CHAPTER XXIV. THE PURSE-PROUD MAN.
“Trude, is there no news from him yet? Have you never seen him since? Did he not tell you about it?”
“No, my dearest Marie,” sighed old Trude. “There is no word, no message from him. I have been twenty times to the baker’s in eight days, and waited at the corner of the street, where we agreed to meet, but no Moritz was there, and I have not been able to hear any thing about him.”
“Something must have happened to him,” sighed Marie. “He is very ill, perhaps dying, and—”
“No, no, my child, he is not ill, I will tell you all about it, if you will not worry. I have been to Herr Moritz’s lodgings to-day. I could not wait any longer, and—”
“Did you see him, and speak with him, Trude?”
“No Marie, he was not there; and the people in the house told me that he had been gone for a week.”
“Gone!” repeated Marie, thoughtfully. “What does it mean? What could persuade him to abandon me in this hour of need? Tell me, Trude, what do you think? Console me if you can. You really know nothing further than that he is gone?”
“A little bit more, but not much, my heart’s child. When the people told me that he had disappeared eight days ago, it seemed as if one of the Alps had fallen on my heart, and my limbs trembled so I could go no farther, and I was obliged to sit down upon the stairs and cry bitterly, picturing all sorts of dreadful things to myself.”
“Dreadful things?” asked Marie. “Oh, Trude, you do not believe that my good, brave Moritz could do any thing sinful and cowardly, like wicked men? You do not think that my beloved—oh, no, no—I know that he is more noble; he will bear the burden of life as I will, so long as it pleases God.”