"Do be so kind, my dear fellow, as to make a little less noise!" Euchar said. "Oh, of course," he answered, "you unimpressionable people are never in the least affected by music!" However he did what Euchar had asked him to do.

When she had finished, she went and leant on a tree, as if wearied. And as she let the chords go on sounding more and more softly till they died away in a _pianissimo_, great tears were falling upon the instrument.

"You are in some need, my poor, pretty child," said Euchar, in the tone which comes only from a deeply moved heart. "Although I did not see the beginning of your dance, you have more than made up for that by your song, and you must not refuse to accept something from me."

He had taken out a little purse in which bright ducats were shining, and was handing it to her as she came closer to him. She fixed her gaze upon his hand, seized it in both her own, and falling on her knees with a loud cry of "_Oh, Dios!_" covered it with the warmest kisses. "Ah!"

cried Ludwig, "nothing but gold is worthy to touch that beautiful little hand." And he asked Euchar if he could give him change for a thaler, as he had no smaller money about him.

Meanwhile the hunchback had come limping up, and he lifted the guitar, which Emanuela had dropped on the ground, making many smiling reverences to Euchar, supposing that he had been exceedingly generous to the girl, from the motion with which she had thanked him.

"Scoundrel--miscreant!" growled Ludwig.

The man started in alarm, and said, in a lamentable tone, "Ah, sir, why are you so angry? Don't condemn poor Biagio Cubas--a good, respectable, honest man. Don't judge me by the colour of my skin, or by the ugliness of my face. I know I _have_ an ugly face. I was born in Lorca, and am every bit as good a Christian as you are yourself."

The girl jumped up hastily, crying out to the old man in Spanish, "Come away, little father, as quickly as you can." And they both hurried off, Cubas continuing to make various odd reverences, and Emanuela fixing upon Euchar the most soul-full gaze of which her beautiful eyes were capable.

When the strange couple were lost among the trees, Euchar said, "You must see, do you not, that you were in much too great a hurry to condemn that little cobold in your own mind? He _has_ a touch or so of the gypsy about him. As he says himself, he comes from Lorca. And Lorca is an old Moorish town, and the Lorcanese (good enough folks, all the same) bear undeniable traces of their ancestry. So there is nothing which they take in worse part than to have this imputed to them, which is why they keep perpetually declaring that they are Christians of ever so old standing. This was the case with this little fellow, in whose face his Moorish origin is certainly reflected to the extent of positive caricature."

"No matter!" cried Ludwig. "I stick to my opinion; the man is a tremendous scoundrel, and I will leave no stone unturned till I deliver my charming, beautiful Mignon from his clutches."

"If you insist on thinking the little fellow a scoundrel," said Euchar, "I can't say that I have very much confidence, for my part, in the charming beautiful Mignon."

"What!" cried Ludwig. "Not have confidence in that divine little creature, whose eyes beam with the purest, most innocent truth and tenderness? However, there we see the icy, prosaic nature wholly devoid of feeling for all such matters, distrustful of everything which doesn't fit all in a moment into the compartments, the grooves of his everyday business."

"Well, don't get so excited about it, my dear, enthusiastic friend,"

said Euchar quietly. "You will probably say that I have no tangible reason for distrusting the beautiful Mignon. But my reason is that I have this instant discovered that as she was kissing my hand she took away that little ring with the curious stone (which you know I always wear) from my finger. And I am greatly distressed to lose it, because it is a souvenir of a period of my life which was full of intense interest and importance."

"In heaven's name," said Ludwig, in an awestruck whisper, "it is not possible, surely! No, no!" he cried, loudly and excitedly, "it cannot be possible! That lovely face could not deceive: that eye--that glance--You must have dropped the ring--let it fall."

"Well--" said Euchar, "we shall see. But it is getting dark: let us get back to the town."

All the way home, Ludwig did not cease talking of Emanuela, calling her by the sweetest names, and declaring that he was quite certain--from a peculiar glance which she had cast on him at parting--that he had made a deep impression on her--a sort of event which generally happened to him in similar cases--_i.e._ when the romantic element entered amongst the circ.u.mstances of everyday life. Euchar did not interrupt him by so much as a syllable; but he worked himself up more and more--till, just at the town gate (where the drummer of the guard was beginning to beat the tattoo), he screamed into his friend's ear (a process necessitated by the row made by the military virtuoso on his instrument), as he cast himself upon his bosom, that he was most deeply in love with the sweet Mignon, and that the sole object of his life from thenceforth was to find her again, and free her from the bondage of the atrocious old monster.

There was a servant in a handsome livery standing at Ludwig's door, who handed him a card of invitation. As soon as he had read it, and sent the servant away, he embraced his friend as frantically as he had done at the town gate, and cried, "Oh, Euchar! call me the most fortunate--the most enviable--of mortals. Open your heart! Form some slight idea of my happiness! Mingle your tears of joy with mine!"

"What can there be of such a marvellously fortunate description announced to you on a card?" inquired Euchar.

"Don't be startled," murmured Ludwig, "when I open to you the gates of the magically brilliant Paradise of a thousand delights, which will unfold itself to me by the virtue of this card here."

"Well," said Euchar, "I am sure I shall be very glad indeed, to hear what the piece of good fortune is which is coming to you."

"Hear it," cried Ludwig; "learn it--understand it! Be amazed at it--doubt of it--cry out--shriek--shout! I have got an invitation to the supper and ball to-morrow evening at Countess Walther Puck's!

Victorine! Victorine! Sweet, lovely Victorine!"

"And how about sweet, lovely Mignon?" asked Euchar. But Ludwig groaned forth, in the most pathetic tones, "Victorine! My life!" and bolted into his quarters.

THE FRIENDS, LUDWIG AND EUCHAR. EVIL DREAM OF THE LOSS, AT PIQUET, OF A PAIR OF HANDSOME LEGS. WOES OF AN ENTHUSIASTIC DANCER. COMFORT, HOPE, AND MONSIEUR COCHENILLE.

It may be expedient to tell the courteous reader a little more concerning this pair of friends, so that he may form, at all events, to some extent, a well-grounded opinion as to each of them.

Both had the t.i.tle of Baron. Educated together, and having grown up in the most intimate friendship, they could not part even when the lapse of years brought to light most striking dissimilarities in their mental characteristics, which became more and more developed as time went on.

In his childhood, Euchar belonged to the cla.s.s of "good, well-behaved children," so-called, because in "society" they will sit for hours in the same spot, ask no questions, never want anything, and so forth, and then in due course, develop into wooden blockheads. With Euchar the case was different. If when, in his capacity of a "good, well-behaved"

boy he chanced to be sitting with bent head and downcast eyes, some one spoke to him, he would start in alarm, stammer, and falter in his speech, often even shed tears, and seem to have been awakened from a deep dream. When alone, he appeared to be a totally different being. If watched without his being aware of it, he would be talking loudly and eagerly, as if with several people about him, and he would "act" whole stories--which he had heard or read--as if they were dramas, so that tables, cupboards, chairs, whatever happened to be in the room with him, had to represent towns, forests, villages, and dramatis personae.

But when he had an opportunity of being alone in the open air, a special ecstasy seemed to inspire him. Then he would jump, dance, and shout through the woods, putting his arms about the trees, throwing himself down into the gra.s.s--and so forth. In any sort of game played by boys of his own standing, he was most unwilling to take part, and was consequently looked upon as being "funky," and a creature who had no "pluck," for he would never take his share in anything where there was any chance of risk--such as a big jump, or a difficult piece of climbing. But here, also, it was curious that, when at the end n.o.body had had the pluck to do the thing, Euchar would wait till they were all gone, and then, when he was by himself, would do with the utmost ease, what they had all only _wanted_ to do. For instance, if the idea was to get up a high, slender tree, and n.o.body had managed to do it, as soon as all their backs were turned, and Euchar was alone, he would be at the top of it in a few seconds. Seeming outwardly to be cold and apathetic, he really threw himself into everything with all his soul, and a persevering steadfastness such as only belongs to strong characters. And when--as was often the case--that which he felt keenly came to the surface, it did so with such irresistible force, that everyone who had any knowledge of such matters was amazed at the depth of feeling which lay hidden in the boy's nature. Many schoolmasters, and tutors, who had to do with him, could make neither head nor tail of him as a pupil, and there was only one of them--the last--who said the boy was a poet: at which his papa was very much distressed, thinking that the boy had inherited his mother's temperament, and she had always had the most terrible headaches whenever she went to a party or any social function. However, the papa's most intimate friend, a smooth-spoken young chamberlain, a.s.sured him that the schoolmaster in question was an a.s.s to say what he did, and utterly mistaken, seeing that the blood in the veins of young Euchar was n.o.ble, so that, being by birth an aristocrat, he never could be in any danger of being capable of poetry. And this was very consoling to the old gentleman.

How the lad developed with those dispositions may be readily inferred.

Nature had imprinted on his face the unmistakable signet with which she stamps her prime favourites. But Mother Nature's favourites are those who have the power of completely realising the illimitable love of their kind mother, and of understanding the depths of her being: and they are only understood by those who are favourites themselves.

Consequently Euchar was not understood by the general crowd--was considered unimpressionable, cold, incapable of the due degree of ecstasy on the subject of the newest tragedy at the theatre--and was stigmatized as a prosaic creature. Above all, a whole coterie of ladies of the most refined intellectual development and culture, who might well be credited with the power of insight on this particular subject, could by no means understand how it was possible that that Apollo's brow, those sharply curving, masterful eyebrows, those eyes which darted such a darksome fire, those softly pouting lips, should belong to a mere lifeless image. And yet all this seemed to be the case. For Euchar did not know in the least degree how to say nothing, about nothing, in words which meant nothing, to pretty ladies, and look, whilst so-doing, like a Rinaldo in bonds.

Matters were quite different with Ludwig. He belonged to the race of those wild, uncontrollable boys of whom people are in the habit of predicting that the world will not be wide enough for them. It was he who always invented the maddest and most adventurous features of all games. It was naturally to be expected that he would be the one of all others to "come to grief" on those occasions: but he was always the one who came out of them safe and sound, because he had the knack of keeping himself in a safe spot during the carrying out of the adventure--if he did not manage to slip out of it altogether. He took up every subject rapidly, with the utmost enthusiasm--and dropped it again as quickly. So that he learned a great many things, but did not learn much. When he came to young man's estate, he wrote very pretty verses, played pa.s.sably on several instruments, drew very nice pictures, spoke with a certain degree of correctness and fluency several languages, and was, consequently, a paragon of up-bringing. He could get into the most surprising ecstasies about everything, and give utterance to the same in the most magniloquent words. But it was with him as with the drum--which gives forth a sound which is loud in proportion to its emptiness. The impression made upon him by everything grand, beautiful, sublime, resembled the outside tickling which excites the skin without affecting the inner fibres. Ludwig belonged to that cla.s.s of people who say, "I want to do" so-and-so; but who never get beyond this principle of "wanting to do" into action. But, as in this world, those who announce, with the proper amount of loudness and emphasis, what they "intend," or are "going" to do, are held in far greater consideration than those who quietly go and "do" the things in question, it of course happened that Ludwig was considered "capable" of performing the grandest deeds, and was admired accordingly, people not troubling themselves to ascertain whether he had "done" the deeds which he had talked about so loudly. There were, it must be said, people who "saw through" Ludwig, and, starting from what he said, took some pains to find out what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. And this grieved him all the more that, in solitary hours, he was sometimes obliged to admit to himself that this everlasting "meaning" and "intending" to do things, without ever doing them, was, in reality, a miserable sort of business. Then he came upon a book--forgotten and out of date--in which was set forth that mechanical theory of the mutual interdependence of things. He eagerly adopted this theory, which justified and accounted for his doings, or rather his "intentions"

of doing, in his own eyes, and in those of others. According with this theory, if he did not carry out anything which he had intended to do--what he had said he was going to do--it was not he who was to blame: its not happening was simply a part of the mutual interdependence of things.

The courteous reader will, at all events, see the great convenience of this theory.

Moreover, as Ludwig was a very good-looking young fellow, with blooming red cheeks, he would, by virtue of his qualities, have been the idol of all elegant circles, had not his short-sight led to his committing numerous "quid-pro-quos," which had often most annoying consequences.

However, he consoled himself with the thought of the "impression,"

which was indescribable, which he believed himself to make upon all female hearts: and, besides, there was a good deal in the habit he had, just because he was so short-sighted, of placing himself in a closer proximity to ladies with whom he was conversing, than might have been considered altogether _convenable_, a species of innocent pushingness, belonging to the "genial" character, so as to be sure not to make any mistakes with reference to the person he was addressing; a matter which had more than once been productive of annoyance.

The morning after the ball at Count Walther Puck's, Euchar received a note from Ludwig, running as follows:

"Dearest and most beloved friend,--I am utterly miserable. I am stricken by destiny. It is all over with me! I am dashed down from the flowery summit of the fairest hope into the blackest and most fathomless abyss of the deepest despair. That which was to have been the source of my indescribable bliss const.i.tutes my misery. Come to me as speedily as you can, and give me some comfort, if such a thing be possible."

Euchar found him stretched on his sofa, with his head bound up, pale and worn from sleeplessness.

"Is it you?" he cried, in a feeble voice, stretching an arm towards him: "is it you, my n.o.ble friend? Ah! _you_ have some sympathy for my sufferings. At all events, let me tell you what I have gone through, and then say whether you think all is over with me, or not."

"Things did not turn out quite as you expected at the ball, I suppose,"

said Euchar.

Ludwig heaved a deep sigh.

"Was the lovely Victorine a little unkind?" inquired Euchar. "Didn't she behave to you quite as you expected?"

"I offended her," answered Ludwig, in the most funereal tones, "to an extent, and in a manner, which she can never forgive."

"Good heavens!" cried Euchar; "this is very distressing. How did it happen? Please to let me hear."

Ludwig, after heaving a profound sigh, and quoting some verses of appropriate poetry, went on, in a voice of profound melancholy:

"Yes, Euchar. As the mysterious whirring of the wheels of a clock tells me that it is going to strike the hour, warnings go before coming misfortunes. On the very night before the ball I had an awful, a horrible dream. I thought I was at the ball, and when I was going to begin dancing, I suddenly found that I could not move my feet from the floor. And I saw in the mirror, to my horror, that instead of the well-looking nether extremities which nature has provided me with, I was dragging about under my body, the gouty old legs of the Consistorial President, with all their wrappings and bandages. And while I had to stick to the floor in this terrible manner, lo and behold! the Consistorial President, with Victorine in his arms, whirling along in a Laendler, lightly and gracefully as any bird. But the point of the thing was, that he sn.i.g.g.e.red at me, with the most insulting style of sneering laughter, and said he had won my legs from me at picquet.

"I awoke, as you may imagine, bathed in a perspiration of anguish.

Still sunk in thought over this horrible vision of the night, I must needs set the cup of almost boiling chocolate to my lips, and burn them to that extent, that you may see the mark still, although I have rubbed on as much pomade as I could. Now I know that you don't take much interest in other people's troubles, so I shall say nothing about the numerous fateful events which destiny dogged my steps with all day yesterday, and merely tell you that when it came to be time to dress in the evening, two st.i.tches burst out of one of my silk stockings--two of my waistcoat b.u.t.tons came off--as I was getting into the carriage to go to the ball, I let my Wellington get into the mud, and at last, in the carriage itself, when I wanted to tighten the patent buckles of my pumps, I found, to my intense annoyance, that my idiot of a servant had put on two which we're not a pair! I was obliged to go home again, and lost a good half hour. However, Victorine came to me in all the glory of her beauty and delightsomeness. I asked her for the next dance. It was a Laendler, we started off together. I was in heaven. But in a moment I felt the spite of adverse fortune."

"The mutual interdependence of things," said Euchar, interrupting.

"Call it whatever you please," said Ludwig, "it doesn't matter to me to-day. All I know is, that it was fate which made me fall over that tree-stump yesterday. As I was dancing I felt the pain come on again in my knee, and it grew more and more unendurable. Just at that moment Victorine said, loud enough to be heard by the other people who were dancing, "We seem all to be going to sleep." Signs were made to the band, people clapped their hands to them, and the pace grew faster and faster. With all my might I struggled with the diabolical pain, and conquered it. I danced along daintily, and put on a delighted expression of countenance; but for all I could do, Victorine kept saying: 'What is the matter, Herr Baron? You are not one bit the partner that you generally are.' Burning dagger thrusts into my heart!"