The clouds kept climbing continually behind the hill of the Maloja, suspended by an impetuous wind, which sometimes grew quiet for a while and then rose again violently and rudely in immense gusts. The clouds appeared in great masses white as snow and silver, with a light, delicate grey, a grey mixed with lily, and a leadlike grey, in every gradation from white to grey. They appeared in deep, vast masses, suspended by the wind and spread over the Engadine; they covered the whole sky and almost seemed to touch the summits of the less lofty mountains. They were reflected in all their gigantesque forms and changing colours on the lakes of Sils, of Silvaplana, Campfer, and St. Moritz. They took away the blue from the sky and the brightness of the sun from the little towns, villages, and districts, giving them a pale grey tint. They passed, running and almost galloping, over the large hill that encloses St. Moritz at the foot of its lake, and passed over the valley of Samaden down towards Bevers, where the Engadine begins to descend.

Experienced eyes, which were raised to the sky in the morning, curiously and anxiously, perhaps hoped for, and believed in, one of those sudden and surprising passages of storm clouds which rise from the Val Bregaglia, the Italian clouds which traverse for an hour or two the immense plain of the upper Engadine, then descend behind the Valley of Samaden, towards the lower Engadine, and disappear, leaving the sky pure and clear, as if their passage had cleansed it. Experienced eyes had hoped and believed this, relying chiefly on the great wind that pursued the clouds, that caused the surfaces of the lakes to be covered with a thousand ripples, that almost formed these little waves with white crests like a sea; relying on this wind that caused the dust to whirl on the road from the Maloja to Samaden and all the trees with their lofty green plumes to rustle lamentingly; trusting that this terrible wind, which filled with its crashing the whole Engadine, would at last chase away the Italian clouds, and precipitate them into the lower Engadine.

But for hours and hours the clouds continued to ascend from Bregaglia. For hours they substituted themselves for those which already had vanished afar, precipitated towards Scanfs and Tarasp; for hours they came and joined themselves to the clouds not already dispersed, and added and heaped themselves upon them, more thickly, closely, and gigantically. Experienced eyes then understood that not even the imperious and boisterous wind which was rising incessantly from the Val Bregaglia and spreading them victoriously over all the Engadine, that was pressing and pursuing them with fury behind the horizon of the Val di Samaden; they understood sorrowfully that not even that wind would conquer and overcome the clouds, to free the blue sky and bright sun. Moreover, suddenly the exhausted and vanquished wind fell. The conquering clouds ceased to gallop, and spread themselves, at first quietly and then without movement, like an immense deep pavement, now white, now pearl-grey, now leaden-grey, over all the Upper Engadine. Everything became the colour of the clouds: the air, the waters of the lakes, the colouring of the little rustic houses, lordly villas, towns and districts; the larches became darker and more gloomy in their brown verdure.

It was two in the afternoon. But beneath the deep veil of clouds, beneath that great canopy which hid the lofty summits, which fringed the lower peaks and almost razed the more modest hills, in that atmosphere tinted with a monotonous colour, now white, now grey, but always pale and lifeless, time seemed not to exist, and it seemed as if it were a long, equal day, half dead, without dawn, afternoon, or evening. The furious wind that irritates and excites, exalts and exasperates, had vanished, and instead the calm sadness, broad and motionless, of an afternoon without end had spread itself everywhere.

Even sadder in its imposing lines was the great Valley of Samaden, shut out and divided from that of St. Moritz by the hill of CharnadÜras, peculiarly cut in two, covered to the right by a pretty little wood of shady trees, aromatic plants, and Alpine flowers, so austere and dominated here by the Corvatsch and Rosatch, which are girded and hemmed in by the Muottas Muraigl, while in the middle, where it is broadest, the valley opens, showing in the background, over the Roseg glacier, the very lofty, white, virginal beauty of the tremendous Bernina. This great valley lacks the grace and fascination of the delightful lakes of Sils, Silvaplana, and St. Moritz, while through its immense green meadows flow, foaming white like milk, the Flatzbach, which comes from the Bernina singing its subdued song, and the little brook Schlattenbeich. But these foaming, fleeting waters do not succeed in enlivening and vivifying the countryside—the great valley where little Cresta and tiny Celerina seem lost, and even Samaden seems lost in the remote corner of the plain; the great valley that seems inanimate, although the railway crosses it, and equipages, carriages, and pedestrians of all kinds traverse it, going and coming from St. Moritz and Pontresina. The isolated villas gleam white against the green of the meadows; the hotels of Cresta and Celerina show their verandahs shaded by awnings and straw or canvas protections for those who like the open air but fear wind and sun. The Cresta Palace raises its four storeys with its hundred rooms, carved balconies, and Swiss banner. Carriages come and go rapidly and slowly from every part, but the Valley of Samaden preserves its solitary austerity, and this close veil of clouds which extends from St. Moritz to the extreme horizon seems as if made to cover it completely, and it seems as if that colourless, pale air belonged to the Valley of Samaden, and that this dead afternoon was its afternoon, which better suited its vastness, solitude, and immense melancholy.

The villa of Karl Ehbehard rises isolated in a broad meadow, that gradually slopes from a faÇade with two storeys to the opposite faÇade with three. It is situated between Cresta and Celerina; the principal faÇade, that with two storeys, is almost on the side of the high road which goes from Cresta to Celerina. Round the villa, which is very new in the bright colouring of its stones, in the light wood and carving of its verandahs, runs a strip of land which forms a little garden enclosed by a wooden fence, and in front, at the edge of the road, by a trellis. This tiny garden which surrounds and embraces the Villa Ehbehard is planted with shrubs and bright Swiss flowers, red, yellow, purple, and white; but still all these little plants and flowers have not had much time in which to grow. The wooden windows and the central verandah, with their carved balustrades and little roofs, are also adorned with vases of flowers, mountain carnations, Alpine geraniums, and winter roses. On the grey, almost white stones and bright wood these flowers, miraculously cultivated at such an altitude, smile brightly. At the rear faÇade of Villa Ehbehard, which is the taller, looking towards the meadows that billow peculiarly in little mounds and ditches, on the first floor there is a large covered, yet open terrace, supported by pillars—an Italian terrace. In the centre is a large table covered with books and newspapers; there are a few chairs and arm-chairs, and on the stone parapet are placed vases with plants. And if from the windows and verandah of the chief faÇade of Villa Ehbehard there is a continuous spectacle of people passing in carriages, on bicycles and on foot, and the train is to be seen passing from Albula to disappear in the tunnel beneath the hill of CharnadÜras, and opposite there is the Cresta Palace with all its movement of a caravanserai, and further on the little HÔtel Frizzoni with its confectionery shop and tea garden, full of tables at which to take tea at five, and full of people, from the terrace in the rear of Villa Ehbehard the whole scene changes completely. Here in front a broad landscape spreads in every direction. To the right, below, is the gloomy gorge of the Inn, whence it issues like a ribbon of shining metal amidst the tumultuous billows of the meadows, and near the river is the brown, almost black wood that jealously hides the sad, little, deserted lake of Statz; then there is the great canopy of larches that follows, from the estuary of the Meierei, the road that leads to Pontresina. To the left in the lifeless air is the little church and campanile of San Gian di Celerina, where nowadays only the office for the dead is said, and for the departed who have been buried and have slept for so many years in the little cemetery; the broad green stretch towards Samaden, and on high the white peaks of Languard and Albris, and very far-off the Roseg glacier, and the lady of the mountains, of snow and ice—the white and fearsome Bernina. It is a landscape of silence and peace, a landscape of thought and dream.

On that day, as usual at that hour, Doctor Karl Ehbehard was seated alone in an arm-chair, reading and yet not reading, as he contemplated the landscape thoughtfully. Of tall stature, thin and muscular, Karl Fritz Ehbehard presented an aspect of strength, and his face one of energy. On the large white forehead, his black hair, which was quite streaked with white at the temples, formed a thick, untidy tuft, mixed with white hairs, a rebellious tuft that was displaced by every movement of the head. Above the mouth a large thick moustache sprinkled with white hid the expression of the lips and the smile. The profile was fine and strong, the complexion a rather pale tan. But the piercing, very piercing, grey eyes were peculiar and impregnated with a sadness that could also be pride and harshness; peculiar eyes that pierced the face of whomsoever was present, and spoke with such a flow of penetration that the timid were frightened and the proud offended. His neck in the high white collar was rather thin, and so were his hands. He is in the prime of life, since he has not yet reached fifty, every act and gesture of his and every change of expression always indicating a complete fusion of physical force and moral energy. His eyes hurt with their cutting glance; but still in their depths escape the sadness which humanly tempers everything and humanly assuages.

A servant entered with a visiting-card on a tray. With a fastidious air Karl Ehbehard interrupted his reading and threw a glance at the name on the card. After a moment of hesitation he said to the man in German:

"Here."

Ehbehard put down his books and got up, advancing towards the door of the terrace which gave on to the apartment. A lady appeared and stopped at the threshold as if doubtful of coming out. Just bowing slightly Doctor Karl Ehbehard said to her, pointing to a chair:

"It is better here, Your Highness."

Enveloped in a large coat of marten fur, over which she had placed a fur tippet, with a veil of the finest white lace, the Grand Duchess of Gotha advanced to the chair, into which she let herself fall, as if tired by the stairs she had been forced to climb, and after taking breath for a while, she raised her white veil and carried her fur muff to her mouth, so as not to breathe suddenly and directly the fresh air. And Karl Ehbehard saw again the woman's face with its Teutonic ugliness, spreading features, forehead too high, mouth too broad, eyes with lashes too bright, eyebrows too light, temples hollowed, and in addition the traces of disease—a complexion rendered yellow everywhere, and pinkish on the cheek-bones, the ears very white, the lips bloodless, and the neck very thin. There was an expression of fear, oppression, and loss in the almost white eyes. The yellowish hair was precociously whitened, and drawn back without grace and tightened into a bunch. All that was feminine was a great richness of apparel, of lace, and furs over a long, thin, bony body. The Grand Duchess, as she breathed, opened her lips with a certain effort, showing her large, yellowish teeth. But in spite of all this she preserved a sovereign air.

"Still the same, Herr Doctor," she said, in a rather rough voice.

"Your Highness has slept?" asked the great doctor, indifferently.

"Slept, yes; five or six hours."

"That is sufficient. Did you cough on waking?"

"As every day."

"Not more?"

"No."

"Fever?"

"A degree or two yesterday evening; four or five degrees."

"Perspiration?"

"A little—as usual."

"Then, Your Highness, there is nothing fresh."

"Nothing fresh indeed!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, like a little cry, and coughing immediately afterwards.

Very coldly and quietly, the great phthisis doctor waited for the Grand Duchess to begin all the daily grievances, which she came every day to explain to him, at least to get consolation.

"I get no better, Herr Doctor."

"But Your Highness gets no worse."

"How long can all this last?"

"A long time, a long time yet."

She looked at him, with her light eyes more troubled than ever: she looked at him, half consoled and uncertain.

"Do you believe that this can last, mein Herr?"

"I believe so," he said, still coldly but firmly.

"Shall I not die within a month or a year, mein Herr? Tell me."

Coldly, icily, he looked at her with his terribly penetrating eyes, which, however, were sad and even pitiful. Without hesitation he answered her.

"Neither within a month nor a year."

She bowed her head and sighed deeply: and an expression of comfort spread itself on the face worn with disease, which had neither beauty nor grace, but yet inspired interest and pity.

"May I not leave for Gotha?" she murmured anxiously.

"Certainly not, Your Highness."

"The Grand Duke complains of my long absence."

"Does that matter?"

"My children are alone; why may I not see them?"

"Your presence, Your Highness, would do them more harm than good."

"I am bored here."

"But you live, Your Highness."

"Yes, I live, it is true; but I don't care either for the country or the people," she said, with an accent of disgust.

"And why?"

"Because I am ill; because I can no longer do what the others do. I only like you here, Herr Doctor."

And she looked at him as at a sacred image, with reverence and almost with fear.

"But why?" he asked, without showing surprise.

"Because you, mein Herr, know the secret of my life and death. Won't you come to Gotha?"

"No, Your Highness."

"Not even for me?"

"Not even for you, Your Highness."

"Are you so fond of this country? Why do you like it so much?" she asked weakly, still a little discouraged.

"Because it has a secret of life and not of death, Your Highness," added Doctor Karl Ehbehard mysteriously, with a slight bow.

She understood and rose. She came towards him, took his two hands in hers, and pressing them said:

"Do you really believe that I ought to remain in this country?"

"I believe so, Your Highness."

"When shall I be able to go away?"

"I don't know. Certainly not now. Perhaps after a long time."

She bowed her head and added nothing further.

"Thanks, mein Herr, good-bye till to-morrow."

"Till to-morrow, Your Highness."

Without undue hurry, correctly but silently, he led her within the apartment and let the servant accompany her below to the carriage, to which were attached two spirited, dapple-grey horses. The Grand Duchess of Gotha wrapped her marten mantle better around her, pressed to her neck the fur tippet, closed her mouth firmly behind the close veil, drew over her knees the soft carriage-rug, and alone and silently, looking at no one, wrapped in herself, but preserving a regal air, she vanished to the rapid trotting of her horses towards St. Moritz and Campfer, where she dwelt in the solitary Villa Sorretta.

Afterwards the servant ushered in to the doctor on the terrace two other patients, the brothers Freytag, the great bankers of Vienna, who only came once or twice a week, the sons and nephews of the great Freytags, bankers of Frankfort, Hamburg, and London, bankers and shippers as well.

Since the winter, which they had passed at the HÔtel Kulm at the Dorf, save for a break of two months, April and May, when the one had returned to Vienna and the other to Frankfort, they had repaired to Doctor Karl Ehbehard twice a week. Of the two Freytag brothers one only seemed to be ill, because in spite of his thirty-five years his tall figure was bent, his slender shoulders beneath his navy-blue coat formed a curve, his breast beneath the white woollen waistcoat with the gold buttons seemed as narrow as that of a bird. Already his black hair was scanty and always seemed to be moist; beneath the eyebrows the eyes were hollow. But underlying all this was a fineness of feature, a sweetness of expression, and a lordliness of manner that made Max Freytag even more interesting. The other brother, younger by four or five years, seemed most healthy. Of middle stature, fat, with a rather thick throat and neck, very fair with heavy moustaches and bright hair, Ludwig Freytag had a good-natured, healthy, middle-class appearance.

Max first began to relate in German all that had happened to him during the three days that he had not been to Villa Ehbehard. He spoke slowly with a rather suave voice, saying that every degree of fever had vanished, that the cough was less, but that he was not sleeping and eating, that he was not digesting and could not contrive to conquer the insomnia. The doctor listened, with his hands on the arms of his chair, motionless and indifferent.

"Is Frau Freytag still with you?" he suddenly asked.

"She is still with me."

"It is a grave imprudence and great sacrifice."

"I know it is," murmured Max Freytag; "but I can't prevent her. I have tried, and I cannot."

"She loves you, and you love her?" asked the doctor harshly.

"Yes," murmured the other, in an even lower voice.

"Why did you marry her when you were ill?"

"I did not wish to marry her because I knew I was ill. She wished to marry me because I was ill."

"Frau Freytag is an angel," said the doctor icily.

"An angel," agreed the other, and became silent.

After a moment's silence Max Freytag resumed:

"Do you believe, doctor, that her presence and propinquity does me harm physically?"

And all the egoism of an invalid, of a consumptive, was in the anxiety of this question.

"No," replied the doctor precisely, "it does you no harm."

"Without her I could not live," groaned the consumptive.

"But she could die," declared Karl Ehbehard, fixing Max Freytag with his sharp eyes, and piercing his soul.

"Charlotte is so young, so strong, so beautiful," stammered Max Freytag.

The doctor said nothing more. Then Ludwig Freytag opened his thick, florid lips and slowly told the doctor the progress of his malady. It was graver than that of his brother, and while nothing revealed it externally, while nothing but the expert eye of Karl Ehbehard could have discovered its creeping, it was making a constant, destructive, almost invincible progress. While he spoke of the long fits of coughing that suffocated him, morning, evening, and night, of his agitated slumbers, of his profuse nocturnal sweating, of the fever that assailed him at every dawn; fat, gross, rosy, with a bull neck, and his round, limpidly-blue eyes, almost obese on his short legs, Ludwig Freytag seemed the picture of health. Seized by the fixed idea of the disease that was consuming them, Max Freytag, who seemed the more ill, and Ludwig Freytag, actually the more ill although he did not recognise it, began to lament, now the one, then the other, of the horrible existence they were living—Max for ten years, Ludwig for five, the one thirty-five, the other thirty—an existence consisting only of medical cures, of a rigorous rÉgime, of obligatory sojournings and obligatory journeys. Ah, how above everything the two brothers complained of having to live far-away from Vienna, from Frankfort, from Hamburg, from London; far from their banking-houses, from the colossal port whence their ships departed, far from their powerful businesses and their vast interests, and so losing their great chances of gaining millions with their stagnating fortune.

"To be rich does not matter, it is to live that matters," interrupted Doctor Ehbehard, with a cutting glance.

"Yes, that was too true," groaned the two brothers, Max with his soft, sweet voice and perfect distinction, Ludwig fretting, fuming, always seeming to suffocate. After all living mattered, but that life apart from every festivity, from every distraction, like two paupers separated from the world and its pleasures, condemned to measure even what they ate, to analyse what they drank, destined to live in the great centres of joy and luxury, like two wandering shadows, avoiding rooms too warm, verandahs too cold, and smoking-rooms—what a life of renunciation!

"One must make renunciations to live," declared Doctor Karl, slightly pale, with lowered eyes.

"Yes, renunciations," they said, Max Freytag in an almost weeping voice, and Ludwig with one of grotesque anger; but what a destiny for both to be struck down by this cruel disease, which no one in their family had ever had—both sons of the head of the House of Freytag, the only sons of the House of Freytag—as if stricken to death by a curse, although they could live perhaps and drag out their life, yet they must implacably die of it.

Suddenly both became silent, in consternation, Max pale and as if convulsed, Ludwig heated and asthmatical. They became silent, gazing with eyes full of tears at Doctor Ehbehard, with an expression of great sorrow and supplication. He from his seat looked at the two ailing brothers, vowed to infirmity and death; he looked at them and his eyes lost all indifference and harshness. Perhaps beneath his thick, sprinkled moustache his lips trembled; for he was slow to answer them. Before and around the two men the great Alpine landscape, even more lifeless, beneath the weight of its motionless clouds, spread itself. And not a noise nor a breath of wind came to give them the living sense of life.

Slowly, meaning every word, with a sagacity which did not only come from science, Doctor Ehbehard began to discuss, one by one, all the complaints of the brothers, and if there was no promise in his just words, if there was no false hope in his phrases, at any rate they inspired patience, and calm hope; they restored equilibrium, tranquillity, and peace to those agitated spirits. Like two children, fixing and holding his eyes with their imploring eyes, noting every word and impressing them on their memory, making no gesture so as to lose nothing of what he was saying, so as not to lose a fleeting expression, like children who wished for succour, protection, and strength, Max and Ludwig Freytag regained courage and moral vigour in the presence of Karl Ehbehard. He did not speak entirely to Max, who was the less ill of the two and who might be cured, but he told them both that their life was still tenacious, and that their youth could not be conquered either easily or soon. He did not promise them perfect health, but he promised them the superior energy that supports disease and ends by obeying it. Karl Ehbehard did not pity their cruel destiny, which in them was destroying their fortune and their house, but he invited them to pity so many other invalids, thousands and hundreds of thousands who were languishing and perishing for want of care and medicine, sick and languishing of gloomy misery, who had no more means of supporting their families, and dying, would leave them in extreme poverty. And all the human sorrow of disease that finds no obstacles or contrasts, of the disease that ruins, that tortures, that whips, that slays, since its companion is misery, all the human sorrow of hundreds of thousands of sufferers who were perishing without succour, medicine and food, in narrow death-dealing houses, on hard beds of cold and want—all this inconsolable, disconsolate human suffering was reviewed in the calm, firm words of Karl Ehbehard, shone from his glance, and flowed from his voice. The two brothers felt calmed and soothed, as if their little insignificant sorrow were dissolved in their mind.

When they had left, Doctor Ehbehard remained for some time quite alone on his terrace, where he was wont to pass the afternoon, and where, to the surprise of all his new clients, he preferred to receive the visits of the sick instead of in his large consulting-room, furnished like the other rooms, and which looked out on the principal faÇade at the back. Again his reading absorbed him, but it was more a concentration of spirit, a recollection of his thoughts, since he seldom turned over the pages. Twice while he was thus taken and conquered by his interior life, his faithful servant appeared at the doorway to tell his master something, but knowing him quite well and seeing him thus immersed in silence, and motionless, he had not dared to call him. At last, at the third time, he ventured to disturb a chair to attract Doctor Karl's attention, who, raising his head, as if aroused from a lethargy, looked at him as in a dream. He read the visiting-card that the servant offered him twice.

"La Vicomtesse de Bagdad," he read in French, and then added to the servant in German:

"New?"

"New."

She whom Doctor Karl Fritz Ehbehard covered with a most rapid scrutinising glance, hardly had she appeared on the terrace hesitating to advance, was a woman of forty-five, very dark and pale, with a thick mass of black hair without a thread of white, with a face of perfect features without a wrinkle, of a complete beauty, already mature, and which, perhaps, would still last for years before declining. Cunningly this mature beauty was supported by dominant, but not offensive, traces of cosmetics and bistre—a light shade of pink on the cheeks a little too pale, a slight trace of rouge on the well-designed lips. There was an even more cunning taste in the dressing of the hair, in her clothes and hat, an intense but discreet luxury, an exquisite but yet prudent elegance. But over all this beauty, which must have been invincible twenty years ago, and dazzling ten years ago, there was a proud and scornful expression. At some moments this mature beauty became rather austere or even gloomy, in the blackness of the eyes, in the soft and knotted eyebrows, in the closed mouth, as if hermetically sealed. At a nod from the doctor, who, without showing interest, continued to scrutinise her, she sat down.

"Madame has come to consult a doctor?" he asked in French, with a German accent, but as if he attached no importance to the reply.

"Yes, Doctor. But do we have to discuss here?" she observed, with a slight gesture of wonder and perhaps of impatience.

"Here, Madame," he replied tranquilly.

"Can we not retire into a room? Will it not be better?"

"No," he declared, "it is better to remain in the open air in the Engadine."

"For sick people?"

"For sick and healthy," he added, "nothing is of greater value than air in this country."

And he threw a glance around at the landscape. The lady bowed, perhaps not convinced but mollified.

"Are you ill, Madame?"

"No, Herr Doctor," she replied.

And a sudden pallor caused her dark face to become livid.

"Someone who is most dear to me," she added with lowered eyes, "my son—my only son—I fear consumption."

Again a rush of pallor passed over her features.

"Why did you not bring him with you, Madame?"

She raised her magnificent black eyes, where an immense pride was apparent, and looked at the doctor.

"Through fear, through fear," she stammered.

"Fear, Madame?"

"For fear that you might have something serious to tell my son. He is twenty-five, Doctor."

"I should have said nothing before him," said the great consumption doctor slowly. "I should have told you afterwards."

"Ah, he would have understood everything!" exclaimed the woman sorrowfully.

"Is he so ill, then?"

"Very, very ill, Herr Doctor."

"For how long?"

"For a year."

"And how old is he?"

"Twenty-five, Herr Doctor; I was twenty when I had him," she declared, without circumlocution.

"Have you ever suffered from what he is suffering, Madame?" asked the doctor coldly.

"No; never, never," she replied at once.

"And the father?" asked the doctor.

"The father of my son was not my husband. I have never been married."

She said this without timidity and without boldness, with a calm certainty, as if Doctor Ehbehard ought to know or guess at once who she was.

"And was he ill, Madame? Try to remember."

"Not ill, but very delicate."

"This illness, then, comes from the father," concluded the doctor.

"But you will cure him, won't you, Herr Doctor?" she exclaimed anxiously. "I am come first to tell you all. Doctor, I have only this son. You must cure him. You must tell me everything, and I will do everything you tell me. I am very rich, Herr Doctor. My friends have been very generous to me. I am the Vicomtesse de Bagdad; have you never heard my name? A false name, Herr Doctor. I am not called so. My real name doesn't matter, nor would my money matter if it were not of use to cure my son Robert."

Now she seemed another woman. The disdain and pride which rendered her beauty austere, and at times gloomy, had disappeared. Anguish was transforming the womanly face that had lived so many years solely for pleasure, the senses, and voluptuousness. Each feature revealed simple, bare, maternal suffering—the suffering of every mother.

"Doctor, they are sending us away from the hotel where we are! In fact, all the women tremble for their husbands and sons on my account. They do not know that I see them not, and know them not. I do not wish to see or know their men. But in a way it is right. Think, Doctor—the Vicomtesse de Bagdad!"

Two long tears of anger, shame, and sorrow descended the pallid cheeks and fell on her bosom. She wiped her face at once, feverishly.

"Do not disturb yourself," he said in a firm tone, in that tone which was wont to raise the mind of whomsoever listened to him. "If they send you away from the hotel, go into a villa; you will find one."

"Yes, I will find one," she exclaimed, consoled at once. "And you will come there, Doctor? You will come? You are a virtuous and great man; if you come to the villa you will have no scandal: you will only find Robert and me, ourselves alone, the poor mamma with her poor son. You will come, won't you?"

"As soon as you have found the villa I will come."

"And you will cure Robert, Doctor?"

"I do not know: I don't know at all."

"But you will try, won't you? You will try?" seizing his hands, with a mother's cry.

"I promise to try my best," he replied.

A short sigh broke the voice of the woman who had lived only for pleasure and vice, and who now was a mother grieved to the heart. She choked in her cambric handkerchief, fragrant with a delicate perfume. She bowed her head a minute to compose herself before leaving, and then left followed by the silken rustling of her train.

When Karl Ehbehard was again alone on the terrace, that projected into the solitary and imposing landscape in the declining day, he did not resume his reading, nor did he contemplate thoughtfully the austere lines of the mountains and the great curtain of trees which hid the road, and the waters running and leaping amidst the thick grass of the meadows. As if tired, he let his head fall on his breast, and all that he had seen and heard on that day was weighing on his mind.

All the morning he had visited in his carriage sick people who could not leave their houses, from those isolated in far-off villas to those isolated in the dÉpendances of hotels, since in the summer-time, especially, no hotel-keeper wished to have consumptives in his own hotel, so as not to put to flight other travellers who came to the Engadine, travellers who came there through love of gaiety, of pleasure, of luxury, who came to the high mountains through a refinement of the senses, wishing to unite the spectacle of the beauty of things to an ardent, febrile, worldly life.

All the morning, to the trotting of his horses, he had gone to the Dorf, to the Bad, even to Campfer, awaited everywhere with anxiety. He had touched fleshless hands still feverish from the night; he had stooped to gather, with acute ear, at the naked breast of the sick, the hoarse, interior breathing; he had heard the dry attacks of coughing following each other precipitously, leaving the sick without breath; and he had listened to the long, lamenting conversation of those who felt that they were not growing better, who felt that they were growing worse and declining to a fatal solution. Indeed, the whole morning, with persuasive glance, with cold and calm words, with whatever there was in him of moral force and energy, he had striven to console all those who were tormented by the fear of death; he had striven to comfort them without lying to them, without promising them anything, lest on the morrow they should be bitterly deluded. He had striven to excite patience in them and tranquil courage, telling them that when one wishes to grow better and wishes it intensely, one does grow better, and that a secret of escaping death is to wish not to die with all the mysterious vigour of will-power. And once again, morning and afternoon, before the hundred sadnesses more incurable than phthisis itself, before the hundred woes of poor beings devoured by disease, he had seen the singular, amazing miracle performed; he had seen the sick grow calm and serene, resume vigour, and smile, yes, smile, with vague, indefinite, infinite hope. Through his presence and will-power for good, through his firm serenity, he had seen the miracle renewed, however brief and fleeting. The sick felt themselves better without taking drugs, and felt themselves first tranquillised and then excited to joy, yes, almost to joy! He knew these miracles of these strange diseases; pious miracles that make of the consumptive a being apart, capable of smiling, of hoping, even to the last breath of his destroyed lungs. He knew these miracles because with his will-power for good and the fascination of his eyes and words, he understood how to dominate, conquer, and exalt the changeful, light minds of the poor sufferers from phthisis. But the effort put forth by him on that morning and afternoon, more than any other day, had exhausted him. An immense weariness oppressed his physiognomy and his limbs in the large arm-chair of black leather, upon the arms of which his rather thin hands were abandoning themselves, as if they, too, had been struck by a profound weariness. When after a short time he raised his head, Else von Landau was before him.

She had not been announced. Like the Grand Duchess of Gotha, she came every day, when she felt bad, to the Villa Ehbehard; sometimes, when she felt better, she came there two or three times a week, like the brothers Freytag. She knew where to find the doctor and how to enter discreetly, so as not to disturb him if he were reading, studying, or if he were thinking and resting. She had entered cautiously without warning him of her presence, and had sat down at some distance from him, opening her mantle of otter-skin with sweet, silvery revers of chinchilla, beneath which she was dressed in brown cloth. She had untied the large veil which surrounded face and neck, and all the hat and head. Her delicate, white face, with the clearest complexion, appeared even whiter beneath the shining, soft chestnut hair. On the white temples, beneath the grey eyes, a network of little blue veins was delineated. With hands that clasped a large bunch of Alpine flowers abandoned on her lap, now and then biting her lips to make them redder, and coughing very slightly so as not to be heard, she waited patiently till Karl Ehbehard was aware of her. Seeing her the doctor started; but he restrained a movement of impatient weariness.

"How are you, then, FrÄulein Landau?" he asked her monotonously in German, speaking as if in a dream.

"I am rather bad, Doctor," she replied, with a fleeting smile on her lips.

Her voice was soft but hoarse; the veil, however, increased its penetrating softness.

"Why? Tell me everything."

She settled herself better in her chair, crossed her exquisitely booted little feet, which peeped out from the skirt, put down her chinchilla muff, smelt her Alpine flowers, and said:

"The pain up here has tormented me all the evening and night. This morning, too, when coughing there were some streaks of blood."

"Have you kept them, FrÄulein Landau?" he asked, perfectly returned to himself, and again become the doctor.

"No," she replied, with a shrug of the shoulders. "I thought it was useless."

"It was not useless."

"Another time I will not fail," she murmured, in a slightly ironical tone; "I seem to have had fever again for two or three days."

"Did you use the thermometer?"

"No," she replied, "I did not use it. I have thrown away my thermometer; it tortured me too much. It is an odious instrument. When I have fever I recognise it from the palms of my hands."

"Still, it should have been necessary to know the degree."

"What does it matter, Doctor?" she said, a little more lively. "To sadden my mother? She has too much sorrow, the poor dear!"

"But did you follow out my instructions?" the doctor asked her patiently.

"I take all your medicines, Doctor, because my mother makes me take them: I eat what you tell me because she makes me eat it," she declared, again smiling a little sarcastically.

"What about the rest?"

"The rest?"

"Do you go to bed early?"

"No, Doctor, I go to bed very late every night."

"And what do you do?"

"I dance nearly every evening, or chat with my friends, or play bridge."

"Do you dance in a dÉcolletÉ dress?"

"Certainly; every evening I am in a dÉcolletÉ dress, even if there is no dancing."

"And you have supper sometimes? Do you drink champagne?"

"Yes, Doctor; I adore champagne."

"And what do you do in the morning and afternoon?"

"I go out on foot or in a carriage. We make excursions. I walk a great deal when I can. I went on foot to the Roseg glacier."

"Always in company?"

"Always: I have various flirts, Doctor. One of them especially is more than a flirt. He loves me. I am fond of him and torment him with jealousy of my other flirts."

The conversation developed, calmly and coldly on the Doctor's side, brightly and mockingly, with a touch of impertinent bitterness, on Else's side. He said to her:

"Why are you doing all this? To kill yourself?"

"To die the sooner," she declared suddenly, becoming serious.

"Don't you care to live?"

"I don't care about living, sick, half alive, dying," she declared, still very serious.

"You are making your poor mother despair."

"That is true; but it is better for her to get used to despair for the time when she will lose me."

"She will die of grief."

"After me: I shall not see it, it will be all over," concluded Else von Landau gloomily. Then suddenly she began to laugh.

"Dear Doctor, you have not told me, but I know that I am doomed. Certainly I could drag on my life for years by busying myself only with my drugs, my rÉgime, the heat of my room; by watching myself from morn till night, not speaking for fear of tiring my lungs, like Maria Goertz, who has lived two years here with a closed mouth; by fleeing from balls, festivities, theatres, engagements, only wearing the thickest furs, unable to go in dÉcolletÉ or transparent dresses, unable to have either flirt or lover, forced to live summer and winter at St. Moritz Dorf or Davos, or failing that in a sanatorium. Oh, no, Doctor! I don't wish to live thus! That is no life; I prefer to end it—to end it at once."

Her large, grey, velvety eyes, with almost blue pupils, flashed with a desire of life and death, her complexion was flushed, and the little blue veins of the temples were almost swollen. A funereal beauty was in her countenance.

"Doctor, Doctor," she resumed, in a higher but rougher voice, "I don't want to exile myself, to cloister myself; I don't want to renounce anything life should give me or place within my reach. I don't want to renounce being beautiful, being loved, smiling, and becoming exhilarated with air, and sun, and love. I wish to resign nothing and prefer to live less, live a very short time, sooner than renounce things. I am thirty and a widow. I have no sons and am rich. After my death there is nothing but silence, Doctor. I don't want to renounce things."

He looked at her, recognising in her the subtle delirium of consumptives. He looked at her, so beautiful, so charming and fragile, made to live, yet so desirous of life and death, and at last his heart, after the long day of fatigue and suffering for others, so closed and granite-like, opened and welled with an immense pity for her who was invoking death, who was ready to meet it, and who was embracing it, because she would renounce nothing.

Else von Landau resumed deliriously:

"Doctor, would you renounce them? Would you renounce every good and joy and triumph, every excitement. Would you renounce them?"

He looked at her, with a glance laden with mystery and strength, and answered her in a clear voice:

"I did so: I made the renunciation."

Else was profoundly surprised and trembled all over, questioning him with her beautiful, supplicating eyes.

"Do you know how old I was when I was seized by the chest affection you have?" he asked her, in a cutting voice.

"You? You?"

"At twenty-three I was seized and overthrown by your malady," he continued. "I am from Basle, an old, grey, cold place; but I went to study medicine in Germany, at Heidelberg, and lived there four years in great ardour for study and science, in a dream that absorbed and devoured me. My masters conceived for me the highest hopes. I myself was impetuous, but restrained myself with waiting for some profound scientific mystery that might be revealed to my desire and my tireless discipline of work. One winter evening I was caught on the road by a heavy shower. Next day I had inflammation of the lungs. I spat blood for several days and was dying. With difficulty I was rescued from death, and six months afterwards, at twenty-three, FrÄulein von Landau, I had tuberculosis of both lungs. Those who were tending me tried to deceive me; but I was a doctor and knew I must die. Someone told me to come here for six months or a year. Full of fever, still spitting blood, no longer sleeping or taking nourishment, and despairing of everything, I came here. I am forty-eight; for twenty-five years I have been here and I have never left."

"Never at all? Never at all?" she cried, surprised, moved to the depths of her soul.

"Never. Twenty-five years ago the Engadine was an almost deserted region, wild and very sad in some places; fearful and tragic in others. Some modest little inn in the height of summer gave hospitality to a few simple lovers of the mountains, to some invalid or convalescent. There were no conveniences or pleasures or luxury or elegance. Vast solitary horizons, immense meadows whose flowers very few human feet disturbed; mountains unharmed from people's contact, a country with an austere, solitary, and powerful beauty. I lived, so poor was I, in a little rustic cottage belonging to some Engadine peasants. I fed on milk, vegetables, and herbs. I had no one with whom to exchange a word, since even then the healthy and robust fled from those stricken with my terrible disease. I wandered along difficult and rugged paths that no one had tracked; I drank at the icy waters of the springs beneath the glaciers; I gathered the mountain flowers which filled with perfume my little room, and I read a little. In winter my confinement became fearful amidst the snow and ice, shut up at first in my room; then mad with weariness, boredom, and gloom I sallied forth, in the cruel cold, every day on the snow and ice. After a year my malady was conquered. The pure, cold air, the pure water, a life of simplicity and purity, an isolation that pacifies and soothes, an interior life profound and free, the treasures that the high mountains jealously preserve, that are spread out only to humble and devout seekers after health, silence and peace—those treasures were granted me and I was saved. I never left the Engadine again: I made the renunciation."

She listened to him, silent and moved, her eyes clouded with tears.

"I renounced every joy and delight, every triumph. I might have discovered an immense secret of science to reveal it to a stupid world. I might have signed with my name a truth still unknown and benefited with noble gifts the human race; I might have been illustrious and celebrated—but I renounced everything. I might have been loved, I might have loved and founded a family, had sons, and surrounded myself with beings who might have been blood of my blood—I renounced all that. I might have lived in a metropolis, run through the world, visited unknown countries, known far-off peoples. I renounced them; everything I renounced. What am I, forsooth? A doctor, a wretched doctor, a doctor of rich consumptives in a summer and winter station. I am paid handsomely, but I am nothing but a poor doctor who strives to prolong a life here and there as well as he can—nothing more. For twenty-five years I have not moved from here: I am alone, no one loves me, I love no one; I have neither glory nor love, no sons, no pleasures."

"And why all this, why?" cried Else von Landau, anxious and agitated.

"Because one must live as long as possible: because one must die as late as possible; because one must, you understand, combat death," he said solemnly.

"Did you not suffer from the renunciation? Did you not suffer from what you missed? Do you not suffer from what you are missing?" she asked, still discouraged, but already conquered.

"I suffered then," replied Karl Ehbehard. "I suffered greatly. These woods and rocks, once so solitary, have seen my tears. Afterwards I suffered no more. And now some sweetness comes into my life in this exercise of my art: if I manage to snatch some infirm creature from death—a rare sweetness. But nothing more. So even renunciation offers at last its compensations. Renounce, dear lady,"—and his voice grew a little tender—"these joys which are precipitating you towards death. Seek other things up here for a year or two amidst natural and pure beauties. Live here in peaceful contemplation of sky and clouds and air, of proud mountains and terrible glaciers; of slender streams, deep woods, and fragrant flowers. Live here with yourself, creating a more intense interior life. Do you not see? This land has been invaded by a horde of pleasure-seekers and vicious people, whereby the sick and ailing and lovers of the mountains are being overturned and disappear. The land has been far too much sown with villas, immense hotels and little hotels, and has been defiled by railways, electric trams, and funiculars; in every way the attempt has been made to destroy her beauty and secret of life. But they will never destroy them! Her beauty and purity are eternal and immortal. Ah, renounce the world, dear lady; later let the pleasure-seekers depart, and remain alone in the presence of all that is lofty, sincere, and vivifying. Seek no more the crowd that takes you and consumes your strength; mix no more with them, fly from their ardent, sterile pleasures, refuse their vain and dangerous gifts—renounce them, renounce them! If you want to live and be cured, renounce them. Here by yourself in solitude and silence, in contact with lofty things, now gentle, now terrible, the great treasure of health that the mountains guard and concede only to fervent worshippers will be granted to you. Make the renunciation or die. I am the apostle of life."

"I will obey you," she said, subdued.

He rose; and with a simple, friendly action took her hand.

"Your hard sacrifice will later have its reward," murmured Karl Ehbehard, in a subdued voice.

She questioned him with her beautiful, velvety eyes.

"If he who loves you and whom you love knows how to wait, he will have you," added Karl Ehbehard.

An intense smile of happiness appeared on Else von Landau's lips.

"So much was not granted to me," he ended by saying, sadly.