The second story of the house had been uninhabited for years. The merchant and his young wife had occupied it in the lifetime of his parents. When he had lost one after another, parents, wife, and baby son, he moved to the first floor, and since then had seldom gone up stairs. Gray blinds hung down there the whole year through; the furniture and paintings were all covered up; in short, the whole story was like an enchanted castle, and even the ladies' footsteps fell softer when they were obliged to pass through the silent region.
The cousin was coming up stairs one day. In spite of her endless war with Pix, she had contrived to keep one small room to dry linen in. She was just musing upon the change official life made in men's characters, for Balbus, the successor of Pix, on whose humble bearing she had founded great hopes, showed himself in his new post just as aggressive as his predecessor. She had once more found a heap of cigar-boxes outside the three compartments which Pix had erected by main force in her own special domain, and she was just going to declare war against Balbus on their account. At that moment she remarked a door of the upper story wide open, and thought of thieves, and of calling out for help, but, upon consideration, judicially determined first to investigate the mystery. She crept into the curtained rooms, and was in some danger of being petrified with amazement when she saw her nephew standing there alone, looking at a picture of his departed wife, taken as a bride, in white silk, with a myrtle-wreath in her hair. The cousin could not restrain a sympathizing sigh. The merchant turned round in amazement. "I mean to remove the picture to my own room," said he, softly.
"But you have another portrait of Mary there already, and this one has always depressed you," cried the cousin.
"Years make us calmer," replied the merchant; "and, in course of time, another bride may come here."
The cousin's eyes flashed as she repeated "Another!"
"It was only a passing idea," said the merchant, cheerfully walking through the suite of rooms, followed by the cousin, proudly shrugging her shoulders. They might try to blind her as much as they liked; it was all in vain.
Neither did the cautious Sabine succeed any better.
Anton had silently sat near the cousin at dinner. When he rose, the good lady remarked that Sabine's eyes rested with an expression of tender anxiety upon his pale face, and then filled with tears. As soon as he had left the room, she moved to the window that looked into the court. The cousin crept behind her, and looked out too. Sabine was gazing down intently; suddenly she smiled, and her face was perfectly transfigured. Yet there was nothing to be seen but Anton, with his back toward them, caressing Pluto, who barked and jumped up at him.
"Oh!" thought the cousin, "it is not over Pluto that she laughs and cries at once."
And soon after, one day that the merchant opened the drawing-room door and called his sister out, the cousin spied a man with a great parcel standing in the hall. Her sharp eyes recognized in him a porter from one of the great draper's shops. The brother and sister went into the ante-room, a murmur of voices was heard, and a sound uncommonly like suppressed sobs. When Sabine returned her eyes were very red, but she looked happy and bashful. When the cousin went into the ante-room on some pretext or other, the great parcel was lying on a chair; and as she touched it—of course accidentally—and the paper was not tied up, it came to pass that she beheld its contents—a variety of exquisite dresses, and one thing that moved her to tears: it was that white robe of thickest silk which a woman only wears once in her life—on one solemn day of devout and trembling joy.