"Ah, they are going to take the coffin from the carriage," said Habermann, and he turned to the laborers, "Kegel, Päsel! you must come now and carry the coffin." And he went forward with those who should do this office, and Bräsig followed.
Meanwhile, the people were getting out of the carriages, and, as Axel and his sisters stepped down, they were met by the little Frau Pastorin and Louise in mourning raiment, and the Frau Pastorin pressed the hands of the two older sisters, with the greatest friendliness and compassion, although she had hitherto held herself rather aloof from them, on account of the difference in rank. But death and sympathy bring all to a level, the lofty bow themselves under the hand of God, knowing that they are as nothing before him, and the lowly are lifted up, because they feel that the pity which stirs in them is divine. Even David Däsel might have taken the gracious Fräuleins by the hand to-day, and they would have recognized his honest heart in his wet eyes.
Louise held her friend Fidelia in her arms, and knew not what to say or what to do. "There!" she cried, with a deep sob, pressing into her hand a bunch of red and white roses, as if she gave with it the love and sympathy of which her heart was full.
All eyes were turned upon the child of fourteen years,--was she still a child? When the barberry bush turns green after a warm rain, are they buds still which it bears, or are they leaves? And for the human soul, when its time has come, every deep emotion is like a warm rain, that changes the buds to leaves.
"Who is that?" asked Axel of Franz, who looked steadfastly at the child. "Who is that young maiden, Franz?" asked he again, taking his cousin by the arm.
"That young maiden?" said Franz, "do you mean that child? That is Inspector Habermann's daughter."
Habermann had seen his child also, and the thought recurred which had come to him in the night, when the Kammerrath was dying. "No," said he again, "the good Lord will not suffer it." Strange! she was not ill; and yet who could tell? His poor wife had just such beautiful rosy cheeks.
"What comes now?" said Bräsig, rousing him from these gloomy thoughts. "Truly! Just look, Karl, Zamel Pomuchelskopp! With a black suit on!"
It was so indeed. Pomuchelskopp came forward and bowed to the young ladies, the most melancholy bow which it was possible for a man of his build to achieve, and then, turning to the Herr Lieutenant: "He would excuse--neighborly friendship--deepest sympathy on this melancholy occasion--highest respect for the departed--hope for a future good understanding between Pumpelhagen and Gurlitz"--in short, whatever he could think of at the moment, and, as the lieutenant thanked him for his friendly interest, he felt as light as if he had discharged himself of all the sympathy that was in him. He looked around over the company and, seeing that there were no proprietors present besides the Count, he managed in the walk through the church-yard to follow closely behind him, and tread in his very footsteps, a proceeding to which the gracious Herr Count was utterly indifferent, but which gave Pomuchelskopp the liveliest satisfaction.
The body was buried. The mourners stopped for a few moments at the parsonage, and partook of a little refreshment. The little Frau Pastorin was quite beside herself, torn into two halves, one part of her would gladly have remained on the sofa by the three daughters, endeavouring to comfort them, the other would be fluttering about the room, offering her guests bread-and-butter and wine, and, when Louise assumed the latter office, and the Pastor the former, the poor Pastorin sat down, quite unhappy, in her arm-chair, as if old Surgeon Metz of Rahnstadt had been putting together her two halves, and she had found the process a painful one.