"Do not be angry, dear, good mamma," said Alide, kneeling before her and taking both her hands affectionately. "He was to tell you himself to-morrow. We had arranged it all, and I should not have spoken now, but I could not help it. It is much better to avoid from the beginning all misunderstandings and mistakes, is it not?"

Madame Duroc made no answer, but silently folded her daughter to her breast, and kissed repeatedly the soft white brow. "Since it is thus," she said, at last, "may you be blessed!" And Alide felt a scalding tear drop upon her cheek.

"Ah, you are harassed after a tiresome day, dear mamma," said she, caressingly. "It is late now; I wish I could have waited till to-morrow to tell you; it is not possible in this dim room, at this melancholy hour, to realize so much light and joy cast on one's whole life. Oh, mamma, what a noble son you will see in him to-morrow, in the cheerful daylight! and how you will rejoice with me in my beautiful destiny!"

An hour later, Alide was sleeping profoundly and dreamlessly after the excitements of this wonderful white day. But Frau Duroc's pillow was stained with tears pressed painfully from wakeful eyes. Her mind was possessed with gloomy forebodings: the mother-heart was yearning in the darkness after the darling of the nest, so suddenly and irrevocably flown.

As for Goethe, he, like Alide, outwearied by such strong emotions, had fallen at once into a deep, refreshing slumber; but scarcely had he slept thus for a few hours when he was awakened by a heat and tumult in his blood. Stretched out, defenseless as he was, his imagination now presented to him the liveliest forms. Excited by love and passion, wine and dancing, his thoughts raged in confusion, and his feelings were tortured into a state of despair. He was thoroughly, keenly awake,—what apparition was this standing by his bedside? The French girl, Lucinda, clad in black, with night-black hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and passionate gestures, slowly receding from him. His lips were still afire from her ardent kiss, her shrill imprecation rang painfully in his ears, "Woe upon woe for ever and ever!" as she pointed with her long thin finger opposite to her, where stood Alide, pale, motionless, with her fair, disheveled locks waving about her white-robed form, outstretching her arms towards him in piteous supplication, feeling the consequences of the curse, and yet ignorant of their cause. Between these two, he lay trembling in every limb, as little able to ward off the spiritual effects of the adventure as to avoid the evil-boding kiss. Yes, he had harmed irretrievably the dearest of beings,—the spell had not been broken; far from having freed himself from the curse, it was flung back from his lips into his heart. He sprang up in bed, and looked wildly about him. The illusion vanished, but he could not calm the fever of his blood, that boiled and throbbed in his veins. The myriad possible results of his passion presented themselves to him in such sombre colors as utterly to preclude the chance of sleep or repose for the remainder of the night. He saw this exquisite maiden whom he loved so tenderly, ruined, deflowered, dead. Could it be possible, he mused, that despite the energy of will, the passionate vitality, the comprehensive intellect with which Fate had endowed him, she nevertheless had made him her creature, her football, to such a degree as to impel him along to this preordained end, notwithstanding his most resolute efforts towards the opposite direction? And why had this innocent, beautiful girl, formed so perfectly for happiness, been selected as the victim? Or again, what purpose was he destined to accomplish so lofty and so necessary that such elements as these, the life, the love, the happiness of human souls like his own, should be cast into his hands, to mould as he pleased? Bah! that was the privilege of the gods: to what blasphemy were his reckless thoughts leading him?

Fortunately, daylight peeping in through a chink of the shutter, and the sun stepping forth and vanquishing all the powers of night, put an end to his mad fancies. He was soon in the open air, and refreshed if not restored. The sight of Alide, the feeling of her love, the cheerfulness of everything around him, all reproved him, that in the midst of the happiest days he could harbor such dismal night-birds in his bosom.

CHAPTER X
QUIET PLEASURES

As the winter approached, Goethe was obliged to pass the greater part of his time in the city, though, to say the truth, he was there as much absorbed by the image of Alide as while he remained in her presence. Thus he availed himself of every conceivable pretext to ride over to the parsonage, to pass the long, pleasant evenings in that happily-united circle, and return through the frosty red dawn to his occupations in Strasburg. The joyous Christmas festival, celebrated with so much quaint and picturesque ceremony in Germany, afforded him the opportunity for an unusually prolonged visit. They enjoyed together all the healthy winter pastimes, no less varied than the sports of milder seasons; the long, rapid drives and rides over the frozen ground, or in sledges through the snowy fields, the merry skating adventures upon the ponds in the vicinity, and the cheerful evenings in the snug inclosure of the library, where all the family gathered around the blazing logs of the great open hearth and listened to him unweariedly while he read aloud or recounted to them many a winter's tale.

The affair was allowed to take its course without the question being directly asked as to what was to be the result. The parents thought themselves compelled to let the young folks continue for awhile in a wavering condition, with the hope that accidentally something might be confirmed for life, better perhaps than could be produced by a long-arranged plan. It was believed that perfect confidence could be placed both in Alide's sentiments and in Goethe's rectitude, of which, on account of his forbearance even from innocent caresses, a favorable opinion had been entertained. The little birds in his heart began to sing once more; he was able to give rhythmical expression to his happiness, and with his letters he would frequently send such verses as were the natural outpouring of his ethereal fancies and ardent longings. Painted ribbons had just then come into fashion: he amused himself with designing the most fantastic and poetical devices on a few silken strips of blue and lilac and white. These he accompanied with the following stanzas:

Tiny leaflets, tiny flowers,
Lightly from thy fingers fling,
Waving on the airy ribbon,
Young and kindly god of Spring.