IX.
Albert Zorn now found himself attacking, and attacked by, the reactionaries in the Fatherland and the extreme radicals in Paris. At last the Junkers and the Jacobines joined hands to down him, their common foe. The pension granted by the king was the peg on which they hung their calumnies. And helped by the Prussian High Diet he was even denied the right to defend himself against this fabricated charge of disloyalty. However, this did not muzzle the valiant fighter. Screened by a pseudonym he returned blow for blow. Before the censor had become aware of his identity, his devastating irony was again felt in Germany.
And in spite of the growing paralysis of his left hand he worked indefatigably. He penned poems, critical essays, satires, political tracts, with the same spirit running through them all; the emancipation of the enslaved Prussian mind from the influence of the Junkers.
One day a compatriot challenged him to a duel. His compatriot had taken exception to an insinuation against a close friend of his in one of Albert Zorn’s recent books. True, Albert did not believe in the barbaric custom of duelling but he would not have any one charge him with cowardice, moral or physical. Indeed, he was ready to meet his adversary with any weapons he might choose.
The only thing that distressed him was Marguerite’s condition, should the duel prove fatal to him.
“Marguerite!—Marguerite!——”
Albert was calling her from the adjoining room. It was twilight, the dim twilight of a summer day. His voice sounded softer, more kindly than ever.
Albert was in the living-room. It was a small room, with a white marble mantle over the fireplace and a large mirror above it. The open windows opposite were reflected in the mirror. He was seated, an elbow on the arm of his chair, his cheek against the palm of his left hand, his legs outstretched, wistfully thinking, a strange melancholy in his half-closed eyes. His usual impatience was lacking.
Presently Marguerite appeared. She seemed unusually pretty. Her plump figure had never looked so comely and her eyes never sparkled with more vivacity. She paused for a moment coquettishly, inviting inspection. Should she make a light? No, he did not care for a light. He could see how beautiful she was even in the dim light of the setting sun.
He languidly stretched out his right hand and she came closer to him and placed her hand in his. Ah! she knew how to humor her Albert when he was in a melancholy mood, and her Albert was never more amiable and kind than when in this mood. Though jocular he could not hide his melancholy the past few days, and though he might think her a fool, and without much brains, she understood every passing mood of his. No, indeed, all his friends were telling her what a great man Albert was, and how subtle and profound he was, but she knew better than any of them. She knew he was as simple minded as a child. Albert often called her his child—a lot he knew! It was he who needed mothering from his Marguerite.
The next moment she was on his knees, her lips against his forehead, a hand through his soft hair. He responded quickly to tenderness and pressed his lips against her fingers. There was mist in his eyes. He had been thinking very much of her the past few days; in fact, all his thoughts were of her. He had just come from a notary and made his will, leaving everything he possessed to her.
They were seated in silence for a short space, the clock on the mantle ticking strange melodies. Albert often heard this French clock tick German folk songs. He often wondered why Marguerite could not hear these songs—the only one she could make out was La Parisienne, and even this one only when Albert hummed it and used his hand as a baton.
“We are going to get married, Marguerite,” he suddenly announced.
Her hand gripped his involuntarily and for a few seconds she made no sound. Her brain could not quite comprehend his statement. She had never asked him to marry her legally and he had never spoken of it.
“Are you ill—What is troubling you?” she was almost breathless with anxiety.
“No, my kitten,” he made an effort to talk in a light tone and encircled her waist with his arm. “It has just occurred to me that in case anything should happen to me—in case I die—you understand——”
“But what put dying into your head all of a sudden?” There was terror in her voice.
“Nothing—nothing particularly—” he was forcing an indifferent tone—“the thought occurred to me today as I was passing the Boulevard. A horse slipped and fell and hurt a pedestrian. One thought brought another—don’t you see, I was thinking an accident might happen to me—what would become of you?”
Her eyes quickly filled with tears and there were tears in her voice. She did not want her Albert to die and if he died she might as well die, too. Marriage or no marriage, it made no difference to her. Many men had flirted with her and tried to win her away from him—yes, even a few of his friends—yes, all men were alike. Whenever they saw a pretty young woman, they wanted to appropriate her, be she a friend’s wife or mistress. No, indeed, it made no difference to her. She had gone to live with him because she loved him and would never leave him, marriage or no marriage.
“Apprends donc,” she was saying, “que jamais je ne te quitterai, que tu m’aimes on non, que tu m’epouses ou non, que tu me maltraites ou non, jamais je ne te quitterai. Entends-tu bien? Jamais! jamais!”
No, indeed, it made no difference to her, marriage or no marriage, whether or not he loved her, whether or not he’d ever ill-treat her, she’d never leave him—never! never! never! If he was proposing marriage to her because perchance he was jealous for a moment and thought some one might wean her away from him he need have no fear on that score.
He kissed her fingers in silence; there was ecstasy in his soul. He remembered the speech of Ruth when Naomi counselled her return to her people.
Presently Marguerite was sobbing on his breast. Her Albert was speaking and acting strangely. Had he been to see a physician, who had told him he could not live long? What did physicians know—indeed, what did they know? Her Albert would outlive them all. And she would take care of her Albert better than all the nurses in Paris and she would always be faithful to him. Oh, her poor Albert! What had put such foolish thoughts into his brain?
He cleared his throat, wiped the tears out of the corners of his eyes, and spoke light-heartedly. No, he had seen no physician and his health was good and he did not expect to die. He wanted to marry her for her own sake; he wanted no one ever to cast reflections upon her relationship with him. How would she be married—would she like to have a religious marriage? Yes, indeed, he would marry her in any manner it pleased her.
Since Albert insisted upon a legal bond, she wondered if he would mind going with her to the priest at the church of St. Sulpice. She had been “confessing” to him since she came to Paris.
“No, indeed, my kitten!” Albert’s voice was almost jubilant. “By all means let us be married by a Catholic priest. When the Church of Rome binds no one can tear asunder,” he added with a mysterious twinkle in his eyes.
Eight days later Albert was brought home slightly wounded. The duel had taken place in the Valley of St. Germain.
During his convalescence a friend dropped in.
“You have made thousands and thousands of friends,” the visitor was saying enthusiastically.
“Ah, yes, I understand,” jested Albert, “Drawing blood—especially an enemy’s blood—always relieves one’s pain. If I had been killed the kind Jesuits would have named the day of the duel a Saint’s Day.”
Marguerite, who sat by his bedside, begged him to stop laughing, as the physician had told her his constant laughing and joking irritated his wound.
“The doctor is mistaken,” Albert retorted. “My joking and laughing irritates the wounds of my enemies.”