In Paradise: A Novel. Vol. II

by Paul Heyse

Julie was kneeling at his side, taking no heed of her yellow skirts, that were spotted with large stains from the dark pool. Their friends were standing about them, completely stupefied; and even the musicians crept down from the platform, in their grotesque animal costumes, and mixed in among the guests.

At this moment the gaunt figure of Alba, in the shape of their friend Schnetz, stepped out of the awe-struck crowd, advanced to the astonished pair, and, taking them aside, told them all that had passed while they had been out in the garden, pouring out their hearts to one another in utter ignorance of what was going on within. In what connection these puzzling occurrences stood to one another, the lieutenant did not pretend to know. When they recovered from the first shock, and looked about for the author of the whole trouble, they discovered that she had disappeared from the hall with the young Greek.

Rosenbusch then joined them, and Angelica and Elfinger. The battle-painter was plunged in a truly pitiable state of despondency at the tragic end of his adventure. Innocent as he was of it all, he nevertheless persisted in accusing himself of being the author of the murderous affair by introducing this mysterious guest. He gave a detailed account of the way in which he had made her acquaintance, and asserted again and again that she had done absolutely nothing to provoke the dog. But let that be as it would, the mischief had been done; the ball was spoiled, and Jansen had lost his good old comrade.

Felix listened to all this with clouded brow. Then he pushed his way through the crowd, and went up to Jansen. The dog had just drawn his last breath. Jansen sprung to his feet when he felt the hand of his friend on his shoulder. He drew himself up erect, and then raised Julie from her knees, but without uttering a word, while his bright eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, wandered slowly about, as if he were trying to remember where he was.

"Have they gone?" he said, after a long pause.

No one answered. Julie took his hand and spoke gently to him, and he replied by a vacant smile and a nod. Then, with a violent shudder, he roused himself, and strode out of the group that had gathered about the dead animal. He advanced to his friends, and, speaking once more in his usual voice, requested Schnetz to send for a carriage, as he wished to take the dead dog home. Then, with few words, but with a manner that forbade all remonstrances, he entreated them not to be disturbed on his account, and not to leave the ball. He made even Julie promise this, and forced himself to speak quite as usual. After this he took Rosenbusch aside, and conversed with him in a low voice for a considerable time, never lifting his eyes from the floor; finally he shook hands with him, and left the room.

Julie and Felix accompanied him out to the carriage, in which the body of the dog had been already laid. He got in with evident difficulty, and gave the two at parting a hand that was as cold as ice. He did all this as if he were still enveloped in some dream, from which even the presence and sympathy of those most dear to him could not arouse him.

Fridolin had mounted on the box by the side of the driver, and in this fashion they pursued their long drive through the cold, rainy night, and drew up in front of the studio just as the clock was striking twelve. The driver lent them his assistance in lifting the heavy body of the dog out of the carriage, and carrying him in. They laid him down in the little garden behind the house, and, with shovel and pickaxe, dug a deep grave, into which they lowered the huge animal. The driver had gone on his way again, and Jansen stood motionless on the brink of the grave, gazing down on the dark mass that they were leaving there to crumble into dust. But Fridolin took the two artificial roses which had belonged to his angel's dress, and which he still wore behind his ears, and cast them down upon the dead animal.

"It is winter," he said, "and a dark night; and we have nothing fresher. But go and get some sleep, Herr Professor. I will put his bed in order with my spade. And though he was only an animal, perhaps after all we shall see him again at the resurrection; and if there should be a heaven for dogs, Herr Professor, he will go there sooner than many a priest. And why? Because he knew what friendship and kindness meant; and that is what nine men out of ten don't know; and he never treated a poor fellow-man like a dog, which can't be said of everybody. I don't think the good God will object if I offer up a few paternosters for the poor dog's soul."

Jansen nodded in silence, and turned away. Then he went into the house, and stepped into his studio. It was cold as ice in the large room; the wind roared down the chimney, and rattled in the iron stove. Yet for all that the unhappy man could not make up his mind to go back to his lodgings. He threw himself upon the low sofa and spread his cloak over his benumbed limbs. So he lay there perfectly still, and listened to the falling of the rain and the noise made by the spade. His eyes were shut. But for all that he never ceased to see, in the darkness of his own heart, a pale face, only too well known, from which the mask had just fallen, and which, despite its frightened, supplicating look, stared up at him like the head of Medusa.