“Lieschen Flemming’s. Oh, yes! pretend astonishment; but I see clearly enough. Your tenderness on the stage with her is so well acted, because you have so often rehearsed it in private.”
“Clara! Clara! this jealousy is insupportable!”
“Yes, yes—that is the answer I always receive; but it is no answer to my accusation.”
“Why, Lieschen is betrothed to Fechter!”
“What matters that? Are you not married to me—and does that interfere with your making love to her?”
“This is perfectly ridiculous! Last week you were jealous of Rosa Behr, because she played Juliet; now it is Lieschen Flemming, because she plays Gretchen. I presume every actress whom I have to make love to on the stage will come under your suspicions?”
“Every one to whom I see you making evident love. I know I am old. I have lost the charm I once had in your eyes.”
“This is not the way to regain it,” he said, as he put on his hat and angrily left the room.
He that day confessed to himself that she was old, that she had lost the charm which once had captivated him! But Franz was a man of honour; and although he found himself in this false position, he resolved to support his lot with courage. He was wedded to a woman too old for him, unsuited to him; but the wedding had been his act and desire. It had been the crown upon his hopes. He had loved her—been happy with her. He could not forget that. And although divorces are easily obtained in Germany, he could not bring himself to abandon her, to separate from her, now she was past her prime. He had offered her an independence if she wished to part from him; but she did not wish to part—she still clung to the idea of regaining his lost affection—and made home miserable as a means of regaining it!
For five years did Franz drag about with him this load of wretchedness.