The musician turned, sprang up, and rushed into Philip's arms. At sight of the baroness, he started back with the exclamation—"Natalie!"
The baroness sank back in a swoon. Friedemann tore himself from Philip's arms, forced his way through the crowd, and rushed from the house. The shock had brought on another attack of his awful malady.
An old man, past three score and ten, sat in a room in the upper story of a house in one of the suburbs of Berlin. He was reading a pile of music that lay on the table, making notes on the margin with a pencil. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted by a single lamp that flared in the currents of air, flinging fitful shadows on the wall. The storm raging without shook the loose panes in the window, and twisted the weather-cocks on the roof till they creaked as they swung. The cold had penetrated the chamber, and the fire in the grate was scanty. It was the last night of the year.
But all absorbed sat the old man, and heeded not cold or tempest as he read the music. His form was tall and emaciated; his pale face showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin, white locks fell back from his temples; but his large eyes had the brightness of youthful enthusiasm.
The bell struck midnight. The sounds of festal music, singing, and shouting came from the streets; and faintly on the wind came the swell of the Te Deum chanted in a neighboring church.
The old man looked up from his reading, and listened attentively. There was a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes.
The door opened, and a young man, with a pale and melancholy face, and a form more meagre than the other's, came into the room.
"What hour struck?" asked the old man.
"Midnight. You had better go to bed."