VII.
It was, indeed, a preposterous thought to have at this date: no oneknew that better than himself. And as long as he was with Louise, hekept it at bay; it was a fatuous thing even to allow himself to think,considering the past, and considering all he knew.
But next morning, as he sat with busy fingers, and a vacant mind, itreturned. He thrust it angrily away, endeavouring to concentrate hisattention on his music open before him. For a time, he believed he hadsucceeded. Then, the idea was unexpectedly present to him again, andthis time more forcibly than before; it came like a sharp, swift stabof remembrance, and forced an exclamation over his lips. Discouraged,he let his hands drop from the keys of the piano; for now he knew thathe would probably never be rid of it again. This was always the waywith unpleasant thoughts and impressions: if they returned, after hehad resolved to have done with them, they were henceforth part andparcel of himself, fixed ideas, against which his will was powerless.
In the hope of growing used to the haunting reflection, and to theunhappiness it implied, he thought it through to the end--this strange,unsought knowledge, which had lain unsuspected in him, and now becamearticulate. Once considered, however, it made many things clear. Hecould even account to himself now, for the blasphemous suggestions thathad plagued him not twenty-four hours ago. If he had then not, allunconsciously, had the feeling that Louise had known too long and toowell what love was, to be willing to live without it, such thoughts asthose would never have risen in him.
In vain he asked himself, why he should only now understand thesethings. He could find no answer. Throughout the time he had knownLouise, he had been better acquainted with her mode of life than anyoneelse: her past had lain open to him; she had concealed nothing, hadbeen what she called "brutally frank" with him. And he had protested,and honestly believed, that what had preceded their intimacy did notmatter to him. Who could foresee that, on a certain day, an idea ofthis kind would break out in him--like a canker? But this query tookhim a step further. Was it not deluding himself to say break out? Hadnot this shadow lurked in their love from the very beginning? Had itnot formed an invisible barrier between them? It was possible no, itwas true; though he only recognised its truth at the present time. Ithad existed from the first: something which each of them, in turn, hadfelt, and vaguely tried to express. It had little or nothing to do withthe fact that they had defied convention. That, regrettable though itmight be, was beside the mark. The confounding truth was, that, in anemotional crisis of an intensity of the one they had come through, itwas imperative to be able to say: our love is unparalleled, unique; or,at least: I am the only possible one; I am yours, you are mine, only.That had not been the case. What he had been forced to tell himselfwas, that he was not the first. And now he knew that, for some timepast, he had been aware that he would always occupy the second place;she was forced to compare him with another, to his disadvantage. And heknew more. For the first time, he allowed his thoughts to rove,unchecked, over her previous life, and he was no longer astonished atthe imperfections of the present. To him, the gradual unfolding oftheir love had been a wonderful revelation; to her, a repetition, and apaler and fainter one, of a tale she already knew by heart. And theknowledge of this awakened a fresh distrust in him. If she had lovedthat first time, as she had asserted, as he had seen with his own eyesthat she did, desperately, abandonedly, how had it been possible forher to change front so quickly, to turn to him and love anew? Was sucha thing credible? Was a woman's nature capable of it? And had it notbeen this constant fear, lest he should never be able to efface theimage of his predecessor, which, yesterday, had boldly stalked out as adread that what had drawn her to him, had not been love at all?
But this mood passed. He himself cared too well to doubt, for long,that in her own way she really loved him. What, however, he was obligedto admit was, that what she felt could in no way be counted the equalof his love for her: that had possessed a kind of primeval freshness,which no repetition, however passionately fond, could achieve. And yet,in his mind, there was still room for doubt--eager, willing doubt. Itwas due to his ignorance. He became aware of this, and, while broodingover these things, he was overmanned by the desire to learn, from herown lips, more about her past, to hear exactly what it had meant toher, in order that he might compare it with her present life, and withher feelings for him. Who could say if, by doing this, he might notdrive away what was perhaps a phantom of his own uneasy brain?
He resolved to make the endeavour. But he was careful not to let hersuspect his intention. First of all, he was full of compunction for hisbad temper of the night before; he was also slightly ashamed of what hewas going to do; and then, too, he knew that she would resent hisprying. What he did must be done with tact. He had no wish to make herunhappy over it. And so, when he saw her again, he did his best to makeher forget how disagreeable he had been.
But the desire to know remained, became a morbid curiosity. If thiswere satisfied, he believed it would make things easier for both ofthem. But he was infinitely cautious. Sometimes, without a word, hetook her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, as if to readin them an answer to the questions he was afraid to put--looked rightinto the depth of her eyes, where the pupils swam in an oval of bluishwhite, overhung by lids which were finely creased in their folds, andnetted with tiny veins. But he said not a word, and the eyes remainedunfathomable, as they had always been.
Meanwhile, he did what he could to set his life on a solid basis again.But he was unable to arouse in himself a very vital interest in hiswork; some prompter-nerve in him seemed to have been injured. Andoften, he was overcome by the feeling that this perpetual preoccupationwith music was only a trifling with existence, an excuse for not facingthe facts of life. He would sometimes rather have been a labourer, wornout with physical toil. He was much alone, too; when he was not withLouise, he was given over to his own thoughts, and, day by day,fostered by the long, empty hours of practice, these moved more andmore steadily in the one direction. The craving for a knowledge of thefacts, for certainty in any form--this became a reason for, a plea inextenuation of, what he felt escaping him.
Louise did not help him; she assented to what he did without comment,half sorry for him in what seemed to her his wilful blindness, halfdisdainful. But she, too, made a discovery in these tame, flat days,and this was, that it was one thing to say to herself: it is over anddone with, and another to make the assertion a fact. Energy for theeffort was lacking in her; for the short, sharp stroke, which with hermeant action, was invariably born of intense happiness or unhappiness.Now, as the days went by, she asked herself why she should do it. Itwas so much easier to let things slide, until something happened ofitself, either to make the break, or to fill up the still greateremptiness in her life which a break would cause. And if he were contentwith what she could give him, well and good; she made no attempt todeceive him. And it seemed to her that he was content, though in asomewhat preoccupied way. But a little later, she acknowledged toherself that this was not the whole truth. There was habit to fightagainst--habit which could still give her hours ofself-forgetfulness--and one could not forgo, all at once, and under nopressing necessity to do so, this means of escape from thecheerlessness of life.
But not for long did matters remain at this negative stage. Whereas,until now, the touch of her lips had been sufficient to chase away theshadows, the moment came, when, as he held her in his arms, Maurice wasparalysed by the abrupt remembrance: she has known all this before. Howwas it then? To what degree is she mine, was she his? What fine,ultimate shade of feeling is she keeping back from me?--His ardour wasdamped; and as Louise also became aware of his sudden coolness, theirhands sank apart, and had no strength to join anew.
Thus far, he had gone about his probings with skill, questioning her ina roundabout way, trying to learn by means of inference. But afterthis, he let himself go, and put a barefaced question. The subject oncebroached, there was no further need of concealment, and he flung tactand prudence to the w
inds. He could not forget--he was goaded onby--the look she had given him, as the ominous words crossed his lips:it made him conscious once more of the unapproachable nature of thatfirst love of hers. He grew reckless; and while he had hitherto onlysought to surprise her and entrap her, he now began to try to wormthings out of her, all the time spying on her looks and words, ready totake advantage of the least slip on her part.
At first, before she understood what he was aiming at, Louise had beenas frank as usual with him--that somewhat barbarous frankness, whichtook small note of the recipient's feelings. But after he had put adirect question, and followed it up with others, of which she tooclearly saw the drift, she drew back, as though she were afraid of him.It was not alone the error of taste he committed, in delving in matterswhich he had sworn should never concern him; it was his manner of doingit that was so distasteful to her--his hints and inuendoes. She grewvery white and still, and looked at him with eyes in which a nascentdislike was visible.
He saw it; but it was now too late. Day by day, his preoccupation withthe man who had preceded him increased. The thought that continued toharass him was: if she had never known the other, all would now bedifferent. With jealousy, his state of mind had only as yet, in common,a devouring curiosity and a morbid imagination, which allowed him topicture the two of them in situations he would once have blushed tothink of. For the one thing that now mattered to him, what he wouldhave given his life to know, and would probably never know, wasconcerned with the ultimate ratification of love. What had she had forthe other that she could not give him?--that she wilfully refrainedfrom giving him? For that she did this, and always had refused him partof herself, was now as plain to him as if it had been branded on herflesh. And the knowledge undermined their lives. If she was gentle andkind, he read into her words pity that she could give him no more; ifshe were cold and evasive, she was remembering, comparing; if shereturned his kisses with her former warmth--well, the thoughts which inthis case seized him were the most murderous of all.
His mental activity ground him down. But it was not all unhappiness;the beloved eyes and hands, the wilful hair, and pale, sweet mouth,could still stir him; and there came hours of wishless well-being, whenhis tired brain found rest. As the days went by, however, these grewrarer; it also seemed to him that he paid dearly for them, by beingafterwards more miserable, by suffering in a more active way.
At times, he knew, he was anything but a pleasant companion. But he waslosing the mastery over himself, and often a trifle was sufficient tostart him off afresh on the dreary theme. Once, in a fit ofhopelessness, he made her what amounted to reproaches for her past.
"But you knew!--everythinging!--I told you all," Louise expostulated,and there were tears in her eyes.
"I know you did. But Louise"--he hesitated, half contrite in advance,for what he was going to say--"it might have been better if you hadn'ttold me--everything, I mean. Yes, I believe it's better not to know."
She did not reply, as she might have done, that she had forewarned him,afraid of this. She looked away, so that she should not be obliged tosee him.
Another day, when they were walking in the ROSENTAL, she made himextremely unhappy by disagreeing with him.
"If one could just take a sponge and wipe the past out, like figuresfrom a slate!" he said moodily.
But, jaded by his persistency, Louise would not admit it. "We shouldhave nothing to remember."
"That's just it."
"But it belongs to us!" She was roused to protest by the under-meaningin his words. "It's as much a part of ourselves as our thoughts are--orour hands."
"One is glad to forget. You would be, Louise? You wouldn't care if yourpast were gone? Say you wouldn't."
But she only threw him a dark side-glance. As, however, he would notrest content, she flung out her hands with an impatient gesture. "HowCAN you torment yourself so! If you insist on knowing, well, then, Iwouldn't part with an hour of what's gone--not an hour! And you knowit."
She caught at a few vivid leaves that had remained hanging on a barebranch, and carried them with her.
He took one she held out to him, looked at it without seeing it, andthrew it away. "Tell me, just this once, something about your lifebefore I knew you. Were you very happy?--or were you unhappy? Do youknow, I once heard you say you had never known a moment'shappiness?--yes, one summer night long ago, over in the NONNE. How Ihoped then it was true! But I don't know. You've never told meanything--of all there must be to tell."
"What you may have chanced to hear, by eavesdropping, doesn't concernme now," Louise answered coldly. And then she shut her lips, and wouldsay no more. She was wiser than she had been a week ago: she refused tohand her past over to him in order that he might smirch it with histhoughts.
But she could not understand him--understand the motives that made himwant to unearth the past. If this were jealousy, it was a kind she didnot know--a bloodless, bodiless kind, of which she had had noexperience.
But it was not jealousy; it was only a craving for certainty in anyguise, and the more surely Maurice felt that he would never gain it,the more tenaciously he strove. For certainty, that feeling of utterreliance in the loved one, which sets the heart at rest and leaves themind free for the affairs of life, was what Louise had never given him;he had always been obliged to fall back on supposition with regard toher, equally at the height of their passion, and in that first andstretch of time, when it was forbidden him to touch her hand. The realtruth, the last-reaching truth about her, it would not be his to know.Soul would never be absorbed in soul; not the most passionate embracescould bridge the gulf; to their last kiss, they would remain separatebeings, lonely and alone.
As this went on, he came to hate the vapidities of the concerto in Gmajor. Mentally to be stretched on a kind of rack, and, at the sametime, to be forced to reiterate the empty rhetoric of this music! Fromthis time forward, he could not hear the name of Mendelssohn without ashiver of repugnance. How he wished now, that he had been content withthe bare sincerity of Beethoven, who at least said no note more than hehad to say.
One day, towards the end of November, he was working with even greaterdistaste than usual. Finally, in exasperation, he flapped the music to,shut the piano, and went out. A stroll along the muddy little railed-inriver brought him to the PLEISSENBURG, and from there he crossed theKONIGSPLATZ to the BRUDERSTRASSE. He had not come out with theintention of going to Louise, but, although it was barely four o'clock,the afternoon was drawing in; an interminable evening had to be gotthrough. He had been walking at haphazard, and without relish; now hispace grew brisker. Having reached the house, he sprang nimbly up thestairs, and was about to insert his key in the little door in the wall,when he was arrested by a muffled sound of voices. Louise was talkingto some one, and, at the noise he made outside, she raised hervoice--purposely, no doubt. He could not hear what was being said, butthe second voice was a man's. For a minute he stood, with his keysuspended, straining his cars; then, afraid of being caught, he wentdownstairs again, where he hung about, between stair and street-door,in order that anyone who came down would be forced to pass him. At theend of five minutes, however, his patience was spent: he remembered,too, that the person might be as likely to go up as down. He mountedthe stairs again, rang the bell, and had himself admitted by thelandlady.
He thought she looked significantly at him as, with her usual pantomimeof winks and signs, she whispered to him that a gentleman was withFraulein--EIN SCHONER JUNGER MANN! Maurice pushed her aside, and openedthe sitting-room door. Two heads turned at his entrance.
On the sofa, beside Louise, sat Herries, the ruddy little student ofmedicine with whom she had danced so often at the ball. He sat there,smiling and dapper, balancing his hard round hat on his knee, andholding gloves in his hand.
Louise looked the more untidy by contrast: as usual, her hair was halfuncoiled. Maurice saw this in a flash, saw also the look of annoyancethat crossed her face at his unceremonious entry. She raised astonishedeyebrows. Then,
however, she shook hands with him.
"I think you know Mr. Herries."
Maurice bowed stiffly across the table; Herries replied in kind,without discommoding himself.
"How d'ye do? I believe we've met," he said carelessly.
As Maurice made no rejoinder, but remained standing in anuncompromising attitude, Herries turned to Louise again, and went onwith what he had been saying. He was talking of England.
"I went back to Oxford after that," he continued. "I've diggings there,don't you know? An old chum of mine's a fellow of Magdalen. I was justin time for eights' week. A magnificent walk-over for our fellows. Everseen the race? No? Oh, I say, that's too bad. You must come over forit, next year."
"Mr. Herries only returned from England a few days ago," explainedLouise, and again raised warning brows. "Do sit down. There's a chair."
"Yes. I was over for the whole summer. Didn't work here at all, infact," added Herries, once more letting his bright eyes snapshot theyoung man, who, on sitting down, laid his shabby felt hat in the middleof the table.
"But now you intend to stay, I think you said?" Louise threw in atrandom, after they had waited for Maurice to fill up the pause.
"Yes, for the winter semester, anyhow. And I've got to tumble to, witha vengeance. But I mean to have a good time all the same. Even thoughit's only Leipzig, one can have a jolly enough time."
Again there was silence. Louise flushed. "I suppose you're hard at workalready?"
"Yes. Got started yesterday. Frogs, don't you know?--the effect of arare poison on frogs."
This trivial exchange of words stung Maurice. Herries's manner seemedto him intolerably familiar, lacking in respect; and he kept tellinghimself, as he listened, that, having returned from England, thefellow's first thought had been of her. He had not opened his lipssince entering; he sat staring at them, forgetful of good manners; and,after a little, both began to feel ill at ease. Their eyes met for amoment in this sensation, and Herries cleared his throat.
"What did you do with yourself in summer?" he queried, and could notrestrain a smile, at the fashion in which the other fellow was givinghimself away. "You weren't in England at all, I think you said? Wehoped we might meet there, don't you remember? Too bad that I had to gooff without saying good-bye."
"No, I changed my mind and stayed here. But I shouldn't do it again. Itwas so hot."
"Must have been simply beastly."
Maurice jerked his arm; a vase which was standing at his elbow upset,and the water trickled to the floor. Neither offered to help him; hehad to stoop and mop it up with his handkerchief.
For a few moments longer, the conversation was eked out. Then Herriesrose. With her hand in his, he said earnestly: "Now you must bemerciful and relent. I shan't give up hope. Any time in the nextfortnight is time enough, remember. 'Pon my word, I've dreamt of thosewaltzes of ours ever since. And the floor at the PRUSSE is stillbetter, don't you know? You won't have the heart not to come."
From under her lids, Louise shot a rapid glance at Maurice. He, too,had risen; he was standing stiff, pale, and solemn, visibly waitingonly till Herries had gone, to make himself disagreeable. She smiled.
"Don't ask me to give an answer to-day. I'll let you know--will thatdo? A fortnight is such a long time. And then you've forgotten thechief thing. I must see if I have anything to wear."
"Oh, I say! ... if that's all! Don't let that bother you. That blackthing you had on last time was ripping--awfully jolly, don't you know?"
Louise laughed. "Well, perhaps," she said, as she opened the door.
"Good business!" responded Herries.
He nodded in Maurice's direction, and they went out of the roomtogether. Maurice heard their voices in laughing rejoinder, heard themtake leave of each other at the halldoor. After that there was a pause.Louise lingered, before returning, to open a letter that was lying onthe hall-table; she also spoke to Fraulein Grunhut. When she did comeback, all trace of animation had gone from her face. She busied herselfat once with the flowers he had disarranged, and this done, ordered herhair before the hanging glass. Maurice followed her movements with asarcastic smile.
Suddenly she turned and confronted him.
"Maurice! ... for Heaven's sake, don't glare at me like that! If you'veanything to say, please say it, and be done with it."
"You know well enough what I have to say." His voice was husky.
"Indeed, I don't."
"Well you ought to."
"Ought to?--No: there's a limit to everything! Take your hat off thattable!--What did you mean by bursting into the room when you heard someone was here? And, as if that weren't enough--to let everybody see howmuch at home you are--your behaviour--your unbearable want ofmanners..." She stopped, and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
"I believed you didn't care what people thought," he threw in, moroselydefiant.
"That's a poor excuse for your rudeness."
"Well, at least tell me what that fool wanted here."
"Have you no ears? Couldn't you hear that he has just come back fromEngland, and is calling on his friends?"
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
"Maurice!"
"Oh, he has always been after you--since that night. It's only becausehe wasn't here long enough ... and his manner shows what he thinks ofyou ... and what he means."
"What do YOU mean? Do you wish to say it's my doing that he came hereto-day?--Don't you believe me?" she demanded, as he did not answer.
"And you in that half-dressed condition!"
"Could I dress before him? How abominable you are!"
He tried to explain. "Yes. Because ... I hate the sight of thefellow.--You didn't know he was coming, did you, or you wouldn't haveseen him?"
"Know he was coming!" She wrenched her hands away. "Oh! ..."
"Say you didn't!"
"Maurice!--Be jealous, if you must! But surely, surely you don'tbelieve----"
"Oh, don't ask me what I believe. I only know I won't have that manhanging about. It was by a mere chance to-day that I came roundearlier; he might have been here for hours, without my suspecting it.Who knows if you would have told me either?--Would you have told me,Louise?"
"Oh, how can you be like this! What is the matter with you?"
He put his arms round her, with the old cry. "I can't bear you even tolook at another man. For he's in love with you, and has been, eversince you made him crazy by dancing with him as you did."
With his hands on her shoulders, he rested his face on her hair."Promise me you won't see him again."
Wearily, Louise disengaged herself. "Oh there's always something freshto promise. I'm tired of it--of being hedged in, and watched, and nevertrusted."
"Tired of me, you mean."
She looked bitterly at him. "There you are again?"
"Just this once--to set my mind at rest. Just this once,Louise!--darling!"
But she was silent.
"Then you'll let him come here again?"
"How do I know?--But if I promised what you ask, I should not be ableto go with him to the HOTEL DE PRUSSE on the fifteenth."
"You mean to go to that dance?"
"Why not? Would there be any harm in my going?"
"Louise!"
"Maurice!" She mocked his tone, and laughed. "Oh, go at once," shebroke out the next moment, "and order Grunhut never to let anothervisitor inside the door. Make me promise never to cross the thresholdalone--never to speak to another mortal but yourself! Cut off everypleasure and every chance of pleasure I have; and then you may be, butonly may be, content."
"You're trying how far you can go with me."
"Do you want me to tell you again that dancing is one of the things Ilove best? Not six months ago you knew and helped me to it yourself."
"Yes, THEN," he answered. "Then I could refuse you nothing."
She laughed in an unfriendly way. He pressed her hand to his forehead."You won't be so cruel, I know."
"You know more than I do."
/> "Do you realise what it means if you go?" In fancy, he was present, andsaw her passed from one pair of arms to another.
"I realise nothing--but that I am very unhappy."
"Have I no influence over you any more--none at all?"
"Can't you come, too, then?--if you are afraid to let me out of yoursight?"
"I? To see you----" He broke off with wrathful abruptness. "Thanks, Iwould rather be shot." But at the mingled anger and blankness of herface, he coloured. "Louise, put an end to all this. Marry me--now, atonce!"
"Marry you? I? No, thank you. We're past that stage, I think.--Besides,are you so simple as to believe it would make any difference?"
"Oh, stop tormenting me. Come here!"--and he pulled her to him.
From this day forward, the direction of his thoughts was changed. Theincident of Herries's visit, her refusal to promise what he asked, and,above all, the matter of the coming ball, with regard to which he couldnot get certainty from her: these things seemed to open up nightmaredepths, to which he could see no bottom. Compared with them, the vaguefears which had hitherto troubled him were only shadows, and likeshadows faded away. He no longer sought out superfine reasons for theirlack of happiness. The past was dead and gone; he could not alter jotor tittle of what had happened; he could only make the best of it. Andso he ceased to brood over it, and gave himself up to the present. Thefuture was a black, unknown quantity, but the present was his own. Andhe would cling to it--for who knew what the future held in store forhim? In these days, he began to suspect that it was not in the natureof things for her always to remain satisfied with him; and, ever moredaring, the horrid question reared its head: who will come after me?Another blind attraction only needed to seize her, and what, then,would become of constancy and truth? If he had doubted her before, hewas now suspicious from a different cause, and in quite a differentway. The face of the trim little man who had sat beside her, and smiledat her, was persistently present to him. He did not question herfurther; but the poison worked the more surely in secret; he never foran instant forgot; and jealousy, now wide awake, had at last a definiteobject to lay hold of.
In his lucid moments, he knew that he was making her life a burden toher. What wonder if she did, ultimately, turn from him? But his evilmoods were now beyond command. He began to suspect deceit in heractions as well as in what she said. The idea that this other, thissmirking, wax-faced man, might somehow steal her from him, hung overhim like a fog, obscuring his vision. It necessitated continuedwatchfulness on his part. And so he dogged her, mentally, and in factuntil his own heart all but broke under the strain.
One afternoon they walked to Connewitz. It had rained heavily duringthe night, and the unpaved roads were inchdeep in mud. The sky was alevel sheet of cloud, darker and more forbidding in the east.
Their direction was Maurice's choice. Louise would have liked better tokeep to the town: for, though the streets, too, were mud-bespattered,there would soon be lights, and the reflection of lights in damppavements. She yielded, however, without even troubling to express herwish. But just because of the dirt and naked ugliness which met her, atevery turn, she was voluble and excited; and an exaggerated hilarityseized her at trifles. Maurice, who had left the house in a morecomposed frame of mind than usual, gradually relapsed, at her want ofrestraint, into silence. He suffered under her looseness of tongue andlaughter: her sallow, heavy-eyed face was ill-adapted to such moods;below her feverish animation there lurked, he was sure of it, a deadlymelancholy. He had always been rendered uneasy by her spurts of gaiety.Now in addition, he asked himself: what has happened to make her likethis?
Feeling his hostility, Louise grew quieter, and soon she, too, wassilent. Having gained his end, Maurice wished to atone for it, andslipping his arm through hers, he took her hand. For a few steps theywalked on in this fashion. Then, he received one of those suddenimpressions which flash on us from time to time, of having seen or donea certain thing before. For a moment, he could not verify it; then heknew, just in this way, arm in arm, hand in hand, had she come towardshim with Schilsky, that very first day. It was no doubt a habit ofhers. Like this, too, she would, in all probability, walk with the onewho came after. And the picture of Herries, in the place he nowoccupied, was photographed on his brain.
He withdrew his arm, as if hers had burnt him: his mind was off againon its old round. But she, too, had to suffer for it. As he stood backto let her pass before him, on a dry strip of the path, his eye caughta yellow rose she was wearing at her belt. Till now he had seen itwithout seeing it.
"Why are you wearing that rose?"
Louise looked down from him to the flower and back again. "Why?--youknow I like to wear flowers."
"Where did you get it?"
She foresaw what he was driving at, and did not reply.
"You were wearing a rose like that the first time I saw you. Do youremember?"
"How should I remember? It's so long ago."
"Where had you got that one from, then?"
She repeated the same words. "How should I know now?"
"But I know. It was from him--he had given it to you."
She raised her shoulders. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps? No. For certain."
"Well, and if so--was there anything strange in that?"
They walked a few paces without speaking. Then he asked: "Who has givenyou this one?"
"Maurice!" There was a note of warning in her voice. He heard it invain. "Give it to me, Louise."
"No--let it be. It will wither soon enough where it is."
"Please give it to me," he urged, rendered the more determined by herrefusal.
"I wish to keep it."
"And I mean to have it."
To avoid the threatening scene, she took the rose from her belt andgave it to him. He fingered it indecisively for a moment, then threw itover the bridge they were crossing, into the river. It struggled,filled with muddy water, and floated away.
In the next breath, however, he asked himself ruefully what he hadgained by his action. She had given him the rose, and he had destroyedit; but he would never know how she had come by it, and what it hadbeen to her.
He was incensed with himself and with her for the whole length of theSCHLEUSSIGER WEG. Then the inevitable regret for his hastinessfollowed. He took her limply hanging hand and pressed it. But there wasno responsive pressure on her part. Louise looked away from him, beyondthe woods, as far as she could see, in the vain hope of therediscovering some means of escape.