III.
As most people in sorrow and affliction turn to prayer Albert turned to love. He could be without friends, he could endure mental anguish, but he could not bear life without love.
Of late many things had troubled him. His father was making preparations to leave Gunsdorf and his mother’s letters lacked the usual ring of cheer. His sister, too, seemed weary of the life in her native town and frankly hinted that she would welcome a change. He had gradually become estranged from Uncle Leopold’s house and from the class of people that visited there and shunned all other associations, save the dilettantes in the Swiss Pavilions who sat all day drinking beer and talking grandiloquently of art and literature. But before long he tired of these, too. He fathomed their depth. He was lonely and craved affection, and his thoughts turned to Eugenie. He had not seen her for some time, as her father had moved to a farm about five miles from Hamburg, and her visits at Frau Rodbertus’ were rare. He now yearned for Eugenie and reproached himself for his neglect of her in the past. He knew Eugenie had loved him and wondered if she still loved him.
One summer day he took a stroll on the road between Winterlude and Ohlsdorf. He was going to find her and yet sauntered along the road as if he were just walking aimlessly for the sheer pleasure of movement. It was a warm day and the road was white with dust. A dog barked. Albert turned around and saw a large dog harnessed to a small cart, barking as he pulled his load. Alongside the cart, on which stood a large empty milk can, was a girl, with a kerchief overhead arranged in the shape of a hood. The girl turned around when the dog began to bark, glanced in Albert’s direction, and proceeded on her way. The next moment she turned in his direction again and he saw a pair of large brown eyes under the hood-like kerchief. His heart fluttered, noisy crickets chattered in a nearby field. A bird called from a clump of bushes not far off. The muffled beats of flails came from a barn close to the roadside. The girl did not turn her head but plodded on alongside the little cart. Soon the road forked off to the left and the girl turned her head again toward him.
“Eugenie,” he called.
The dog emitted a loud, hollow bark and the empty can rattled against the sides of the little cart.
The girl hesitated, paused, and turned around, the dog hurrying ahead of her toward the farmhouse.
“Eugenie!”
Albert’s voice was jubilant, ringing with surprise, as if the meeting was wholly accidental.
With a quick movement of her left hand she jerked off the handkerchief, facing him with dilated eyes in which was a strange light.
She did not extend her hand to him.
“Frau Rodbertus had told me you were on a farm,” he broke the silence, intimating that it was not chance that had brought him here.
A softer light stole over her face, her protruding lip curled upward, disclosing her longish white teeth.
“I haven’t seen Frau Rodbertus in months,” Eugenie said, standing before him with her arms hanging on either side of her, the kerchief in her left hand.
Albert studied her a moment. The freedom of bygone days was gone. He felt constraint and sensed her constraint.
The dog had reached the gate of the farmhouse and stopped, barking, his head turned in the direction of Eugenie.
“You see, he is scolding me for lagging behind,” she said, indulging in a spontaneous smile.
“He is scolding you for your failure to offer hospitality to the weary wayfarer,” Albert answered in kind.
They both laughed.
“All wayfarers, weary or otherwise, are welcome at our house,” she said, turning into the passage that led to the farmhouse.
When they reached the house, Eugenie’s father, with rake in hand, was cleaning up the rubbish in front of the house. He was a little man, with a round face, a small tuft of hair under his lower lip, and a soft look in his round eyes such as only Frenchmen possess. He halted and glanced up suspiciously at the young man who followed his daughter into the yard. M. Chauraux was suspicious of all Germans, in spite of his sojourn there for many years.
Eugenic introduced Albert to her father, who acknowledged the introduction grudgingly. He showed only such cordiality as his native manners and politeness compelled, mumbling a few words in broken German.
“The gentleman speaks French, papa,” Eugenie struck in cheerfully, “and he loves the Emperor as much as you do.”
The Frenchman’s eyes turned with a bright flicker and, forgetting that he had just shaken hands with the stranger, clasped his hand once more. Then a mist appeared in the little man’s eyes and he sighed, muttering under his breath, “The Emperor!”
“No one loves the Emperor more than I do,” returned Albert.
“Have you ever seen him?” There was ecstasy on the Frenchman’s face.
“I see him now—I see him all the time—” cried Albert with boyish rapture. “I see him seated on a small white horse, holding the reins in one hand and gently stroking the horse’s neck with the other, riding slowly along the linden-flanked lane of the Hofgarten in my native town—Ah, the Emperor!” Mist also appeared in Albert’s eyes.
Saddened silence. Two speechless individuals with drooping heads. The Emperor was a captive on a barren island far removed from his worshippers.
Eugenie did not think of the Emperor. She was too happy to think of anything save of the cordiality between her father and Albert. Her father was very strict and never permitted her to form any friendship with young men. When the “time” would come he would find the proper “parti” for her, was his way of thinking. And he guarded jealously the most trivial flirtation on her part. He knew nothing of what had passed between his daughter and this young man beyond the fact that he was a lodger whom his daughter had once met at his relative’s home and that he happened to meet Eugenie on a chance stroll in this vicinity.
It was about two o’clock and Albert was invited to have a meal with them. There were very few words exchanged between Albert and Eugenie. All the talk was between her father and Albert—about the Emperor.
M. Chauraux did not mind his daughter’s accompanying the young man for a little distance. They had had a bottle of Burgundy between them and the young man admired the Emperor. The Frenchman had become quite loquacious and invited Albert to come again—any time whenever he could spare an hour from his business. Who could tell? The young man talked so well, seemed so prosperous, and loved the Emperor so much!—Who could tell? He might be a proper parti.
M. Chauraux’s regard for Albert increased when, several days later, the young man read to him a poem about Napoleon. The Frenchman did not quite grasp the verses in German but when Albert gave him the substance of it in French and then read the original to him, with unshed tears in his eyes, he even understood the German.
The young poet declaimed his verses with passionate abandon, music in his voice, tears in his eyes. The eyes of M. Chauraux, too, were clouded, the tuft of hair under his lower lip quivered, and he shook his head and sighed and murmured “Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!”
M. Chauraux wiped a tear away. Who could tell? This young man, though not French, certainly loved the Emperor, and was evidently not averse to Eugenie—yes, he might be a proper parti for Eugenie.
One day, when Eugenie came into the house, having escorted Albert down the road, her father was seated at the table—there was only one table and one room which served as dining and living room—his arms resting upon it, as was his wont; his bushy eyebrows frowning as if he were working on a hard puzzle; his eyes staring in front; his short, stubby fingers drumming absently upon the table. He glanced at his daughter and noticed the expression of exultation on her face.
“A talented young man, hein?” said the father, without removing his arms from the table, and looking directly at her.
“Yes, he is,” Eugenie replied demurely, as was becoming a virtuous girl when her father makes reference to a young man.
“Very talented—very,” he repeated and turned in the direction of the window to his left. “Not a bad sort.”
Eugenie was silent and began busying herself with some household duties.
“Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!” hummed M. Chauraux, nodding his head sorrowfully and lightly tapping the table with the tips of his fingers.
“He might make a good husband for some nice girl,” the father said apropos of nothing a little later.
Eugenie was scouring a copper kettle and her head lowered as she applied herself to the utensil with more determination, without making any comment.
A girl should not be too frivolous, mused M. Chauraux, but still Eugenie ought not to be that bashful. She could at least encourage the young man, he said to himself, and take a little interest in him when he comes to the house. So far the conversations in the house were invariably carried on between the men, and always about the Emperor.
“You are past eighteen, my child,” he presently addressed his daughter, “and if the right young man would come along I should like to see you married.”
He rose from the table and came close to her. Eugenie, her face reddening, did not raise her eyes.
“You like Monsieur Zorn—hein?”
The scouring sound was the only reply.
M. Chauraux was puzzled. He could not quite reconcile her blushes with her silence. She never did care for the German young men, he said to himself.
“He is so different from the other Germans,” the father pursued the same object, flattering himself on his ingenious probing.
“Yes, he is different.”
M. Chauraux walked out of the house in a reflective mood. When a girl thinks a young man different from other young men she might be in love with him. Yes, he might be a good parti.