“There,” said I, drawing Courvoisier to the window, and pointing across: “there is one scene of your future exertions, the Städtische Tonhalle.”
“So!” said he, turning away again from the window—it was as dark as ever outside—and looking round the room again. “This is a dull-looking place,” he added, gazing around it.
“We’ll soon make it different,” said I, rubbing my hands and gazing round the room with avidity. “I have long wished to be able to inhabit this room. We must make it more cheerful, though, before the child comes to it. We’ll have the stove lighted, and we’ll knock up some shelves, and we’ll have a piano in, and the sofa from my room, nicht wahr? Oh, we’ll make a place of it, I can tell you.”
He looked at me as if struck with my enthusiasm, and I bustled about. We set to work to make the room habitable. He was out for a short time at the station and returned with the luggage which he had left there. While he was away I stole into my room and took a good look at my new treasure; he still slept peacefully and calmly on. We were deep in impromptu carpentering and contrivances for use and comfort, when it occurred to me to look at my watch.
“Five minutes to seven!” I almost yelled, dashing wildly into my room to wash my hands and get my violin. Courvoisier followed me. The child was awake. I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I saw it looking at me with great, soft, solemn, brown eyes, not in the least those of its father, but it did not move. I said apologetically that I feared I had awakened it.
“Oh, no! He’s been awake for some time,” said Courvoisier. The child saw him, and stretched out its arms toward him.
“Na! junger Taugenichts!” he said, taking it up and kissing it. “Thou must stay here till I come back. Wilt be happy till I come?”
The answer made by the mournful-looking child was a singular one. It put both tiny arms around the big man’s neck, laid its face for a moment against his, and loosed him again. Neither word nor sound did it emit during the process. A feeling altogether new and astonishing overcame me. I turned hastily away, and as I picked up my violin-case, was amazed to find my eyes dim. My visitors were something unprecedented to me.
“You are not compelled to go to the theater to-night, you know, unless you like,” I suggested, as we went down-stairs.
“Thanks, it is as well to begin at once.”