"Oh, it is terrible!" he uttered in a subdued voice; "with my eyes open I stand on the brink of a precipice. I see it, and cannot draw back. If no helping hand is stretched out to save me, I must fall in, and my good name must perish with me. And to be obliged to confess that not my own want of judgment, no rashness nor presumption on my part, but only love of mankind, love of my brethren, has brought me to this! To each one who held out his hand to me, I gave the hand of a friend, every one in need I helped. And for that reason, for the good I have done, I stand on the verge of an abyss."
He cast his looks toward heaven, and tears shone in his eyes. "Was it, then, wrong? O my God! was it, then, culpable to trust men, and must I atone with my honor for what I did from love?"
But this compunction, this depression, did not last long. Gotzkowsky soon arose above his grief, and bearing his head aloft as if to shake off the cares which lowered around it, he said in a determined tone: "I must not lose my courage. This day requires all my presence of mind, and the decisive moment shall not find me cowed and pusillanimous."
He was about to set himself to work again, when a repeated knocking at the door interrupted him. At his reluctant bidding it opened, and Bertram appeared on the threshold. "Pardon me," he said, almost timidly; "I knew that you wished to be alone, but I could not bear it any longer. I must see you. Only think, Father Gotzkowsky, it is a fortnight since I arrived, and I have scarcely seen you in this time; therefore do not be angry with me if I disobey your orders, and come to you, although I know that you are busy."
Gotzkowsky nodded to him with a sad smile. "I thank you for it," said he. "I had ordered Peter not to admit any one. You are an exception, as you know, my son."
A pause ensued, during which Bertram examined Gotzkowsky with a searching look. The latter had seated himself again at his writing-table, and with troubled looks was examining his papers.
Bertram had been absent for nearly a year. The silent grief which day and night gnawed at his heart had undermined his health and exhausted his physical strength. The physicians had deemed a prolonged residence in Nice necessary. If Bertram yielded to their judgment and repaired to Nice, it was because he thought, "Perhaps Elise will think of me when I am no longer near her. Perchance absence may warm her heart, and she may forget the brother, some day to welcome the husband."
Returning after a year's absence, strengthened and restored to health, he found Elise as he had left her. She received him with the same quiet, calm look with which she had bid him farewell. She placed her hand as coolly and as friendly in his, and although she inquired cordially and sympathizingly after his welfare, Bertram still felt that her heart and her inmost soul had not part in her questioning.
Elise had not altered—but how little was Gotzkowsky like himself! Where was the ardent man, powerful of will, whom Bertram had embraced at his departure? where was his clear, ringing voice, his proud bearing, his energy, his burning eloquence—what had become of all these? What diabolical, dismal influence had succeeded in breaking this iron will, in subduing this vital power?
Bertram felt that a deep grief was corroding Gotzkowsky's life—a grief whose destructive influence was greater because he avoided the expression of it, and sought no relief nor consolation by communicating it to others. "He shall, at least, speak to me," said Bertram. "I will compel him to make me the confidant of his grief, and to lighten his heart by imparting a portion of his burden to mine." With this determination he had entered Gotzkowsky's room; he now stood opposite to him, and with gentle sympathy looked into his pale, sorrow-worn countenance.