Would that suit you?" Gesa's head sank. "How long must I remain away?"

he murmured.

"Six--eight months. You must decide by tomorrow. Are you afraid of seasickness?" laughed the virtuoso.

"That?--No! but--Well I will ask the little one. Six or eight months--it is long--and so far. She will not have the courage. However, I thank you heartily!"

The servant announced an ill.u.s.trious amateur and Gesa left.

To his great astonishment Annette exulted and rejoiced when he told her of Marinksi's offer. "I did not know that you were already such a great man in the world," she cried, triumphantly.

"Shall I accept?" asked Gesa, with a trembling voice, tears standing in his eyes. She looked at him amazed. "Would you refuse? Gesa, only think when you come back from America, a rich man!"

He sighed once deeply, then he bent over her, kissed her forehead, and quietly said, "You are right, Annette. I was cowardly!"

He accepted Marinski's offer.

A few days later, a little dinner was served in the Rue Ravestein, which was very elaborate for the surroundings, and at which Gesa left all his favorite dishes untouched, and old Delileo exerted himself to talk very rapidly about the most indifferent things, shook pepper into his marmalade, and finally raised his gla.s.s with a trembling hand and gave a toast to Gesa's speedy, happy return. Annette, who up to this time had regarded Gesa's departure with the most frivolous gaiety, became every moment more painfully excited. She ate nothing, said not a word, and looked wretched, pain and terror were in her eyes. When Gesa drew her to him, and kindly stroked her pallid cheeks, she broke into immoderate weeping, clung to him convulsively, and begged him again and again "do not leave me alone--do not leave me alone!"

He made no answer to her unreasonable words, only pitied her most tenderly, called her a thousand sweet names, and said, turning to Delileo, "Try to divert her a little, father--take her sometimes to the theatre, and as soon as pleasant weather comes, take her to the country. And read with her a little,--none of the complicated old trash that we delight in, but something simple, entertaining, to suit a spoiled little girl."

"Is there any one in the world, better than he is, papa?" sobbed Annette. The servant entered and announced that the carriage was waiting at the Place Royale, and the porter was there to take Monsieur Gesa's luggage, at the same time clutching his traveling bag and violin case. Gesa looked at the clock. "It is time," said he, quietly, "be reasonable, Annette!"

But she sobbed incessantly, "do not leave me alone," and he was forced to unclasp her dear, soft arms from his neck. He pressed his foster-father's hand in silence, and hastened away. From the street, he heard the sound of a window opening above, and Annette's voice. He stood still, looked back--cried "Auf Wiedersehen!"--and hurried on to the Place Royale.

Before the train puffed off, a slender, blonde man rushed onto the platform. "De Sterny!" cried Gesa, deeply moved.

"Well, well, you expected me I hope. I slipped away from the X's in order to catch you. You understand that I did not want to let you go without wishing you 'bonne chance' for the last time."

The conductor opened the door of the coupe--Gesa entered it.

"Bonne chance! it can't fail you"--cried de Sterny.

Gesa bent out of the coach window. "Thousand thanks for all your kindness," he cried, "and if it is not too tiresome for you,--then to-morrow look in a moment, to see how it is with her."

"I will take her your last greeting," said de Sterny.

The virtuoso beckoned smilingly, while the train steamed away.

Thus, smiling, kind, sympathetic, Gesa lost sight of his friend. Thus he remained in Gesa's memory.

XV

Thanks to a sudden outbreak of yellow fever in the South, Marinski's troupe left America earlier than had been agreed upon.

With salary somewhat diminished by this circ.u.mstance, a bundle of bombastic critiques, and some very pretty ornaments from Tiffany's in New York for Annette, Gesa went on board the "Arcadia," in which Marinski's troupe were to sail for old Europe. How he rejoiced for his "little one!" She had looked so badly when he left Brussels, was so inconsolable at parting. He resolved to give her a surprise by his sudden return. What great eyes she would make! Sometimes at night he started from sleep--a cry of joy and her name on his lips.

The whole troupe knew why he was hurrying home. He never grew weary of telling about Annette. About Annette and de Sterny. He was much beloved by all his traveling companions, and they all felt a lively interest in Annette; but of de Sterny they would not hear a word; and an old ba.s.so, who had taken Gesa especially to his heart, said warningly--

"Take care! he will play you a trick--he is a villain, monsieur!"

Gesa took the caution very ill, and starting up rebuked the ba.s.so severely.

The ba.s.so smiled to himself.

Among the female forces of the troupe was a certain Guiseppina D----.

Pale, with rich red hair that when she uncoiled it reached to her heels, her enormous black eyes, short nose, and large mouth lent her some likeness to a death's head. Yet, she was not without a certain charm, especially in her smile, and she smiled constantly, as people do whom nothing can any longer rejoice. To her Gesa talked oftenest about his beloved. She listened to him most kindly and sometimes she wept.

She was the soprano of the troupe, and lived in the bitterest enmity with the Alto, who was married to the Tenor, immensely jealous, and very proud of her own virtue.

In Paris, when the troupe broke up, the Guiseppina at parting put both arms around Gesa's neck and kissed him. This the virtuous Alto certainly would not have done. But the Guiseppina whispered at the same time,

"The kiss is for thee, with my good wishes, and this"--she gave him a little gold cross--"this is for the bride, with my mother's blessing that clings to it yet. It belonged to my First Communion, and is the only one of my possessions which is worthy a bride of yours."

They all promised to come to his wedding, and at last he had bidden them farewell, and had left Paris for Brussels.

It was in the second half of June and Corpus Christi day. At all the stations groups of girls in white were to be seen. Now and then white-robed processions pa.s.sed in the distance, and softly as from a spirit choir their Catholic hymns floated to the traveler's ear.

It was late in the afternoon when he arrived in Brussels, sprang into a fiacre, and directed it to the Rue Ravestein. The hack, with all the vexatious phlegm of a Brussels' vehicle, jogged slowly toward its destination.

The moist, heavy sultriness of a northern summer brooded over the town.

The air had something oppressive, stifling, like that of a hot room.

Above the earth all was motionless, except that in the very topmost branches of the linden trees on the Boulevard there was a light rustling. From the ground steamed the moisture of yesterday's showers; in the sky the clouds were piling up for another thunderstorm, with muttered growl along the horizon. The atmosphere was heavy and sad with the odor of incense, burning wax, candles, and withering flowers, the odor of Corpus Christi Day. Against the walls of the houses still leaned the altars that had been erected, surmounted by shriveled foliage, and dead blossoms. Luxuriant roses, tender heliotrope and modest reseda lay trodden and soiled on the pavement.

As Gesa alighted at the Place Royale a woman in a battered hat, gaudily be-ribboned, and a red shawl, stooped down after some of the faded flowers. She was one of those who hide themselves when the Corpus Christi procession pa.s.ses by. She lived in the Rue Ravestein, and Gesa knew her. Always pitiful, he took a twenty-france piece from his pocket and gave it to her. She glanced up, looked at him sharply and suddenly turned away her painted face.

He entered the Rue Ravestein. Sickening miasmas rose from the drain; a cloud of midges hovered in the air;--the crucified Saviour looked down more sadly than ever.

Familiar things greeted his eyes as he pa.s.sed: the lean hyena-like dogs wagged their tails, and some of them came and shoved cold moist noses into his hand.

"No one is at home!" cried the woman who sold vegetables in the shop on the ground floor of Delileo's dwelling. "No one. Neither the old gentleman, nor the young lady."

"Have they gone on a journey?" asked Gesa, blankly.

"No, I think not. Unless I am mistaken the young lady has gone to church. Perhaps monsieur will find her yet in St. Gudule."

Gesa was already hastening down the street toward the Cathedral. Behind him little groups collected. The gossips of Rue Ravestein laughed.

XVI

On an irregular square, from which numberless streets and alleys spread themselves out like rays, rises the Cathedral of St. Gudule. Light and transparent in architecture, bearing herself proudly--the church towers above the city where the ghosts of Horn and Egmont walk. Her walls are blackened as if they wore mourning for the crimes which men have committed here in G.o.d's name; and through her cool aisles sighs the mouldy breath of a vault. Gesa entered. It was dusky within; thick shadows covered the feet of the brown, worm-eaten benches. Only a few people still remained. In vain the violinist looked around for his bride. A couple of old women he saw: a child in a blue ap.r.o.n, stretching on tiptoe to reach the holy water, two beggars near the door--that was all. No priest was at the altar: service was over.