Henriette Trublet stirred in her sleep and fearfully called the name of Théophile. Gently and with a merciful hand Franziska replaced the cloak over the forsaken girl's shoulders and then sat down again.
They went on talking of the evening when they had first met and Fränzchen told how much the candidate had pleased her Uncle Rudolf and of how often he had spoken of him during their journey. Hans told about his mother's death, of his Uncle Grünebaum and Auntie Schlotterbeck and took the latter's last letter out of his pocket-book to show it to Fränzchen. He told of how Dr. Théophile had read that letter while he, Hans Unwirrsch, lay ill with fever; he told how a dreadful glance and flash had shown him Dr. Théophile in all his malice and duplicity.
Fränzchen now unlocked a little box and showed the tutor a whole series of letters from Uncle Rudolf—all of them nearly as illegible as Uncle Grünebaum's epistles and the last few all written from Grunzenow on the Baltic. Since summer the lieutenant had been lying, in great pain with gout, in Colonel von Bullau's house in Grunzenow and Fränzchen confessed with tears in her eyes that she had written her poor uncle only joyful, cheerful and contented letters and that she could not have written differently for anything in the world. At that Hans would have liked to kiss her brave, soothing little hand again and again; but he did not dare to, and it was better so. Angry at himself, however, he deeply repented the doubtful blessings that at times he had called down on the absent lieutenant's head. He regretted them deeply, especially when he read the lieutenant's letters in which the old warrior confessed plaintively that he would rather run away with the devil's grandmother than ever again introduce and smuggle into his "gracious sister-in-law's" house a tutor after his, though not after the devil's, own heart.
"You won his whole heart that evening," said Fränzchen. "He talked of you so much on our journey, and I—I did not forget you altogether either in the years that followed. Oh, I had much time and great need to think of all those who had treated me with friendliness. Oh, Mr. Unwirrsch, we have neither of us been able to live happily in this house, but still my lot was the harder to bear. I have often been terribly, terribly hungry for a friendly face, a friendly word. I would gladly have gone away to earn my own bread, but my aunt would not hear of that. But you know all about it, Mr. Unwirrsch,—why should we say any more about it? It is wrong too, to think only of ourselves at this moment."
"It is not wrong," cried Hans with unaccustomed vehemence. "Oh, Miss Franziska, we may certainly talk of ourselves in this hour; the hard, cold world has thrust us back to the very core of our lives,—we may talk of ourselves, in order to save ourselves. This night will pass, a new day will come. What will it bring us? In all probability it will plunge us into an entirely new state of things. How will it be tomorrow in this house? I shall have to go; but you—you, Miss Franziska, what will you have to do and suffer? How gloomy, how drearily bleak and dead this house will be tomorrow! Any other existence would be blissful compared with life in this house! Oh, Franziska—Miss Fränzchen, write tomorrow to your uncle, to the lieutenant; or—or let me write to him! Don't stay here; don't stay in this house; its atmosphere is deadly—Oh, Fränzchen, Fränzchen, let me write to Lieutenant Götz!"
Franziska shook her head gently and said:
"I must stay. If I could not go before there is all the more reason why I may not go now. I have not been happy in this house but still it has given me shelter, and Uncle Theodor—Oh no, how could I leave poor Uncle Theodor now? My head swims now, to be sure; but I must stay—I am not mistaken, that is the right thing for me to do and I will not do anything wrong. Dear friend, I must not write to Uncle Rudolf to take me away from here, and you must not do so either. I know that that is right."
Hans Unwirrsch dared to do it—he kissed the gentle, loyal little hand that was stretched out to him so shyly and yet with such unconquerable power. Hot tears ran down his cheeks.
Yes, she was right. She was always right. Blessings on her! On this stormy night, this night of misery and ruin, she sat like a beautiful, lovely miracle beside the foreign girl and laid her pure, innocent hand on the latter's hot, feverish brow; yes, indeed, she was merciful and of great kindness and she would have to remain in this desolate house; that was certainly right!