The baroness had found herself inclined to follow Felix's advice, to take a more active part in the social intercourse of the surrounding nobility. She had reflected on it for some time, and then formed her decision. Not a day passed now that the family was not either invited out, or, more frequently, entertaining company at the chÂteau. People seemed to be delighted at seeing Castle Grenwitz once more the place of meeting for all the busy idlers of the neighborhood, and thus regaining its ancient fame for hospitality. They approved highly of Anna Maria's determination to exchange the convent life which she had led so far for a new life, more brilliant, and more suitable to the old renown of her noble family; they paid her so many compliments on her powers of conversation, her talent to arrange large entertainments, that she tried to plead the absolute necessity for such an outlay before her own conscience, when it charged her with recklessness in going to all the expense paused by the unusual hospitality.

It had happened in this manner that Oswald had met once more with several persons whom he had seen at the ball at Barnewitz; but none of those for whom he felt a special interest. It was a remarkable accident which brought one afternoon almost all the persons together who had then become better known to him. Some had been invited, others had come by chance. Thus he saw, with very different feelings. Baron Barnewitz and his wife Hortense enter the room; then Count Grieben and a few others; but his interest in the matter became a very special and downright painful one when at last, and quite unexpectedly, another carriage drove up, bringing Adolphus and Emily von Breesen, with their aunt, whose toothless mouth and sharp tongue Oswald had by no means forgotten.

"This way, my fine young gentleman," cried the old lady, when she noticed him after the first introduction. "Why did you not come to see us, as you promised? Was that my reward for holding you up to my nephew as a pattern of a well-bred young man who knows what he owes to ladies? And for praising your pronunciation of French to my niece? Are you very much ashamed? I honor you with my displeasure!"

"I do not deserve it, madam," said Oswald. "I was not able to come as I would have liked to do; and even if I really should have committed such a sin of omission, I am sure I have lost enough to be spared the punishment of your displeasure."

"Oh yes--fine phrases, you never want them. You are not less uncivil, I fear, than the other young men; you are only a little less awkward, and I see I shall have to pardon you. Here is my hand, and now see how you can make your peace with my niece without her scratching out your pretty eyes."

Thereupon the lively old lady turned her back upon Oswald, and left him to a tÊte-À-tÊte, for which he had no desire just then, with pretty Miss Emily, who stood there before him with slightly flushed cheeks and heaving bosom, not daring to raise her eyes from the ground.

Oswald was determined not to renew the childish and yet dangerous play with the impassioned girl. He wished and hoped she would have seen her folly. He was rather pleased, therefore, when Miss Emily answered the few indifferent words which he addressed to her with apparent unconcern, and then joined a group of girls who surrounded Helen, and admired the new-fashioned cut of a dress which she wore for the first time to-day.

His meeting with Baron Cloten also was less uncomfortable than he had anticipated from his manner when they saw each other at Baron Oldenburg's house. The young nobleman pretended to be very glad to see him again; he inquired eagerly after Oldenburg, spoke of their pistol-shooting at Barnewitz, and asked if Oswald would now give him satisfaction.

Oswald was rather curious to see the meeting between Cloten and Barnewitz. To his great surprise, however, there seemed to be an excellent understanding between the two gentlemen; Oldenburg had evidently proved an excellent diplomat in this affair. The fact was, he had persuaded both that each one was eager to drink the blood of the other, and thus induced the two men to listen to his suggestions for an amicable arrangement, as they found, both of them, life far too pleasant to risk it without very grave provocation. He had represented Cloten's little trifling with Hortense as mere child's play to Barnewitz, and vowed that he was persuaded Cloten had never stood in any other relation to the good lady than many other acquaintances, he himself for instance,--a wretched ambiguity, which the somewhat simple husband, however, gratefully accepted as an evidence of his wife's innocence. The young rustic Don Giovanni, on the other hand, he had advised to be once or twice very rude, and even impertinent to Hortense, in her husband's presence, and, above all, to pick out some pretty girl among his friends, and to court her publicly. Cloten was very glad to get off so cheap; he had followed Oldenburg's advice to the letter, and begun, on the spot, to pay the most devoted attentions to Emily von Breesen. So far, however, he had not been successful in his efforts. Far from it. The thoughtless girl had overwhelmed him with pitiless scorn and scoffing; his assurances of love and devotion were met with ironical remarks, and his chivalrous services were accepted with an indifference which would have driven him to despair if he had been in earnest. And, as it happens in such things, he had gradually come to be in earnest; Miss Emily was by no means one of those young ladies whom one could with impunity see and serve almost daily. She was so charming even in her wanton recklessness, so lovely even in her insolence, that the unlucky bird-catcher caught himself, from day to day, more and more in his own net, and would now have given almost anything for a single kind word from the lips he adored. What was therefore his delight when Miss Emily, whom he hardly dared to approach, to-day met him with the greatest friendliness, chose him as her companion during the promenade they made through the garden, sent him to gather flowers for her, and to bring her a handkerchief she had forgotten at the house, and, in a word, seemed to do everything to make amends in an hour for all the insults of the last weeks!

Cloten was overwhelmed with happiness; his watery blue eyes beamed with delight; he twisted his little moustache unceasingly, and smiled with stupid vanity whenever some one whispered to him: "Well, Cloten, all right, eh?" or, "That's right, Cloten, don't be afraid."

Oswald did not know what to make of the comedy. At first he thought Emily only wanted to show him that she did not want admirers, for he could not believe that so clever a girl, who, with all her faults and foibles, was very lovely and exceedingly pretty, should take a fancy to such a stupid man as Cloten. When evening came the company gradually retired into the rooms adjoining the lawn, but Emily and Cloten remained almost alone outside, and Oswald had at last to fall in with the unanimous opinion of the company, that the engagement between Baron Cloten and Miss Emily could no longer be doubted. He was sorry for the girl, who could throw herself away in this manner; but then he thought again: It was not worth while to reproach yourself so much about so heartless a girl! They are, after all, in all probability, quite worthy of one another. I wonder if Cloten is not ashamed to play such a farce before the eyes of the woman he has loved?

He turned to Hortense, who was standing alone in the embrasure of one of the windows. The pretty blonde seemed to-day to be pleased with this neglect on the part of the gentlemen, although it was most extraordinary, as she generally was one of the best-attended ladies.

"Are you not going to dance to-night, baroness?" asked Oswald.

"Are they going to dance?" she replied, as if awaking from a dream.

"Oh, certainly. They are just carrying the piano into the large salon. Mr. Timm has offered to play. May I have the honor of the first dance, if I am not too late?"

"Too late? Oh, no! Those times are gone by when I used to be engaged for weeks ahead. I leave that to the younger ones now."

"You are pleased to jest."

"By no means; you are the first who asks me, and as I am afraid you will be the last also, I think I had better not begin at all. I would rather say: Come and sit down a little by me here, and let us have a nice little chat while they are dancing. What do you say?"

"The question requires no answer," said Oswald, drawing up a chair for Hortense.

"Won't you sit down? I am told, doctor, you have a great talent for satire. Let me see a proof of your talent; you cannot be in want of material, if you cast a glance at the company from our place here. Which of the ladies do you think the prettiest?"

"You mean the least plain?"

"You scamp! It is true, though, that there is not much to be seen that is pretty. A few nice dresses, perhaps. How do you like Helen Grenwitz?"

"I do not see her at all. Where can she be?"

"There, on the right, near the door. She is speaking to her Cousin Felix. How do they stand with each other? Has Cousin Felix yet made his declaration?"

"Certainly not to me."

"I suppose not. But do you think he will propose?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I consider the whole thing quite inexplicable."

"Are you enthusiastic about Miss Helen?"

"Infinitely so."

"I suppose you take a special interest in all girls who are fresh from school?"

"Only when they are really interesting."

"Not always. Or do you really mean to say that Emily von Breesen deserves being called so?"

"I have never been enthusiastic about her."

"Well--but then she has been all the more so about you. Lisbeth was the confidante of her grief, and Lisbeth has of course told me the whole story."

"Oh, that is simply impossible."

"Don't be excited! You see the child has found consolation. To-day she is hand in glove with Cloten; to-morrow she will have somebody else. That girl has talent. She will do much in that line. I am only sorry for poor Cloten."

"But why does he expose himself to the danger?"

"Certainly--and without his Mentor's advice?"

"Who is that?"

"Baron Oldenburg. He probably has misunderstood his friend's advice, and will marry little Emily from mere blundering."

"You are pleased to speak to me in unfathomable riddles."

"I beg your pardon. Tell me, have you really become the baron's bosom friend in this short time, as report says?"

"Report has, as usually, changed the mote into a beam."

"Do you think I mean it well with you?" said Hortense, and looked Oswald full in the face.

"I have no reason to suppose the contrary," replied the latter, who began to be peculiarly interested in the conversation, which he had begun without any purpose whatever.

"Then follow my advice: have a care of the baron as of your bitterest enemy."

"Why?"

"Because he is false to the core of his heart."

"Do you know him well? And--pardon me if I cannot at once believe so grave an accusation of a man whom, I confess, I have esteemed very highly until now--have you any evidence of his being false?"

"A thousand!"

"Can you mention one?"

"You will not betray what I am going to tell you?"

"I promise."

"Then listen. You know my cousin Melitta. Well, she has foibles as well as all of us, but at the bottom she is a charming woman, whom I love dearly, and whom I should be extremely sorry to see once more in hands from which I thought I had rescued her forever. If Melitta is not as good as she could be, Oldenburg alone has that on his conscience. He turned her head, when she was quite young, with his foolish notions, so that at last she knew no longer what was right and what was wrong. Then, when she made that capital match with Baron Berkow, he disturbed their good relations by his interference, and it was no wonder that Berkow at last lost his mind from jealousy. I saw how that came about. At last I succeeded in persuading Melitta to send Oldenburg away for a few years. He went, but when we shortly afterwards were travelling in Italy he reappeared, I know not whether by accident or called in by Melitta. From her manner I should have supposed the latter. The old story began once more. Solitary walks, low whisperings and vows, which took place even in the presence of third persons--in short, it was a downright unpleasant sight for one who, like myself, thinks rather strictly in such matters. In vain I begged and besought Melitta to think of her sick husband and of her child. I preached to deaf ears. Then I determined to use desperate means. In order to prove to her Oldenburg's worthlessness--of which I had heard on all sides fabulous accounts--I pretended to let him fall in love with myself. It did not require much effort, for the baron is both treacherous and reckless in his passions. After a little while he pursued me with his adoration--of course without committing himself before Melitta. At the same time he spoke so heartlessly, so wickedly of my poor cousin, that I was scarcely able to wear the mask which I had assumed. And yet I had to do it till Oldenburg should be impassioned enough to run blindly into the net which I had prepared. I managed it so that one day, in the garden of the villa Serra di Falco, near Palermo, he made me a declaration of love, while Melitta was standing a few feet from us behind a myrtle hedge. Poor woman! It was a painful operation, but it was necessary. Oldenburg disappeared of course the next morning. I tried to amuse Melitta as well as I could, and I must confess she bore the bitter disappointment, the cruel humiliation, better than I had expected. I hoped the severe lesson would have opened her eyes, as to Oldenburg, forever, especially when I found that the baron gave her time for reflection by staying away for several years. But suddenly he turns up again a few weeks ago. I anticipated evil at once--for the appearance of this man is always the signal for some calamity. How he has managed to regain Melitta's favor, and how it is possible that Melitta could be weak enough to readmit him to her house, is more than I can tell. Both of them possess a remarkable talent of concealing their actions from the eyes of the world. I only know that a reconciliation has taken place,--which I presume must have been a complete one between two persons of such experience,--and, to keep the solemnity duly secret, they have made a journey together, and where? To Fichtenau, the place where Melitta's husband has been confined for seven years! Really, I am sorry for Melitta. If she intended to ruin her reputation, she could not have done more. For even if Berkow is really on the point of death, what can Oldenburg have to do there, he who is the cause of the whole misery? And does Melitta really think she can marry Oldenburg after Berkow's death? Alas! If Oldenburg had to marry all the women to whom he has vowed love in his life he would have a nice seraglio, from the duchess to the maid, in which all nations and all races would be represented. But, heavens! what is the matter with you? You look like a corpse. Are you unwell?"

"It is only the excessive heat," said Oswald, rising. "Pardon me, I pray, for leaving you so abruptly. I must try if the cool evening air will help me."

He made Hortense a very formal bow, and went without waiting for her answer.

"Well, what does that mean?" asked the latter, looking after him as he hastened out. "Has my excellent cousin made another conquest there? And have I unwittingly killed two birds with one stone? I meant only to rob Oldenburg of his new friend; but if I have robbed Melitta at the same time of a new admirer, so much the better. I should think that young man could be made useful. To be sure, I must be a little cautious, for Barnewitz has become a real Othello since that affair with Cloten--there he is now.... My dear Barnewitz, do you look a little after your poor, forlorn little wife? I have been sitting here all the evening waiting for you."

"Why don't you dance?"

"Do you think I like to dance when you are away?"

"I have arranged a little game at cards with Grieben and some others, but I can jump about with you some little time. Come! They are just beginning a waltz! That is exactly my forte."

And the happy couple entered the room where the dancers were.

In the mean while Oswald was wandering about in the garden, restless, like one who suffers terrible pain. From the open doors and windows came bright lights and merry voices; around the lawn colored paper lanterns had been hung by Anna Maria's direction, and the moonlight became almost superfluous. From time to time a few couples would come out and promenade in the balsamic night air. It was a pleasant, festive scene, which, however, offended Oswald in his present frame of mind, as when a friend smiles at our suffering. He went up on the wall, sat down on a bench and stared, his head resting on his hand, into the water of the moat, on which the rays of the moon were dancing in weird confusion.

"Would it not be better you made an end to your miserable life?" he murmured, "than to drag the burden of life still farther, to your own harm and to nobody's joy? Will you vegetate on and on till every illusion has been killed, and you have thrown everything overboard that was once dear and sacred to you? Will you wait till your patience is fully exhausted, like poor, great-hearted Berger? That, then, is the true portrait of the woman before whom you knelt as before a saint! That is the man whose hand you thought it an honor to press! You never were anything but a foot-ball for her high and noble caprices; and he condescended to make glorious baronial fun of you. But it cannot, cannot be! Why not? Is not their whole life an unbroken intrigue? Here the wife betrays the husband, and there the husband the wife? The father sells his daughter for money, and the mother disposes of her own flesh and blood. The friend cheats the friend. One coquette proclaims aloud the secrets of another coquette, and you think they would treat you better--you, the plebeian, who have to work for your daily bread?--And yet! and yet! It is horrible! The wife whom you adored like a goddess, perhaps even now in the arms of another, deceiving him, deceiving you, only to be deceived by him in her turn! And you, good-natured fool, you struggle like a madman against your passion for the sweet, the glorious creature, the only pure one among these witches; for she is pure and good, or there is nothing pure left in this world. No, no! And if all around you is cheat and deceit, if all betray you, look up to this high star; it is your star, for only what is unattainably high is worthy of your love! Let the lizards and the toads quarrel about the will-o'-the-wisp as they dance over the morass."

A slight noise near him made him start up. A tall, slender figure in a white dress was standing before him. Through a little opening in the foliage above, a ray of the moon fell upon the slim form.

It was Emily.

"Hush!" she said, as Oswald rose with a suppressed cry of astonishment "Keep where you are! I saw you leave the salon; I followed you, because I wish to speak to you. I must do so. I shall not detain you long. I only ask one word--one single word--that is to decide my whole life. Do you love me? Yes or no?"

The young girl had seized Oswald's hand and held it with nervous violence. "Yes or no?" she repeated, in a tone of voice which betrayed but too clearly the intensity and madness of her passion.

But there was no echo to that voice in Oswald's heart; it remained closed, like the house of a man who has been robbed the night before.

"You mistake no doubt the person," he said, with cutting sarcasm. "My name is Oswald Stein; Baron Cloten is, as far as I know, somewhere in the house," and he tried to loosen his hand from that of the girl.

"Have I deserved that?" she said, in a voice almost stifled by tears, and let her arms sink in utter despair.

"The night is cool," said Oswald, rising; "the dew begins to fall; you will take cold in your light dress. May I have the honor to take you back to the house?"

"Oh my God! my God!" murmured Emily; "I cannot endure this! Oswald, do not treat me thus! How I have longed for this moment! How I have repeated to myself a thousand times all I would say to you. How I hoped you would again take me in your arms as ... oh God! what am I saying? Oswald, have pity on me! You cannot wish to punish my thoughtlessness of this evening so cruelly! I only wanted to tease you a little. I thought every moment you would come up and tell me,--but you did not come, and I had to keep up the comedy, bon grÉ, mal grÉ."

"Are you quite sure, Miss Emily, you are not playing comedy at this very moment?"

Emily made no reply. She sank with a groan upon the bench; she pressed her face in her hands, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

Oswald was not one of those men who can see a woman weep unmoved. He stepped close up to the unfortunate girl and said:

"Will you listen to me calmly a few moments?"

Emily's only answer was a violent sobbing.

"Believe me," Oswald continued, "I am heartily sorry for you; that such a scene should at all have been possible; and I feel that I, and I alone, am to blame for it. If I had told you that night what I must tell you to-day, your pride would long since have made an end to the matter.--I cannot love you. That sounds very strange, spoken to a woman of such loveliness and sweetness, but it is nevertheless true. Why then will you waste your love on one who shows himself so utterly unworthy of such a precious gift? Why not render somebody happy by it, who has more talent for being happy and for making others happy?--I am just now so low-spirited that I am more than usually incapable of looking at men and things in the right light. Pardon me, therefore, if I have offended you just now by my bitter words. I had no right to use them; it was thoughtless in me; I blame myself for them. I pray, I beseech you, forget all that has happened between us! And do not allow this mortification to lead you to sudden resolves, which you may and will regret hereafter. You see what it is to bestow your affections upon an unworthy person. If this cruel experience should aid you in the selection which you will sooner or later make, I am willing to endure for the moment your hatred and even your contempt."

Emily had, while Oswald spoke, gradually ceased to weep. Now she rose and said, in an almost calm voice:

"Quite enough! I thank you. You have opened my eyes. You shall never be troubled again, as far as I am concerned. Tell me only this one thing: Am I victimized for the sake of another? Do you love another person?"

"Yes!" said Oswald, after a little hesitation.

"Very well! And now listen you! As I have loved you with all the warmth of my heart, so I hate you now; and as a few minutes ago I would have willingly given my love for you, so I wish now to be avenged on you for this disgrace. And I will be avenged; I will----"

Again she broke out into passionate tears; but she checked herself quickly.

"You do not deserve it, that I shed so many tears for you. Now crown your conduct and follow me into the house, so that the whole world may see what a fool I have been!"

And she hastened away from Oswald, down the wall, across the lawn, into the salon, where they were dancing merrily. Cloten, who had in vain looked for her everywhere, and now stood melancholy, leaning against a door-frame, saw her at once and hurried to meet her.

"Why, Miss Emily! Caused me real anguish! Upon my word, was au dÉsespoir! Thought, in fact, one of the heavenly ones had eloped with you."

"I have been quietly reflecting. Baron Cloten, on what you told me a little while ago," replied Emily.

"'Pon my word! Are an angel! and I may hope?" asked Cloten, who of course interpreted the reddened eyelids and the excited manner of the young girl in his own favor.

"Go to my aunt!"

"Really? 'pon honor? I can't believe it!" exclaimed the young man, and his surprise was by no means fictitious.

"Then do not go!" replied Miss Emily, in a tone which would have made anybody else very much afraid about the firmness of the tie that was about to be formed here.

"Great God! Emily, angel, do not be angry. I hasten, I fly----"

And Baron Cloten went away in most abject confusion to seek out the aunt.

Emily remained standing on the same spot, pale, her arms folded, her eyes fixed upon the groups of dancers, without seeing anything more than if she had stared into vacancy.

"You are wiser than others," said a voice close by her.

It was Baron Felix; he had thrown himself into a chair, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a delicate handkerchief.

"Ridiculous to jump about in this heat; I think it is time to stop. And now Helen has relieved Mr. Timm at the piano. That girl has strange notions. Don't you think so, Miss Emily?"

"Perhaps she had no one to dance with."

"Impossible."

"Well, perhaps not the right one."

"C'est-À-dire?"

"The one she likes to dance with."

"I have always been here."

"You do not imagine you are the happy one?"

"Who else?"

"Don't you know what has become of Mr. Stein?"

"No, why?"

"I only ask for Miss Helen's sake. Do you not see how her big, proud eyes are searching steadily, but unceasingly, all over the salon?"

"You are surely not in earnest?"

"Why not? Is not Mr. Stein a very handsome man? And has not Miss Helen very strange notions?"

"Miss Emily," said Felix, gravely, "will you do me the honor to tell me whether you have any special reasons for such an assertion?"

"Of course I have special reasons."

"And will you have the kindness to mention them?"

"That I cannot."

At that moment Baron Cloten returned, his face beaming with delight.

"Miss Emily," he said, "your aunt wishes to speak to you. May I have the honor to take you to her?"

"Directly," said Emily, and then to Felix: "Rely on what I told you. You have sharp eyes and ears."

She took Cloten's arm.

"I must find that out," said Felix to himself when he was alone again. "Helen's manner has really been extraordinary of late."

He went up to the piano. "Shall I turn the music for you, Helen?"

"Thanks," Helen replied dryly. "I play from memory."

After a short pause: "Please, cousin, go away. It makes me nervous to have anybody stand so close behind me."

"It seems to me Doctor Stein stood yesterday half an hour behind you and you did not show any great nervousness."

"Then I will rise," said Helen. She wound up with a short finale and left the piano, without paying any attention to the general Ah! of the dancers.

"That is rather strong," said Felix to himself.

"Why did Helen stop playing so suddenly?" asked the baroness, who had watched the scene from a distance, and now came up.

"I do not know. She probably took something I said amiss. She is more capricious and obstinate than I thought. Don't you think, aunt, that man Stein, with his corrupt notions, may exercise a bad influence on Helen as well as on Bruno?"

"I have always told you I have no faith in that man."

"Why don't you turn him out?"

"Without any cause?"

"Pshaw! That is easily found. Will you give me permission to find one?"

"But there must be no scene?"

"Let me manage that."

"You must bring it about that he shall himself ask to be relieved."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons.--And, Felix, do not speak of it to Grenwitz. Of late he has become very self-willed. I am even afraid he thinks of interfering with our plan. I pray you, Felix, be cautious! I should be beside myself if we fail, after having represented the whole matter everywhere as a fait accompli!"

"Pshaw! aunt! Anxious again? Rely on me; I'll carry out what I have begun!"