“Charlotte, come for the last time to my heart! Come!—let me inhale from your lips the atmosphere of paradise!”
No reply. He seemed to see a shadow flit through the darkness, and then the words, “Good-night, Schiller!” struck his ear like the low, vibrating tones of an Æolian harp.
The noise of an opening and closing door could be heard, and then all was still.
A groan escaped Schiller’s breast; he felt that Charlotte had left him—that he was alone.
For a moment he stood still and listened, hoping she would return; but the silence remained unbroken.
“Ah,” murmured Schiller, “parting is like death! Ah, Charlotte, I have loved you dearly! I—be still, my heart, no more complaints! It must be so!”
He turned slowly and walked toward the door. “Farewell, Charlotte, farewell!”
No reply. It seemed to be only the echo which responded from out the dark space, “Farewell!”
Schiller opened the door and rushed out into the still night, and through the lonely streets, unconscious that he was bareheaded, oblivious of having left his hat in Charlotte’s room. He rushed on, heedless of the raw night air and cutting wind.
At length he was aroused by the heavy drops of rain which were falling on his forehead. The cold rain awakened him from a last painful struggle with his passion, and cooled his head and heart at the same time.