"I think the man is a great original; but why did he look at me all the time, with his big bright eyes?"

Melitta laughed.

"You must know that old Baumann was my father's servant, after having made all the campaigns against Napoleon in his regiment. He has rocked me, when I was a child, on his knees, has never left me since, and will not leave me till I die or he dies. Twice he has saved my life, and, without my knowing it or desiring it, shared every one of my sorrows, and, I may say, every joy. If I were to say to him: Baumann, you will have to go to Australia to-morrow for me! he would say: Yes, ma'am!

pack his things over night, and be on his way before sunrise. And if I said: I cannot help it, Baumann, but you will have to die for me! he would say, Yes, ma'am! and not move a muscle. But if I said to him, _Please_ hear, Baumann, or call him _Mr._ Baumann, he would think our friendship at an end. Now he is angry because I have not told him who you are. When he will know that, and find out that I am glad to see you here, he will be content again. Now mind what will happen. He will come back to tell us that he can do absolutely nothing for us. Thereupon I will give him the information about you, and make believe to go myself.

Then we shall have peace. But you must look friendly when I mention you to him, you hear?"

"Don't fear, madam. I will be friendly, and smile as mildly as one of Guido Reni's angels."

The door opened once more. The old servant entered, marched into the room, remained standing precisely on the same spot as before, and said, looking again at Oswald:

"No possibility whatever, ma'am!"

"But, Baumann, that is a great pity. Here is Doctor Stein, who has specially come over from Grenwitz, and on foot, too, to talk with Mr.

Bemperlein about Julius. And now both have driven out, and we cannot offer him a mouthful to eat or a gla.s.s of wine. And I myself have eaten nothing, as you know, since the morning, and am almost perishing for hunger."

Oswald found it difficult to keep the smile, which he had been ordered to show, from degenerating into broad laughter as he saw how the old man's face grew brighter and brighter with every word which Melitta uttered. At last he turned his look from one to the other, as if he were going to say: Well, you see, young people, after all, you can do nothing without old Baumann! Then he said:

"Well, as to the cellar-key, I have that in my pocket, ma'am."

"To be sure, and how about the key to the pantry?"

"Barely possible that mam'seile has put it again under the doorsill, although I have warned her against that many a time."

"Won't you look, Baumann, if it is there?"

"Yes, ma'am."

As soon as the door had closed after the old man, Melitta threw herself laughing into the rocking-chair.

"Did I not tell you?" she cried, rocking to and fro, joyous as a child that has had its will; "did I not tell you?"

Oswald had taken a seat opposite to her, at the large round table, on which an open alb.u.m and drawing materials lay scattered about. His hand was playing with the pencil while he looked at Melitta, lost in thought.

"Are you going to draw my likeness?" asked Melitta.

"I wish I could."

"Why not? There is my alb.u.m."

"That does not help me. You will have to teach me first how to draw directly with the eye."

"Ah, that is exactly what I always wish I could do. How often, when I am interested in a face, a figure, or a landscape, have I thought: Now you will hit it! and when I try to fix it on the paper, clear as it is before my eye, it is nothing but a caricature."

"I am sure your alb.u.m will say the contrary. Is it permitted to look at it?"

"Not generally, but you may. In fact, it has no value but for myself; for I find there not only what I have drawn, but also what I have wished to draw. Besides, my alb.u.m is a kind of diary. I probably commenced this one shortly before my Italian journey."

"Then you have been in Italy?"

"Two years ago, with my cousin Barnewitz and his wife. I wish you had been with us; first, on your account, for you deserve to see Italy, and then, on my account, because I should then not have been condemned to wander through the most beautiful landscapes and the richest collections alone, or in company with figures of wax. I used to tell then, as I always do, everything to my alb.u.m, which received patiently what no one else cared to listen to."

Melitta had risen and placed herself by Oswald's side, who wanted to get up in order to give her a chair. But, in order to prevent that, she laid her hand lightly on his arm and let it rest there an instant--an instant only, and yet it was long enough to make Oswald's hand tremble and his voice shake when he said, turning over the leaves:

"These sketches must have been made before the journey to Italy. Here is the mysterious pond, at the edge of which I slept and dreamt this afternoon."

"You have not told me yet what you dreamt?"

"Yes, I told you all sorts of sweet foolish things."

"Of course about a lady?"

"Yes."

"Ah, then I must not ask for more?"

"Ah, how charming!" exclaimed Oswald, as he turned over a leaf. "How snugly ensconced this cottage lies in the forest. The old pine-trees stand around like gigantic guardians. The beech-tree spreads its mighty branches over it like a protecting deity. And here the creepers, climbing up and waving before the low windows, as if they were whispering: You are ours. And how dreamily that brook creeps along between reeds and ferns and down the deep green meadow in the foreground! That is a beautiful idea," said Oswald, looking up to Melitta from the book.

"And as you have found it all out so nicely, I will show it to you this very evening!"

"What! This is not a fancy picture?"

"Oh no! Perhaps those ducks hiding in the rushes from the hawk up there. The brook is the outlet of your mysterious lake in the forest."

"Ah, and thus only a continuation of my dream," said Oswald, turning over leaf after leaf.

A loose leaf fell into his hands. It had on it the head of a man in profile, drawn in beautiful bold lines. In a corner stood the letters A. V. O. and a date.

"That leaf will drop out," said Oswald.

"Let it drop, then!" replied Melitta.

The tone in which she said these few words was so peculiar, so entirely without the ordinary sweetness of her voice, that Oswald involuntarily looked up at her. He saw that her beautiful brows were contracted as if in anger, and her lips trembling. He looked down again instantly, and was about to put the leaf back in its place, when Melitta laid her hand on his arm and said:

"How do you like the head?"

A storm rose in Oswald's heart. He might have thrown himself instantly at Melitta's feet to cry out: Do I not love you, Melitta? How can you ask my opinion about a man whom you have loved, whom you perhaps still love? But he checked himself and said, with apparent calmness:

"It is the head of a man who recalls to me Ta.s.so's words:

'And if all the G.o.ds united To bring him gifts to the cradle, The Graces, alas! were not there.'

This man can never be happy, because he will never desire to be happy."

"And that is why this man will drop out of my life as this leaf drops out of my alb.u.m. If one could kill memory as one can destroy a paper, it would no longer be here. But since that cannot be done, let it stay there. Go on!"