Franziska replenished the fire in the stove. She opened the door and asked the housekeeper, whose eye and ear had been taking turns at the keyhole for some time, to bring some tea and something to eat for the hungry, half fainting stranger. The farther the night advanced the greater did her anxiety become.
Henriette Trublet ate and drank eagerly, looked once more round the room with fixed, glassy eyes and then her head sank forward on her breast—she had fallen asleep.
It was the sleep of complete exhaustion.
"Poor, unfortunate girl!" sighed Franziska. "What a night! What a terrible night!"
She put her arm round the sleeping girl to keep her from falling; her locks touched the sinner's brow; and if Hans Unwirrsch had lived to be a thousand years old he would never have been able to forget the scene.
She looked across to him.
"Oh, please help me, let us lay her down on the divan! Listen—what is she saying?"
Henriette murmured in her sleep,—perhaps her mother's name—perhaps that of her patron saint. She did not feel it when Hans picked her up in his arms and carried her to the little sofa where Fränzchen arranged the cushions for her and covered her with a cloak and shawl.
It struck eleven o'clock; Kleophea Götz had not come home yet.