Now there was indeed no real reason why Candidate Unwirrsch should take it to heart if the ne'er-do-weel ran off and Berger of Coblenz broke the news in Bell Lane;—but he did so nevertheless. After thinking for some time whether it was not his own duty to ask in Bell Lane whether Berger had been there and whether the old parents were not still waiting supper for their lost son, Hans jumped up to look for another seat. He could not endure it on that bench any longer.
A short path led him to those romantic expanses of water, those greasy green canals which adorn the more remote part of the park and which must fill with delight the hearts of all lovers of the microscope and infusoria; they certainly every spring provide whole Pharoanic armies of frogs with all they need for joyful and melodious existence.
There he found a place where no loving couples would sit down, a bench in front of a deep pool out of which more than one corpse had been dragged before this, a thoroughly hidden bench, in a thoroughly damp and dank place, a bench which was not so easy to find even at this season when so many trees and bushes were already losing their leaves. It suddenly came into view at a turn of the narrow path round a dense, thorny clump of shrubbery, just before it ended at the water's edge; and nothing was lacking to complete the miserable, melancholy impression but a black post with a black arm pointing into the stagnant, swampy pool.
With bent head Hans followed the narrow path and stepped out from behind the shrubbery to stand suddenly still, amazed and startled; close before him on the half-rotten bench sat the figure that he was seeking against his own will, the figure that had drawn him out of Councillor Götz's house,—the shadow of the little French girl who once, in Théophile's room, had laughed so merrily at his embarrassment.
It was she undoubtedly, and yet scarcely anything remained of her former appearance. She seemed to be ill, very ill, she still wore gloves but they were torn, as were her once so dainty little shoes. The shawl which she had wrapped round her shivering body was worn and faded;—alas, she was altogether the poor little cricket of her compatriot Monsieur Jean de la Fontaine!
And she recognized Hans Unwirrsch immediately, for she rose quickly, drew her shawl together and hastily reached for the handkerchief that lay on the bench beside her. With fearful, somewhat theatrical anger she looked at Candidate Unwirrsch.
"Ah, ce monsieur!"
She tried to pass him but he stepped in front of her and calmly met the contemptuous glance of her black eyes.
"Monsieur, your friend is a canaille!" she cried, clenching her fist. "Let me past—vill you?"