"Because it's a matter of scientific interest to me, to see whether a philosopher, who makes truth his trade, can tell a lie without any quickening of his pulse. Besides, I can if you desire, go my way and pronounce you incurable. I should then come here only as court physician to the younger branch." He seized his hat and cane as if to go.
"I really don't understand," replied Edwin, as he quietly continued to cut the leaves of a book, "why I should take the trouble to lie to such an infallible diagnostician! In all seriousness, I've not seen the fair mystery in Jägerstrasse for a fortnight or more."
"For a very natural reason," retorted Marquard laughing: "because for a fortnight or more the beauty has lived in Rosenstrasse. Oh! you sophist! You strangle the truth and salve your conscience with the snares of your formal logic."
Balder looked at Edwin, who had turned deadly pale. The book fell from his hand, his lips moved but no sound came from them.
"There sits the detected sinner," cried the doctor in a jeering tone. "Ah, my son, lying and deceit are all very well if one is careful not to be caught in them. Besides, I am the last person to attempt to force a confidence, which is not voluntarily bestowed. Good morning!" Nodding to Balder, he left the room and stumbled grumbling down the steep dark staircase. When he had almost reached the bottom, he heard some one call him and Edwin came leaping down.
"Marquard, one word more!"
"What is it?"
"I only wanted to tell you--you may think what you please, but it's the plain truth--I thought she had left the city. What do you know about her? Is it anything more than a freak of the imagination, that she is living in Rosenstrasse--"
"In the third house from the corner, on the right hand side as you come from the long bridge. Of course on the second story. I was driving past the house yesterday afternoon, when it was still quite light, and instantly recognized her, as in spite of the infernal weather, she was standing at an open window. There are not two such faces. So, with a half sad, half wearied expression--thinking partly of Edwin, and partly of a velvet cloak--she leaned against the casement, and absently scattered bread-crumbs to the sparrows in the street. Suddenly she started back and shut the window. She might have seen me looking up, perhaps she even recognized me. However, as I had resigned her to you once for all--"
"Thank you, Marquard. Adieu!"