless form, a written paragraph. What is unworthy, let it be authorised by earth or heaven, appears to be a fetter, to break which, is esteemed an act of heroism, even although it may be deemed a crime in the eyes of the world.

But she knew that Blanden thought differently; here in the North the law was a great power; he possessed a knightly mind, which never thinks of deception. She could only be really his if she took all the daring upon herself alone, converting a degrading secret into a new heavy load of guilt.

And had not the worst happened already, and from no fault of hers? Had he not suffered heavy pain for the sake of the impossible, which could only become possible by impudent deception, and unbroken silence? Should she not now, if she confessed all, prepare him a certain painful disappointment, which hereafter only hostile chance could bring upon him?

Who guarantees any long endurance to happiness? She would enjoy it, even if the chasm which yawns behind every bliss were nearer to her and deeper than it usually is. But she could only obtain and enjoy this felicity with heart-throbbings and anguish of conscience, condemned to everlasting anxiety, dependent upon the good-will, the whims of a despicable man; this roused her heart against fate, robbed her of sleep, and dreams full of wild pictures of horror drove her terrified mind hither and thither in alarm.

Ever again her conscience rebelled, and urged her to a confession that would free her; ever again she repressed it firmly, as the huntsman restrains the dog that will frighten away the game of which he is secure.

Beate was calmer, she had given an account of her visit to Baluzzi, she would decidedly not give up all hope, and thought he would still allow himself to be persuaded to become a subject of that country; but Giulia cried in supreme excitement--

"No, no, the disgrace of my life must remain in everlasting obscurity, how foolish to wish to drag it into court; it was a thought that could only come to me in utter helplessness. Then, too, Blanden would be lost to me; would there be anything more degrading for me, than to have to acknowledge that man before all the world? Only in deepest secrecy can my welfare lie."

When Blanden became better, he spoke to his nurse of their marriage. Giulia covered him with kisses, but she shuddered inwardly, both with joy and fear. Ever nearer drew the fatal moment which she awaited with equally ardent longing and nameless terror.

More agitated than ever, she returned home. Beate was all the more cheerful, and hummed an Italian popular air.

"I envy you your good humour, but it appears to me to be almost like mockery of me and my urgent need."

"When there is a wedding in prospect, one cannot be sad."

"A wedding, oh my God! Happiness which all the world would envy me, envy me with reason, which I would not reject, even if my soul's salvation were at stake--and side by side with the most supreme delight, stand the feelings of a criminal who is led to execution!"

"Vedremo--there may still be a means of escape."

"A means of escape--does not danger ever hover over my head, mortal danger?"

"Perhaps there are means of disarming it."

"Oh, speak! You are clever and cunning, Beate. I hunger for a word of hope, of comfort, for relief in my unbounded fear."

"It would be a risk--"

"What would I not risk in order to be free from this racking torture of my heart."

"You could not undertake this risk, only I, and the consequences if it fail, would fall heavily upon my head."

"I would implore you even to undertake the most daring act, if it can bring me rescue. And yet how could I plunge you too into destruction, require a sacrifice of you for which I can grant you no compensation?"

"That be my affair, inseparable friendship in life and death is compensation for all."

"Carissima, good Beate," said Giulia, as she cordially embraced her friend.

"And then--I like setting out upon adventures, even if I must traverse break-neck paths. Danger attracts me, and all secrecy, even if it be not exactly sweet, has a great charm for me. It makes my blood surge, then I feel that I live! And if such a bold plan have succeeded, ah, what a triumph! Then people will say, 'what does not lie in such a pretty little head,' then one imagines oneself like the mouse that, in the fable, gnawed the lion's bonds. But to play a trick upon such an overbearing villain and robber, secretly, in the dead of night, without him perceiving or knowing it; to remove the weapon out of his hand--that alone is worth risking this neck for; I hope the saints will not leave so pretty a little creature as Beate Romani quite in the lurch."

"And what do you think of doing?"

"Give me money, I will travel to Italy."

"To Italy?"

"To the lake of Orta, to the island of San Giulio!"

"You will--"

"I know what I will, but not yet how I will carry it out. That must be left to the impulse of the moment. The past is a fairy tale, a legend, if the proofs be wanting. I will destroy the proofs."

"Beate!"

"Where are they, but upon the little rocky island of Berengar? There they still display the skin of that snake, which Saint Giulo killed; well, I hope that the little viper into which Beate Romani is to be transformed, will succeed with the new saints who keep guard there."

"You are contemplating a crime?"

"I am contemplating the destruction of a great lie, which clings to your life as if with the arms of a polypus. A lie for your heart, but a truth for the world; a vile, shameful truth if I do not--but what matter is that to you? Do not question me too much! What I do, I shall do alone, and because it pleases me. I ask you for the money for my journey--let the rest be my care."

Giulia sat there with folded hands; should she give her consent to a deed which, as she suspected, was directed against law and church!

Yet could she hesitate? Her passion drove her still farther upon the fatal course, and shuddering inwardly, she was obliged to confess to herself that every act of Beate's was less of a sacrilege than that which she now so often firmly and steadily contemplated, and the worst consequences of which her friend sought to avert.

To that first meeting, to that short-lived felicity by which she first emancipated herself from her stern duty, this lawless deed was now, as if forcibly, and ever anew united to unholy consequences.

Giulia wrung her hands in despair.

"Let me consider it, weigh it--not too hastily accede to the transient idea! Too much is at stake for me--for you!"

"A leaf in the wind--and all is done!"

"A leaf in the wind?" said Giulia thoughtfully "is my life not one already? And if your plan miscarry, if they catch you--?"

"From my childhood I have been used to walk on narrow paths, often have wandered with my father across the steep boundary roads of the Italian Tyrol; with him have crouched under rocky boulders, or in concealment behind the lofty Arves, have slided down glaciers without being afraid of the yawning crevasses in which death lurked! They shall not catch me, and if such an incredible thing were to happen, well it would only befall me! You may be calm and need have no fear."

Giulia still hesitated, and begged for a few more days for reflection.

Meanwhile the impressario could be appeased no longer, and Giulia was obliged to appear as Rosina!

While she had been nursing Blanden, excluded from the world, her enemies had been indefatigably active in destroying her character. Buschmann had kept his word, and in revenge had spoken everywhere with most ruthless exaggerations of her affair with Blanden. The duel, it is true, had not come to the official knowledge of the authorities, but it was spoken of in every circle. People pitied Blanden, but with the pity soon was mingled the condemning verdict, "he loves adventures!" The Signora herself, however, appeared as one of those intriguing prime donne, who know how to attract a number of lovers and admirers, and then set them one against another, so that some fatal scandal may show the power of their beauty in high relief.

In this troubled domain of public opinion, Spiegeler now cast his evil seed--notice after notice full of piquant stings, innuendoes, unmistakable hints. In his paper he had an article, "Behind the Scenes;" there Giulia was the heroine. In the most absurd paragraphs, she was not named, but none could fail to guess it was she. Side by side with them appeared criticising treatises upon the art of song, containing most violent attacks upon Signora Bollini, who was invariably held up as an appalling example of bad mannerisms and taste. MÜller von StallupÖhnen, who with his ivory bÂton as yet had conducted none of his own operas, supported the journalist, so void of musical knowledge, in this labour. Had not the directors of the East Sea town already rejected four of his operas, and favoured Italian music in a marked manner by the Signora's long engagement?

And what were these Italian composers compared with him? His music was full of deep meaning, truly dramatic, besides which every character had its musical brief, and as Shakespeare's kings were ushered in by a flourish of trumpets, so were his heroes by a few bars of instrumental performance. He scorned all that was pleasantly unmeaning, all that was attractively melodious; when his heroes sang, it was but a musical mode of speaking, to which the orchestra imparted all sharper accents, and a few significant inter-punctuations. But when the tempest of his genius stirred up the depths of the orchestra, so that in almost every bar some old musical rule suffered shipwreck, and the most outrageous impossibilities, the most startling dissonances dashed into the air like spectral water spouts out of the foaming, splashing waves; then indeed must enthusiasm, ecstasy know no bounds, and even the public be transformed into a stormy, raging mass, out of which the thunder of applause should break loose as if with elementary power. This MÜller had, it is true, never experienced, but he saw and heard it in imagination. If he could only once touch the conductors desk with that ebon magic wand, this unbounded exultation of delight must be set free. But it never came about; the directors were to blame. Instead of it the coquettish tone-muse of Italy, which is so undramatic that she represents Luci di Lammermoor's madness in the most lively dance music, flaunted upon the stage with all her tinsel of trills and fioriture. In such a frame of mind, MÜller von StallupÖhnen helped the venomous reporters to lay traps for the directors and for the wicked representative of Italian monkey-like art.

On the evening of the performance of the "BarbiÈre" the house was filled, but a peculiar disquiet prevailed, as if some unusual event were in the air. Kuhl sat in the stalls beside his CÄcilie, who now appeared to be inseparable from him, and near poet SchÖner.

"Something is going on," said the Doctor to his younger friend, "people are not in a pleasant mood. Nothing can be so little counted upon as the public. And what is it really? It is only a shadow, a spectre, as little tangible as the old ocean god Proteus, and, if one would hold it fast, it assumes all colours and shapes. The public of to-day is no longer that of yesterday; the crowd which is afterwards dispersed through the streets, is no longer the same which is assembled here. Schiller's epigram, 'When it is in corpore, a blockhead springs up,' refers more to the bench, it is true, but such a theatrical audience is a many-headed monster, and as stupid as an old grass grown dragon of the early ages. What has not this public already applauded? GÖethe as much as Aubery's dog, Schiller not less than a fiddler, who plays upon one string; the greatest poet and the most miserable clown! Often the rheumatism of idiotcy possesses its joints, which are paralysed, and do not move before what is sublime; then again it is electrified by the most foolish joke, and the unwieldy mass moves hands and feet like a marionette! As the wind rushes through an empty furnace, so does so-called public opinion rush through these empty heads. Thus it sometimes causes a mighty disturbance! The crowd has a certain instinct when it is gathered together, and a species of common feeling; it is like a huge body revolving upon the same pivot; it tastes with one tongue and spits flames out of one jaw; it lets itself be moved by one turn-screw, like a colossal engine. And by what crooked screws has it not already been moved! Upon the whole it is rude, and if its hat be not knocked from its head, it does not doff it to genius! Oh, ye poor geniuses! In what difficulties ye find yourselves! Ye struggle for fame, and yet fame, in the first instance, can only come from this crowd which possesses no sense of immortality; and again it is the pillar of immortality--what sad means by which to gain it! Really, only the idiotic flatterers of the crowd ought to be famous, and often have been so in their lifetime. The fame of the best is a marvel, and I am tired of pondering upon it."

"Well, everything beautiful, and art itself is a marvel," replied SchÖner, "and even if many a genius has been shipwrecked, we rejoice for those who have gained the victory after a long conflict with the crowd's want of judgment and changeability."

Behind them the two speakers heard a lively somewhat sharp girl's voice.

"It is time that an end be put to this Italian opera, it spoils our taste; this prima donna sits here as firmly as a fly in amber, and has also made it her especial task to spoil our morals; all varieties of reports are circulated which even penetrate into our establishment. There is no quarantine against it, however many proper means of fumigation may be employed, the infection is in the air. There is only one means, she must away, and I am delighted at the lynch-law by which she will be banished."

"You are right, quite right, uncommonly right," said the old governess, to whom Lori had addressed these words, as she, nodding approval, vibrated with intense excitement.

It was no secret that Blanden loved this singer; he had fought for her, he had been wounded for her sake.

She it was then of whom he had thought when he had listened barely, even absently, to Lori's eloquent words; this theatrical lady of doubtful origin had borne away undoubted victory from a daughter of the educated classes; she was the lotus-flower, the goddess who floated before his eyes, when Lori alluded so futilely to those verses, in which the handsome tutor had poured out his heart to her?

This demanded revenge!

Soon should her innermost indignation receive the desired satisfaction for being so shamefully set aside; with delight she imbibed Spiegeler's ill-nature with her breakfast, yes, she forgot her dignity as mistress of the school, so far as to initiate her pupils into this delicious piece of scandal. Her heart was too full, she must speak to Dr. Sperner also, who listened devoutly to the outpourings of her heart, while a significant smile played around the corners of his mouth, and he complacently stroked his splendid moustache.

"But why do you smile, Herr Doctor?" asked she at last, with annoyance.

"You speak of Herr von Blanden in a tone--"

"In a tone such as his conduct merits."

"Then I beg your pardon," said the tutor, as he bowed, "I was mistaken, I thought you were a friend of that gentleman, for I had the honour of witnessing a confidential meeting which you vouchsafed to him."

Lori thought of the large newspaper in the confectioner's shop, behind which the fatal moustache had appeared, and blushed before the importunate spy, who rejoiced maliciously at his little triumph. But then he placed himself completely at his principal's disposal, who was soon in a position to make use of his offer, for public opinion was supremely excited--the "effects of the reports behind the scenes," of which Spiegeler had spoken, had not failed in their result; the singer's next appearance must cause a great sensation and had already been foretold by Spiegeler, naturally not in the sense of an ovation, but with evil-minded, crooked, double meaning. Sperner was not the man to be a laggard on such an occasion; he offered his services to Lori.

"Do not deny it," said he, with wonted impudence, "you bear a grudge in your heart to this Blanden and the singer. Our French governess, whose accent may God improve, would term it dÉpit amoureux, but I am far from wishing to employ such outrageous French expressions in honest German."

Lori blushed again; her lips quivered, but the Doctor's fiery eyes rested so triumphantly and with such superiority upon her that the word died upon her lips.

"Good, neither Herr von Blanden nor the singer trouble me, but I will not allow our establishment, for which I have the warmest affection, to suffer from its principal's melancholy mood. You are so sad now, FrÄulein Baute, that the entire first class has lost its smile, as people say--you make mountains out of mole-hills. The concern suffers from it, we might lose pupils, the consequences would be serious. There are sensitive girlish natures which close their calix-like delicate flowers when the sun ceases to shine. For these your smile, FrÄulein Baute, is the sunshine of the establishment. We, we who are not so sensitive, are, at least, angry at the winter of your displeasure! All the same--if an execution of the Bollini shall take place, I am ready for any executioner's service; I have friends to whom the Italian sing-song is objectionable, and who prefer a German drinking song to any aria. We will work for you, FrÄulein Baute; a cavalier who makes so little of a rendezvous as this Herr von Blanden is rightly served when his night-light is blown out."

"What you say, dear Herr Doctor," said Lori, "is most objectionable in tone and manner, and really not calculated for a girl's ears. I will forget it. As to the rest, you have the right to think a singer as bad as you choose! You belong to the public, and the public is sovereign."

The result of this conversation was that on the fatal evening Dr. Sperner, with several young friends, sat in a very determined attitude in several rows in front of the mistress of the school. Lori's eyes rested upon him with satisfaction, when he turned round and nodded a confidential smiling greeting to her.

"There will be a disturbance to-day," Lori whispered to CÄcilie, sitting exactly before her.

"But why in the world?" asked the other.

"The affair with Blanden--"

"But Signora Bollini will not sing falsely on that account."

"Who knows?" said Lori, "those who are out of tune in life, are also out of tune in art; we must set ourselves against the importation of the equivocal doings of large towns; I should only approve if our public raise a decided demonstration."

"She is a splendid florid singer," replied CÄcilie. "After all, the audience in a theatre has only to judge of the singing and not to distribute the Monthyon prize of virtue; the most celebrated actresses would not have received it."

Lori shook her curls angrily at such an evasive opinion, and leaned back in her chair abruptly terminating the conversation.

There was indeed something menacing in the attitude of the audience; here and there small groups might be observed, sitting together, prepared for a common task.

The parties measured one another with hostile glances, with defiant countenances. Lieutenant Buschmann sat in a stage-box and examined his faithful adherents under the chandelier, gathered there like a dense dark cloud. Here and there appeared a noncommissioned officer, who should evidently preserve intact the communications between the separate troops, although he might not take part personally in the intended salvo.

The Lieutenant was annoyed to perceive the long, thin figure of Merchant BÖller in the opposite stage-box, where he had placed a few large bouquets of flowers upon the balustrade, and with yet greater displeasure he saw that his former friend and companion appeared in the pit, and greeted a number of young merchants with a friendly shake of the hand. Those, then, were the opponents!

It appeared to be a fine corps, well organised; the powerful shake of the hand promised vigorous work; bright confidence of success was depicted upon every feature.

"This miserable Brackenburg," muttered Buschmann to himself, "ClÄrchen has long since sacrificed him to her Egmont, and he still runs about the market and mobilises the citizens. Well, the iron tread of my Spaniards will pass implacably over them."

His confidence in the success of the good cause which he represented suddenly increased, when a noisy human stream suddenly poured into the pit, Spiegeler, in front, stamping with his crutches, eager for the fight.

Ah, that was BlÜcher at Waterloo! Now the victory was decided, those were veteran troops which he led, accustomed to the battle-fire of a theatre, accustomed to obey the leader's signal, to work together in irresistible onslaught, obstinate and tough enough to overcome all resistance. That was the select battalion of the claque which understood how to raise the flag of fame on high, but also how to tear it down and trample it in the dust.

Buschmann's features became radiant. What could BÖller's volunteers, with their undisciplined enthusiasm do against these well trained troops, which could stand immovably under fire?

In the densely crowded pit, however, Spiegeler at once recognised an enemy in his immediate vicinity--the singer's friend, the repulsive Italian, who had given him a palpable proof of this friendship. Despite all menaces, the critic had not brought the affair into court, because he did not wish that the episode at the "fleck" boiler's, by means of a trial and newspapers, should become too generally known; he believed rightly that his position as a critic might suffer if people learned what species of anti-criticism had been his portion. But secretly he brooded upon revenge.

He was delighted to perceive that Baluzzi stood amidst the faithful, who surrounded him like a lightning-laden cloud, and hoped that at the coming discharge some unexpected blow would fall upon the intruder's head.

The curtain rose when the overture ceased, the audience listened in breathless expectation; Figaro's song was tempestuously applauded. Giulia's friends aired their enthusiasm; their opponents, on the other hand, wished to make the contrast all the more conspicuous by previously helping a mediocre baritone to a brilliant success.

The singer was quite amazed at the unusual storm of approval with which he was greeted; he bowed his acknowledgments amid the most beautiful dreams of a future that fluttered through his mind; at last his great talent had met with merited recognition; in spirit he saw himself already as the first baritone at the Berlin Court opera house.

Then the street was changed into Bartolo's room. Rosina appeared.

BÖller, always ready for service, hurled his wreaths behind the footlights, and gave the signal for applause; the young merchant guards in the pit joined in, also Kuhl and SchÖner, and several unconcerned listeners in the stalls.

But simultaneously Buschmann and Spiegeler discharged their infernal machines--a hissing arose, as when fire and water are mingled. Others again commanded silence. Rosina began in a frightened voice; her heart, indeed, was heavy, but the power of the music soon carried her away above that dull oppression.

She sang with all her feelings--

"And every power fails,
Love remains victor."