"Yes; I see it in your eyes."

"Oh, you wicked man! Come, it is our turn now."

Oswald had sauntered about after his dance for some time. When he came back to the ball-room he saw Emily nowhere. Partly looking for her, and partly without any plan or purpose, he wandered through a suite of rooms which connected with the ball-room on the other side of the house, and in which he had not yet been. Here only a few lights were still burning in a chandelier or before a pier-table, and showed him, as in a bad dream, an old family portrait or his own pale face. The chairs stood all about in disorder. The windows were curtained. Through a crevice here and there the moon was shining in, and drew occasionally a bright line across the carpets. Oswald went to one of the windows to get a breath of fresh air. As he drew back the heavy, dark curtain, a white figure, which had been sitting on a low chair in the deep embrasure of the window, lost in thought, started up frightened and uttered a low cry of surprise. Oswald was just about to let the curtain drop again and to retire, when the form approached him and stretched out a hand toward him.... And two soft arms encircled him, and a swelling bosom rose pa.s.sionately before him, and two burning lips pressed on his, and a low voice breathed: "Oswald, oh my G.o.d, Oswald!"

A boy who in playing with his little sister wounds her seriously, cannot be more thoroughly frightened at seeing her blood flow than Oswald was when he felt the tears of the girl on his cheeks. His mad intoxication of love and jealousy was gone in a moment. What had he done? He had played the wicked part of the bird-catcher; he had lured the poor little bird with flattering words and loving glances, until it came fluttering up to him and sought peace on his bosom ...

"Miss Emily," he whispered, trying gently to raise the head of the girl, who was now bitterly sobbing on his bosom, "Emily, my dear child, for Heaven's sake, calm yourself. Consider, if anybody should see you here, or hear you----"

"What do I care for the others? I love you," whispered the girl.

"My dear Miss Emily, I beseech you, collect yourself and make me not wretched----"

"Then you do not love me?" said the pa.s.sionate girl, raising herself suddenly, "then you do not love me? Well, I am going----"

She took a step towards the curtain, but the storm of pa.s.sion had exhausted her strength. She uttered a loud sob, and would have fallen down if Oswald had not caught her in his arms. His situation was extremely painful. He feared every moment to hear voices in the room, to see the curtain drawn back,--and yet, to leave the poor child fainting there, especially as he could not well send anybody to her a.s.sistance,--it was out of the question. And yet he must tear himself away, for he felt that the fever in his senses, suppressed for a moment, was returning with tenfold strength the longer this trying situation continued ... Tender, affectionate, pa.s.sionate words began to mingle, he did not himself know how, with his low beseeching prayers; an irresistible force made the youthful form cling closer to his arms, and, ere he well knew what was done, their lips met, the soft hair mingled with his ... But, more than any words could have done, the contact, these signs of the love of a pa.s.sionate child, brought him back to his self-respect.

"Then you do love me, Oswald?" she whispered, clinging more closely than ever to him.

"Yes, yes, sweet one; who could be cruel enough not to love you dearly.

But by your love I beseech you leave me now, before it is too late. I shall see you again in the ballroom."

The girl put her small head once more to his bosom, as if she felt that it was the first and the last time she should ever rest there, and raised her rosy and willing lips once more, as if she knew that such sweet stolen kisses would not be given to her again in this life ...

The lithe white form had disappeared, and only the pale moonlight fell upon the dark red curtains which separated the window from the room.

And now, as Oswald put his hand on the curtain, in order to return by some roundabout way to the ball-room, he heard the voices of two men, who were just then entering the room.

CHAPTER II.

"Who on earth was that?" said one voice,--it was Baron Oldenburg,--"was not that the pretty Emily? What has the little angler been fishing for here in these troubled waters?--But now, Barnewitz, I ask with Hamlet: Whither do you lead me? Speak, I will go no further. Twice I have brought my baronial knees into unpleasant contact with coa.r.s.e chair-legs, thanks to the abominable _clair obscur_ which prevails in these rooms. Heaven be thanked! here is a causeuse: _eh bien, mon ami; que me voulez-vous?_"

"I pray you, Oldenburg, be serious for a moment," said Baron Barnewitz, and his voice sounded strangely subdued--"I really do not feel in the least like laughing."

"You are a strange creature! You and the like of you. You think an honest fellow cannot utter a serious word without making a face like a mute's. Humor is an unknown luxury here. Well then, my serious friend, what is the matter?"

"Listen, Oldenburg----"

"Hush! Are you quite safe here? It seemed to me I heard a cat behind the hangings."

"It was nothing."

"_Eh bien_; then announce to me your fatal tale in the fewest possible words."

The voices of the speakers became lower, but not so low that Oswald could not hear every word distinctly. He deplored his position, which compelled him to listen, but he saw no chance of escaping. As Oldenburg had recognized Emily von Breesen, he would have compromised her honor if he had shown himself now. He tried to open the window, in order to escape by a bold leap over the gooseberry bushes, which were right underneath, into the garden, and from there through the open door back again into the ball-room; but he abandoned the plan as too hazardous, and tried to reconcile himself as well as he could, though not without secretly cursing his evil star, to his half-ludicrous, half-painful situation.

"Oldenburg," said Barnewitz, "did Cloten ask you to let him sit by my wife, or was it a notion of your own?"

"Why do you ask that curious question?"

"Never mind. Just answer."

"Not before I know what you are aiming at."

"I want an answer and no subterfuge," said the furious n.o.bleman.

"Your threats do not terrify me, Ca.s.sius," replied Oldenburg, in a tone, the royal dignity of which contrasted strongly with the hoa.r.s.e, pa.s.sionate voice of the other. "I tell you once more, Barnewitz, either you tell me what you mean by that question, or I refuse to answer."

"Well then, the thing is briefly this: Cloten is in love with Hortense!"

"Oh! and _vice versa_: is your wife in love with this lovely youth?"

"I wish he were where the pepper grows!"

"A very charitable wish, in which I join you with all my heart. Since when has this comedy been played?"

"Since our return from Italy."

"And what evidences have you?"

"A thousand!"

"And what do you mean to do?"

"Great Heavens! Oldenburg. You ask me as if I had been playing whist! I want to kill the rascal; I want to drive him from my place here with the whip!"

"_Bon!_ And will you mention one of the thousand proofs?"

"Well, I should think to-night had given proof enough. First, she lets him take her to table; then she coquets with him in the most impudent manner----"

"Stop! Who told you all that?"

"Young Grieben."

"Then tell young Grieben that he might employ his sparrow-brains for a better purpose than to invent such foolish stories, and to report them to you. I sat nearer than he, and I am sure I observe as well as he, and I tell you that your wife and Cloten have behaved just as well at table, as,--well, as you can expect from a n.o.bleman and a lady. And then, please consider that the whole arrangement was only a notion, and, as I now see, a bad notion of mine."

"I can rely upon that, Oldenburg?"

"I generally mean what I say."

"But it is nevertheless true," screamed Barnewitz.

"My dear friend, I have no opinion about that, and you would oblige me very much indeed if you would leave me out of the matter entirely. But if you want my friendly advice, I am quite at your service."

"What ought I to do?"