yet he trembled at his father’s knowing she was his wife.
Schoenlein, who had observed the blush on Franz’s countenance, walked up to him and, placing one hand upon his shoulder, said—
“Franz, Franz, beware! You are on the edge of an abyss: the worst temptations of our miserable profession beset you. Beware of that artful old woman:—do not frown, she is artful,—I have heard of her! She has ruined more young men than any woman now upon the stage. She has ensnared you;—do not attempt to deny it,—I see it in your countenance. She has flattered and cajoled you. She has lured you with languishing looks and sweet low words. You are already her dupe;—beware lest you become her victim!”
“I cannot,” said Franz, rising wrathfully, “I must not, I will not, hear this language of her.”
“You must and shall hear it. Why should I hesitate to utter the contempt I feel for that refuse of a hundred libertines!”
Franz was purple with suppressed passion, and, with terrible calmness, said:—
“You are speaking, sir, of MY WIFE!”
Schoenlein’s lower jaw fell; his eyes became glazed, and, slowly sinking on the sofa, he waved his hand for his son to withdraw.
CHAPTER V.
The following week Schoenlein was again in Berlin, and playing three nights a-week—a thing quite unprecedented with him. All his repertory was brought forward. A sort of rage possessed him. He was tormented with the idea of producing such an effect upon the public as should perfectly eclipse his rival and son.