“The boy soldier, Lieutenant Gerold, was, I found, known everywhere in Vienna by the name of ‘Zol.’ It had begun by his brother officers calling him ‘Sol,’ from the blaze of gold which his father, Albert Gerold, the banker, was supposed to possess. The softer sound of the sibilant, however, had soon given way to the buzz of the ‘z’; and there was no pretty girl in the Prater who could not tell you his nickname. For the matter of that, the lad was one of those affectionate, big-hearted boys who make friends with all the world; he had followed little Christine like a dog since the day he first set eyes upon her at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her pictures were everywhere in his rooms. He used to dress with one at the right hand of his mirror. His first waking act was to touch with his lips a little photograph of her hung above his bed. In his boyish way, he used to think how glorious a thing it would be to die with Christine’s arms about his neck. He hated the prospect of her triumph, because that, he feared, would carry her into a new world, where she would find new friends.
“For five months now this boy and girl friendship had been a pretty fact. During four of the months, at any rate, Zol had been aware that some great trouble hung about the girl, and was the shadow upon her life.
“‘Christine,’ he had once said, ‘why must not I tell you that I love you? Do not I say it every hour of my life? I must speak—you shall hear me——’
“‘Hush, Zol!’ she had answered him; ‘you know why I cannot hear you.’
“‘I know they say in the theatre that you have a husband who is a brute——’ he blurted out; but she stopped him instantly.
“‘Never say that again,’ she had cried with a shudder; ‘never speak to me of him, Zol. Oh, you make me remember!’
“She ran away from him to hide her tears; and he, seeing how he had blundered, heaped new kindnesses upon her.
“‘I will love you always—always!’ he protested; ‘I care not if I may only look into your eyes and be your friend. I will wait—wait patiently—to hear some day a word of love from your lips.’
“The promise made of affection was of affection fulfilled. As a little stream of water falling upon a rock will find a way to the heart of it, so will friendship long continued break down all barriers of circumstance and of difficulty, and cut a way to the heart of a friend. As the months went on, Christine found herself talking to Zol as she would have talked to a brother. Day by day they spent hours in each other’s company. He ransacked the shops of Vienna diligently to give her new pleasures. He asked nothing but a word spoken with the eyes for his reward. He became necessary to her—how necessary she had yet to learn. Though she said often that she had left all hope of life in the mountains of Jézero, she was unconsciously finding new hopes in the pure ties of this unselfish service. And to this friendship she added her ceaseless, ardent toil, working with a persistency—nay, almost a fury—of application in that art which alone was powerful to efface the past.
“During all these months, when the lad Zol had been waiting so patiently, Ugo Klun, the husband of Christine, had not neglected to take advantage of her new situation. One by one he had struck the gamut of the lusts—desire of the woman, desire of revenge, desire of the money she earned. He had begun by putting unspeakable insults upon her; he ended by spending what he could extort from her in debauchery and in pleasure. And this was the baser side of the man’s nature—that the friendship which his wife had made in the city was rather pleasing to him.