"Wunderschön!" said he.
"Wunderschön indeed," replied I, laughing. "But I have much more to tell you. Come, let us walk down the Boulevard together, if you have a moment to spare. You saved my life that night—you and those friends of yours—and I must tell you about it."
I knew this man quite well, though I had never spoken to him before. A really good man is the friend of all the world; you speak to him, and you know him as though you had known him all your life, for the soul and essence of his goodness is simplicity, and instinct tells you he has no dark corners in his soul. In his greatness he does not dream of dark corners in yours, and so at a word you become friends.
I told him my story, and then he told me his.
He had belonged to a band of wandering musicians, long since dispersed; and on that eventful day in September, nine years ago, he and the rest of the band had been playing at Homburg. They had done badly; and, after a long day's tramp, making for Friedrichsdorff, they saw before them, just at sunset, the towers of Lichtenberg in the distance.
He, Franzius, pointed them out to the others, and proposed that they should try their luck there, but Marx, the leader of the band, demurred. A coin was tossed, and the answer of Fate was "Go," so they went.
"Ah, yes," said Franzius, as he finished. "And well it was we did so. And the child who was with you in the gallery—the little boy—how is he?"
"What child?" said I.
"He in the gallery standing beside you, dressed as a soldier, with cross-belt like the grenadiers of Pomerania."
A cold hand seemed laid on my heart, for no child had been with me in the gallery on that night; and the description given by Franzius was the description of little Carl.