"Possibly, then, all the more grave is your duty to the other, who now defies the world's opinion; be it from folly, be it from passion, later, however, she will lament that she did so, when, after a short intoxication, she must lead a long, joyless, poverty-stricken life. You have no duties; one day you will forsake her entirely, and she will be left to gaze into long, lasting misery. She has rejected one honest wooer."
"You speak of your friend Wegen!"
"I speak of what my heart feels. I am, perhaps, about to sacrifice my life to one woman, therefore you can surely sacrifice your theories to another. A man may become a martyr to his faith, but he may not make others so."
Kuhl was silent, it was a disagreeable conversation on a disagreeable morning; he must allow that Blanden was right, it was the way of the world. He shivered; the narrowness of a subject's life seemed to oppress him.
"One thing more," said Blanden, "take care of Giulia if I fall. The world will condemn her as being the cause of my death. Perhaps her artistic career may be endangered. She has no support, no friend! Everything seems to be double-faced that moves around her. Be you her friend; will you promise it me?"
"With all my heart," said Kuhl.
"I have made my will; the legacy I leave to her is considerable enough to ensure her a life free from care, even if she retire from the stage. Help her with good advice, but do not forget that she is almost my widow, too sacred for frivolous games, and veiled for you by this my last solemn word."
Kuhl thought to himself, "Jealous beyond the grave," but he did not venture to smile, he only squeezed his friend's hand in silence.
Blanden looked at the clock--it was time. All entered the carriage again, which rolled along upon creaking wheels through the snow-laden forest.
On the edge of the pine wood another carriage was standing; the opponents had just arrived.