“Oh, Schiller,” cried Marie, stepping forward from the window-niche, and no longer able to conceal her agitation, “Schiller, give me your hand, tell me—”
“Miss von Arnim,” said he, interrupting her, “I have nothing to say to you, I only desire to speak to these gentlemen! I do not wish you to consider me a foolish misanthrope, gentlemen, and therefore, I take the liberty of correcting a second erroneous statement made by Madame von Arnim. She told you that I had exacted of her the promise, to warn me by a signal-light when the ladies were entertaining company, because social intercourse was burdensome and repugnant to me. This is, however, not the case, but exactly the reverse. These ladies, and particularly Miss Marie von Arnim requested me to come here only when the window was dark, and on the other hand never to visit them when I saw a light in the window. Miss von Arnim—”
“Schiller,” said she, interrupting him, in a loud and trembling voice, and laying her hand on his arm, “Schiller, I conjure you, go no further!”
“Miss von Arnim also explained to me why she desired this,” continued Schiller, as though he had not heard Marie’s imploring voice, as though he did not feel the pressure of her trembling hand. “Miss von Arnim told me that on the evenings in which the signal would be given the circle of her mother’s nearest relatives would be assembled in the house, in which circle it was impossible to introduce a stranger. Gentlemen, it affords me great pleasure to recognize in you the dear cousins and uncles of this young lady, and I congratulate her on her brilliant and exclusive family party. And now permit me to explain why I dared to enter this house, although the light displayed in the window proclaimed the presence of the family.”
“But there was no light at the window,” exclaimed Marie, eagerly; “this is an error! I desired that you should come this evening, and on that account it was expressly understood between my mother and myself that no—”
“The light was there,” said her ladyship, interrupting her; “I had placed it there! Be still, do not interrupt the councillor; he said he had something to explain.—Continue, sir! Why did you come, although the light was displayed in the window?”
“Because I wished to know what it really meant,” replied Schiller, with composure and dignity. “You see, my lady, I am not afraid of the light, and I seek the truth, although I must admit that it is a painful and bitter truth that I have learned to-day. But man must have the courage to look facts in the face, even if it were the head of the Medusa. I have seen the truth, and am almost inclined to believe that the eternal gods must have imparted to me some of the strength of Perseus, for, as you see, I have not been transformed into stone, but am still suffering. And now that I have corrected her ladyship’s errors, I humbly beg pardon for having cast a shadow over the gayety of this assembly. It will certainly be for the last time! Farewell, ladies!”
He inclined his head slightly, but did not cast a single glance at the lovely Marie von Arnim; he did not see her faint, and fall into Count Kunheim’s arms, who lifted her tenderly and carried her to the sofa, where he gently deposited his precious burden. Nor did he see the friends rush forward to restore the insensible young lady to consciousness with their smelling-bottles and salts. No, Frederick Schiller observed nothing of all this; he walked through the parlor and antechamber toward the hall-door. Near the door stood the ‘living example,’ looking up with an expression of unspeakable admiration at the tall figure of the poet, who had written his two favorite pieces, “The Robbers,” and “Fiesco.” He was so grateful to the poet for having put her ladyship to shame, that he would gladly have knelt down and kissed his feet.
“Oh, Mr. Schiller, great Mr. Schiller,” murmured Leonhard, hastening forward to open the door, “you are not the only one whom she has deceived. She has deceived me also; I, too, am a wretched victim of her cunning. But only wait, sublime poet, only wait; I will not only avenge myself, but you also, Mr. Schiller. I will cut the pieces still larger, and the turkey shall not go half around, not half around! I will avenge both myself and Schiller!”
He did not hear a word of what Leonhard had said, for he hurried past him, down the steps, and out into the street. There he stood still for a moment gazing at the lighted windows, until a veil of unbidden tears darkened his vision. The burning tears trickling down his cheeks aroused him. He shook his head angrily, and pressed his clinched hands against his eyes to drive them back; not another tear would, he shed. Away! Away from this house! Away!