Two Ages, by Thomasine Gyllembourg

The young Claudine grows up as a foster child in a wealthy merchant family during and after the French Revolution. Nearly half a century later, her son, Charles, seeks out the descendants of the merchant family, who turn out to be narrow-minded and hypocritical.

• The Author to the Reader
• Part One. The Time of the Revolution.
• Part Two. The Present.

The Author to the Reader

The little book that here ventures out into the world, the author believes should be accompanied by a few remarks.

One sometimes sees parents give their children a baptismal name that awakens expectations which the children, upon entering the world later, are unable to fulfill, and which therefore only becomes yet another stumbling block in their life’s path. I might perhaps fear a similar fate for this present novella, whose title and beginning may awaken the assumption of a political and historical tendency; but the author has had neither the ability nor the intention to give it such.

The subject I have wished to address is not the great events that so violently shook the end of the previous century and which still trouble our present days—not that furious storm’s reflection in our fatherland, nor the cold and foggy atmosphere it has left behind—but only what I would call the domestic reflection thereof: the effect it has had on family life, on private circumstances, on the opinions and views of individuals—an influence by which everyone, consciously or unconsciously, has been touched.

Prosper Mérimée, the pearl of France’s current beautiful literature, says in the preface to his Chronique du temps de Charles IX:

“It seems curious to me to compare the customs of those times with our own, and in the latter to note how the energetic passions have diminished, to the benefit of our tranquility and perhaps our happiness. The question remains whether we are better than our ancestors, and it is not easy to answer, for in different ages opinions vary greatly in the judgment of the same actions. Thus, one sees that in the 1500s, a murder or a poisoning did not evoke the same horror as in our days. A nobleman would kill his enemy by treachery; the murderer would beg for mercy, receive it, and then appear again at court, without it occurring to anyone to look upon him with disfavor. Sometimes even, if the murder was prompted by legitimate revenge, people spoke of the perpetrator as one now speaks of an honorable man who, when gravely insulted by a scoundrel, kills him in a duel.”

These remarks about the relationship of the present to so distant an age seem to me still applicable when speaking of much nearer periods of world-historical significance. It is hardly mistaken to say that a great change in our customs and opinions has occurred in the last fifty to sixty years, though on the other hand it seems as if the same things continually repeat themselves in a different form.

For example, a married woman who was generally known to have a favored lover would not, for that reason, be less well received in polite society of that time, provided that she otherwise met its expectations and preserved perfect decorum. By contrast, a woman who could not be accused of any improper conduct but who did not hesitate to speak disparagingly of her husband or engage in verbal disputes with young men about their secret love affairs would have been excluded from refined circles as a person unsuited to them. In our own day, the reverse is almost the case.

Furthermore, if in those times a man dared, in a gathering of ladies, to include bold—indeed, nearly indecent—innuendos in his speech, he easily found forgiveness, even approval, as long as his remarks were cloaked in wit or the epigrammatic form of gallantry. In contrast, nowadays not even these virtues would save him from general disapproval. But had someone, half a century ago, permitted themselves the reckless, impolite, and coarse tone that now passes as a free perspective on life—as an enlightened contempt for outdated forms—nothing would have spared them from being cast out of good society as a person without manners.

A lover in the past century took little account of external circumstances, which he regarded as subordinate to love’s all-powerful force. By contrast, a lover today views the power of external circumstances as paramount and subjects his love to them. Both, by these different paths, may ruin the lives of themselves and their beloved, and both may nevertheless be imbued with true and heartfelt love—indeed, even possess a chivalrous spirit.

This power of the spirit of the times over the innermost feelings of individuals, over their entirely private relationships and their judgments of themselves and others—the striking contrast in how the same human passions, virtues, and weaknesses present themselves in different eras—this is what I have wished to portray, as it has appeared to me through my own and others’ experiences. But it should not be forgotten that the novella has its limitations; it stands in relation to the novel as the genre painting does to the historical painting.

In this context, allow me to repeat the following words spoken long ago:

“I well understand that there are more exalted subjects, but it seems to me that these easily lead beyond the boundaries of the novella; and in any case, I do not dream of being able to fly like the eagle to those regions where the unarmed eye cannot follow. But the author of an everyday story builds, like the swallow, on the houses of men and there raises their humble song.”

And with this, I commend the following humble tale to the kindly reception which has been granted to most of its older siblings.

Part One. The Time of the Revolution.

It was in the last decade of the previous century, during the bloodiest period of the French Revolution, that the newly founded Republic sent a legation to Denmark, to obtain through diplomatic means from this neutral country the recognition that its victorious arms promised it in the warring states. Count A.P. Bernstorff, with a strong hand safeguarding his noble work of preserving Denmark as a flourishing oasis amidst the stormy desert of war, set aside his personal views about the order of things then prevailing in France; he received these foreigners with goodwill and strove to reconcile France’s wishes with the interests of the North. In addition to the official legation, the Republic also sent three so-called commissioners, whose task, according to reports, was to purchase grain supplies to provision the French armies; but among these men, it seemed that at least one also carried diplomatic missions. A few other countrymen arrived in their company, and more followed from time to time, some as envoys, others as travelers; and both in public places and on the streets, one often saw them, frequently in rather large groups that always attracted attention. The French Revolution had seized the minds of all to such an extent that hardly anyone—regardless of age, gender, or class—encountered these Frenchmen with their tricolored cockades without casting either a friendly or a hostile glance at them. And however modestly or boldly they might conduct themselves, the crowd still stood still on streets and squares to watch them, as though they were people from the moon; and the heated, often divisive debates that had arisen in most circles about the great questions then stirring the educated part of mankind seemed, at the sight of these republicans, to draw fresh fuel.

It is well known that the French of that time generally distinguished themselves by their good manners, ease, and grace in social interaction. Those referred to here fully justified this reputation on every occasion, and those among them who might be called the leaders of this small troop were not only amiable people but also talented scholars. They were soon sought after and introduced into various social circles; all literary notabilities and artists gathered around them out of natural sympathy, and our—at that time—brilliant and hospitable merchant class received them with open arms.

In the well-known wealthy households, where foreigners from all lands were received with festive hospitality, they often encountered—if not exactly friendly, then at least civil and well-mannered—meetings with diplomats from powers hostile to France. Their business also brought them into contact with various trading houses of a lesser rank. In one of these, a prosperous merchant family that had until then enjoyed its wealth in a rather limited sphere, it was remarkable what new life, new customs, and new views had gradually entered the household with these foreigners.

One Sunday, this family sat around the coffee table after finishing dinner. Besides the merchant Valler, a man in his prime, his still young and beautiful wife, and his even younger and more beautiful niece, there were also three guests who were almost daily visitors to the house: namely the merchant’s brother, Justice Councillor Valler, a royal official; his son Ferdinand, a law student; and Supreme Court advocate Dalund, a man with a clever and highly interesting face. These six persons sat quite silently, as if each was absorbed in their own thoughts. The hostess, occupied with preparing the coffee, nevertheless let her gaze furtively glide over the small gathering, her gentle eyes with a peculiar melancholic expression especially resting on the advocate, who, for his part, returned these glances with a mixture of tenderness and vexation. The servant went around with a tray of coffee cups, offering them to the gentlemen sitting in a circle. The Justice Councillor took one, saying, “Well, in God’s name! This too is one of our new fashions! In the good old days, sugar and cream came in the cup; now one must be troubled to do it oneself. Back then, at least, the cup was properly full—but of course, that was real coffee, not this black mixture that can break a man’s heart. May I have my cup filled with water,” he added. Madame Valler reached for it and said kindly, “Forgive me, dear brother-in-law! Next time I shall remember how you prefer it.”

She brought him the cup herself and added, “I fear that today, in every way, I have been unfortunate in pleasing your taste, for I noticed at the table that you hardly touched the food.”

“My dear sister-in-law,” replied the Justice Councillor politely, kissing her delicate little hand, “your cooking was, as always, excellent, but I had lost my appetite because we waited so long for our meal. You know well that in the good old days we dined at two o’clock at the latest, whereas now in this house, following the new French fashion, we do not sit down until three or later.”

“I am sorry, dear brother-in-law! But Valler has wished for this change. It has now become common to dine later, and Valler’s business lately—”

“Yes, and his new circle of friends lately, and the cursed French fashions of this miserable modern age, according to which you, for example, no longer dare to call your husband, as before, ‘my husband,’ or ‘Peter,’ as he was named at his baptism, but now address him by his family name, ‘Valler.’ You might as well say ‘Mr. Valler.’”

The beautiful wife fell silent, and as the merchant, who had meanwhile been quietly conversing with the advocate, approached them, she quietly withdrew to her seat.

“What the devil is this?” said the merchant, laughing. “I believe you’re scolding my wife—you’ve truly become irritable and difficult before your time.”

“It may well be that it comes from the difficulties of the times.”

“Oh, nonsense! The times! These are exactly good times we are living in—times for honest folk, though not for kings, nobility, and priests. Now it’s the people’s turn. We should thank the Lord—if He’s still around.”

“Well, that’s a fine speech!”

“Listen! Let’s not argue any more today. Be reasonable now! Come join us tomorrow. We’re going to really let loose. Nothing shall be lacking. We will have a joyful day with our good French friends.”

“Yes, those fine French coins you earn by trading with them make you forget that they are regicides, bloody predators whom you invite to your table.”

“What’s that?” cried the merchant angrily. “Money, you say, should motivate me? Me, who is the warmest man of liberty, who would give life and blood for Robespierre!”

The other gentlemen approached, and the advocate said, “No, he has shed too much noble blood for any honest man to give the smallest drop for his sake.”

“Bravo, sensible man!” cried the Justice Councillor. “Yes, you agree with me, who say daily that the French Revolution came straight out of the deepest hell.”

“No, Mr. Justice Councillor! Far from it! I consider the French Revolution a thunderstorm that has cleared the thick mists that centuries had accumulated on the horizon of human life. A terrible storm, where it rages, but beneficial in its effects; a bolt of lightning that has shattered many an oppressive chain; a transformation necessary for the progress of humanity, and therefore not the work of a few men, but a higher necessity in the hand of fate—or of providence, if you prefer it that way.”

“Now,” said the merchant, “it’s my turn to shout: Bravo, sensible man!”

“Ah,” said the advocate, shrugging, “I fear that I, like the Girondins, will become an enemy to both parties, for I must admit that when I think of the atrocities, the utterly inhuman horrors that occur under the name of legality in unfortunate France, it often seems to me indeed as though evil powers inhabit and rage within that beautiful country.”

“Yes, yes!” cried the Justice Councillor. “It is a well-deserved punishment upon that godless land. Let the freedom-lovers now feel what it means to unleash the great masses like a pack of bloodhounds. I now judge all Frenchmen the same—I wish they all had one head, and that Satan, their true lord, would build a guillotine so large that the neck holding that head could be chopped off so thoroughly that the foul blood would flow straight into the Øresund, and I would stand on the customs pier and delight my eyes in the red waves.”

The merchant shouted angrily, “Those are infamous words you speak. The great masses may be terrible in their revenge, but they are also the ones who have endured and suffered, and who now exercise justice.”

“Justice?” asked the advocate. “Yes, in the same way the wild forces of nature exercise justice when they destroy lands and people. They are without will—and so is the mob. But sometimes renewed fertility arises from volcanic soil, and I also hope that out of all this something great and good will come for the world. And we can already not deny that more than one oppressive burden has been lifted from humanity’s shoulders by the French Revolution and the liberal principles that, since the time of the American War, have gained ground in all civilized countries. For example, domestic despotism—perhaps the most unbearable of all—under which children and servants in most families groaned. But when people now claim that the bonds of family have been loosened by France’s example, they wrong that country, for the French are generally good sons and brothers. As I said, I hope for the good that shall arise from the present confusion.”

“Yes, and when that good finally comes, it will be time enough to toast the executioner, as the saying goes.”

The merchant shouted, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that these Frenchmen of yours, whom you make so much of—for the sake of your trade and profit, don’t bother denying it—these people are, plainly speaking, murderers. Their minister—as he’s called—this Citoyen Grouvelle, was it not he who read the death sentence to his unfortunate king?”

The merchant turned away in anger and, with the words, “I won’t even bother to answer you,” seated himself in a corner and began leafing through a book.

Ferdinand now dared to add his voice to the conversation and said in a modest tone, “Dear Father, Citoyen Grouvelle was secretary to the National Convention; it was his official duty to read the sentence to any condemned person.”

“So now you begin too? You just wait, I’ll—”

The advocate interrupted him, “Forgive me, Mr. Justice Councillor, but what your son said is entirely correct. And I would also add that although my acquaintance with this French minister is not long-standing, I would be very mistaken if this good-natured, refined, and extremely cultured man did not feel profoundly miserable in carrying out that duty.”

“Yes indeed,” exclaimed Madame Valler. “I can almost see his lips trembling as he read it.”

“I would never hope that,” shouted the merchant from his corner. “I wouldn’t attribute such weakness to him.”

“At the very least,” said Ferdinand, “I would like to believe that he felt the same reading the death sentence to any other political criminal, even the lowest.”

“Are you mad?” said the Justice Councillor. “There was a hell of a difference.”

“Yes, there certainly was,” replied the advocate, “but let’s not start arguing about this again. God knows how many times these things have been debated pro et contra between us and throughout the world. But one thing is certain: the Frenchmen present here—at least those we associate with—are far from having any part in the bloody actions of their current government. On the contrary, they have probably seized the opportunity to remove themselves from the persecutions that also threatened them.”

“That’s slander!” cried the merchant. “They are true republicans, friends and allies of Robespierre.”

“I won’t argue with you, but I could tell you one thing or another—if I didn’t know that, in your mind, it lowers a person to try to avoid being butchered like a dumb beast.”

Ferdinand said, “I still cannot entirely deny the feeling that there is something somewhat ignoble—if I may say so—about abandoning one’s country in its time of need. If one saw one’s hometown besieged and burning, would one remain outside it? Would one not rather throw oneself into the flames than save one’s own miserable person? Should one abandon one’s friend in need?”

“Yes,” said the advocate, “if my friend had gone mad and wanted to kill me, I would certainly get out of his way.”

“No, no,” said the merchant, “all this does not apply to our French friends. On the contrary, I was recently present when one of our famous champions of freedom said in their presence about Grouvelle that he did not possess enough energy, that he did not represent the Republic with sufficient dignity—and the compatriots present either remained silent or admitted the truth.”

“Hm!” said the advocate. “I will at least claim this much: even if it cannot strictly be said that he represents the Republic, he certainly represents, in the most worthy way, the French nation in its amiable aspect. We ought to be grateful to the Republic for having sent us a man of his kind, and not one from its savage core.”

Ferdinand said, “I do not wish to defend all the actions of this harsh government, but strong measures were absolutely necessary in that poor country, surrounded by enemies without and traitors within. It has been said—I believe by Grouvelle himself: ‘They give us poison and condemn us because we take the antidote.’ Oh, how it must stir every fresh heart to witness what this people have suffered and achieved! What spectacle is more uplifting than to see a people fighting for its freedom? Who, in such moments, can value his own life? Blessed is he who spills his last drop of blood under the tricolored flag!”

“This is too much!” exclaimed the Justice Councillor. “To hear one’s own son speak like this!”

He stood up with such force that he knocked over his chair. Madame Valler grabbed his arm and led him into an adjoining room. The advocate followed them. The merchant stood up, approached Ferdinand, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “You’re a fine lad! You could become something much better than a lawyer, who must, on command, turn white into black and truth into lies.”

“Oh, dear Uncle! May God grant that my father thought as you do! May God grant that I might throw the seven-times-cursed legal nonsense into the fire and throw myself into the living world’s bold events, risking life in order to win a true life!”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the merchant. “Who knows what may happen here too? Our time will come as well!”

Claudine, the merchant’s niece, had sat quietly with her work in a window alcove while listening intently to the conversation. She now approached and said to Ferdinand, “Listen, is it true what one of your friends confided to me—that you have written some beautiful poems, mostly about the French Revolution, about France’s fate in earlier days, about her former heroes, about Jeanne d’Arc?”

“Hush!” said Ferdinand. “For God’s sake, don’t let my father hear that.”

“But you will read them to me, won’t you? You mustn’t refuse me. My heart beats with rapture when I hear or read beautiful, inspired poetry. A poem about Jeanne d’Arc! My own heroine! Oh, if only I, like her, could go to war, wear helmet and sword, and follow a hero of freedom—you, for example,” she added in a soft voice, while a deep blush colored her cheeks.

The merchant threw his arm around her. “You are a splendid girl! It’s not for nothing that you’re my niece—there flows noble blood in your veins. God grant that all our women were like you; then things would look different in our country! But you, Ferdinand! If you’ve written such beautiful poems, why won’t you publish them, but instead hide your light under a bushel?”

“Heaven forbid, dear Uncle! What would my father say?”

“Ah! Is that it? Then you’re no better than those you just criticized for leaving their country in its time of need; you won’t give your contribution to the good cause for fear that your papa might grumble for a few days or perhaps refuse you money for your tailor’s bill. See, that’s how it is with these young warriors of freedom!”

“There’s some truth in what you say, dear Uncle, but still… a father’s will…”

“Nonsense! We’ve moved beyond that now. These family bonds! We blow them away in our enlightened times. When my son grows up, we’ll be comrades—if we can get along. And if we can’t, we’ll each go our own way. He shall have his freedom. Why are you looking at me, Claudine?”

“Don’t be angry, dear Uncle! But you’ll have to change a lot in that respect by the time he grows up, for right now you are so strict with him that Aunt has often cried about it, even though she is only his stepmother.”

“Oh, nonsense! Aunt! She’s like Gedske the bell-ringer’s wife—she can cry over a kind word. And she fusses over the big boy as if she were his own mother twice over. But farewell! I’m going over to the French—I have something to settle with them. Farewell, Ferdinand! And may I, for the tenth time, ask you to drop this formal ‘De’. Next time we meet, you’re to say nothing but ‘Du’ to your uncle, just like Claudine does. I’ve weaned her off those old-fashioned manners that don’t suit our times… Yes, I know your father doesn’t like it when you say ‘Du’ to me, but I don’t like it when you say ‘De’, and that’s what matters to me.”

[Note: In Danish, “De” is the formal pronoun for “you,” used to show respect or maintain social distance, especially in formal settings or with superiors. “Du” is the informal pronoun, used among family, friends, and equals. During the time of this story, shifting from “De” to “Du” could reflect changing social norms influenced by revolutionary ideas about equality and rejecting old hierarchies.]

With these words, he went out the door. When the two young people were left alone, Ferdinand said with loud laughter, “‘If only I could wear helmet and sword and follow a hero of freedom—you, for example!’ Me! Oh, thank you very much! You deceitful creature! I know very well whom you mean.”

“Oh, nonsense! Whom should I mean?”

“Shall I say his name? Does the very sound of it strike you as sweet music? It is, indeed, a rather melodious name—certainly more so than Trois œufs or Deux sous or the like.”

“Oh Ferdinand, I beg you!”

“Well, heavens! I do believe there are actual tears coming to your eyes. Upon my word, you are seriously taken. Come now, my sweet Claudine, don’t be angry! You shall have a true confidant, a faithful and silent Postillon d’amour in me. I’ll go through fire for you and for the brave Lusard. Do you know, I have already conceived the warmest friendship for this bold young man who left everything to fight under the banner of the Republic? I say it out loud for anyone who cares to hear: Charles Lusard is a masterpiece of nature—manly and intelligent as he is handsome. He looks like a hero from antiquity, like a Roman, and he has a spirit like a true Roman. Like Brutus, he did not hesitate to choose between a man and his fatherland.”

“What do you mean? A man?”

“Yes, you see, he comes from a very noble, aristocratic family, but he’s orphaned and has no fortune of his own. His wealthy uncle, who raised him and whose sole heir he was, emigrated during the Revolution and ordered him to follow or be disinherited and cast out by the rest of the family, who are all émigrés. Lusard chose the latter and enlisted as a common soldier. He took part in the campaigns in Germany, rose to the rank of captain and adjutant to General Custine, whom he followed back to Paris when Custine was accused. But the general’s tragic fate, which Lusard considers undeserved, shook him so deeply that he fell ill, and when he finally recovered, he sought an opportunity to make a short journey. The government sent him with dispatches to Copenhagen. Between us, he may also be using the opportunity to secretly gather some information about the aforementioned uncle, who is settled in Jutland where he has bought an estate.”

“But how do you know all this about Lusard? Has he told you?”

“No! But I heard it from little Doctor Aubry, who came here with the commissioners. That man has an extraordinary openness; one wouldn’t think he had been a clergyman, except for the tonsure he still wears to this day.”

“Is Lusard returning to the army?”

“Yes, that he certainly is. Claudine! You look quite sad. You turn away from me in displeasure. Listen now, my dearest friend, why try to hide it from me—from your brotherly friend? I admire you for loving Lusard; for love him you do, and it would be shameful if you could associate with such a man and be loved by him without clinging to him with heart and soul. Do you doubt his love? I swear to you, he is hopelessly in love with you. He told me himself just the other day as we walked home together. Je suis fou de cet enfant, he said, and then added with a melancholy seriousness that the happiness of love was not for a poor soldier who dared only to court either glory or death. But I told him that the fate of being loved by a man like him contained already so much happiness and honor that the memory of it ought to be enough to fill the life of any woman who knew how to love and appreciate the noble—that few, in their trivial everyday lives, possess such a memory to lift them above the ordinary.”

Claudine remained silent, but she had stepped very close to Ferdinand. She held his hand tightly in hers, without even being fully aware of it, and looked at him with eyes that blazed like stars.

Now the other three came in from the adjoining room. The Justice Councillor prepared to leave and said to Ferdinand, “Come with me to my brother-in-law, the Commerce Councillor’s house—we’ll be spending the evening there.”

Ferdinand shrugged. “Ah, dear Father! Spare me that boredom. Besides, I’ve promised to go somewhere else.”

“There we have it! Another fruit of our enlightened times! When my late father said to me, ‘Go here or there,’ I had to go—even if I were dying to be somewhere else.”

“But were you happy and grateful to him on such occasions?”

“No, by Satan! I was furious, of course, but over time one benefits from obedience and from sorrow in youth. Fine then—go to the devil if you wish, and let your old father trudge there alone.”

Ferdinand followed him and said in passing to Claudine, “See, I must go with him for now. Uncle may say what he likes, but as much as one may wish otherwise, one cannot entirely free oneself from ingrained prejudices. But isn’t it true? Tomorrow we’ll make up for many days of frustration.”

They left, and Claudine quietly slipped up to her room to savor in solitude the blissful certainty with which Ferdinand’s words had dispelled her long-held doubts.

Meanwhile, the advocate was alone with Madame Valler downstairs. He pressed both her hands to his lips and said, “Farewell! I must go, and as usual, I must comfort myself with a brief moment of happiness to offset many hours of painful constraint. Such is my fate of late. Farewell now! Think kindly, if only a little, of your poor friend.”

“Oh, Dalund! You sadden me with your eternally gloomy expressions and words. What am I to do?”

“Yes, what am I to do? Tear your all-too-precious image out of my heart? Would you have me do that?”

“I don’t need to answer you. You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I suppose I must. Though I know how painful it will be to see you amid the intoxicating atmosphere that will prevail around you here, I would rather see and hear it with my own senses than imagine it in my mind. But let me go before I say more foolish things.”

With these words, he pressed her hand to his chest and hurried away. With a deep sigh, she watched him leave and stood motionless, as if lost in deep thought. But suddenly, she shook herself free, called for her servants, and busied herself eagerly with giving orders and personally taking part in the household preparations for the festive gathering of the following day.

Quite late in the evening, as the two ladies of the house sat together alone, the merchant returned. He looked pleased and pulled out a package, which he laid on the table, saying, “Guess what I have for you! Trinkets, straight from Paris—gifts from our French friends, which they send through me. You can divide them between yourselves, as good friends should.”

Claudine quickly grabbed the package and, with loud cries of delight, spread out ribbons, silk scarves, and a gold-fringed belt, all in the brilliant French national tricolor. Madame Valler regarded these items with great discomfort, while Claudine held each piece up to her face, glancing toward the mirror.

“Now, divide it with Claudine,” said the merchant, “and naturally, you must adorn yourselves with it tomorrow.”

With a certain apprehension, his wife replied, “No, dear Valler! I certainly won’t wear any of these things. It’s quite inappropriate to give us this tricolor finery without asking whether we are willing to wear it or not.”

“What’s the meaning of that?” exclaimed the merchant angrily. “Are you afraid of the aristocrats and ashamed of the good cause?”

“No, no, but wearing these colors attracts attention. Everyone stares at a woman who shows up wearing them. And what business does a Danish wife or girl have with it anyway? Why should she wear a political color? What concern is politics of hers?”

The merchant clapped his hands together. “Have you ever heard the like! Aren’t you ashamed to admit that the great affairs of the world are nothing to you? That you are so selfish or so simple that only yourself and your own little world matter? Look at this girl here—she puts you to shame! She has enthusiasm for what is great and good.”

Claudine, frightened, threw down the ribbons and everything else and shrank into a corner, where she stood utterly bewildered.

Madame Valler said coldly, “Let it be with my selfishness and other faults as it may. Just let me be free of this French finery. I like the Frenchmen who come here, and though I am not fully fluent in their language, I am happy to see them—but I will not wear their gifts.”

The merchant slammed the table. “But I want you to wear them. I am still, I believe, the master of my house. Tomorrow I expect to see both of you wearing the gifts that our courteous French friends have been kind enough to send you. I would not wish for them to witness this scene.”

“Well, I would wish,” said Madame Valler, “that the courteous Frenchmen could witness this scene. I have been pleased that since your acquaintance with them you had adopted a better tone, but tonight, nature has triumphed over refinement.”

“Yes, yes,” said the merchant, suddenly lowering his previously loud voice. “Of course… the times require a certain… well, of course, toward a lady… Well then, divide the finery as you wish… I must go to the office.”

He left, and immediately Claudine rushed to her aunt, grabbed her hand, and said, “Oh, dear Aunt, don’t be angry with me. I couldn’t help being delighted by the things Uncle brought. It never occurred to me that it could lead to such unpleasantness, or that there was anything wrong with wearing these colors.”

Madame Valler patted her cheek and said kindly, “No, dear child! There is nothing wrong in anything you say or think. But as for these much-talked-about colors, I would wish that you not wear them in company or anywhere but here at home. Tomorrow, we likely cannot avoid wearing something of it without causing unpleasantness. I shall know how to place a bit of these ribbons without drawing attention. I will take this roll of ribbon. All the rest is yours—but use it as I have said.”

“May I have all this?” exclaimed Claudine. “This lovely belt! This scarf, these ribbons! All of it? Oh, thank you, dearest Aunt! You are so good! Oh, I am so happy in your house! All the wonderful pleasures I’ve long sighed for in vain—balls, plays, and so much else—I have enjoyed richly here with you. And yet all that splendor is still not equal to the delightful company at home. I will cry my eyes out when I must leave here, when Aunt Malfred returns from her travels in the fall and I must go back to her. She is so strict and unreasonable.”

“But dear Claudine! You must remember what you owe her. As a fatherless and motherless child, you came into her house. She has had you educated to an uncommon perfection—few girls can boast of such an upbringing.”

“But if you knew how little joy I’ve had with her, how often she reminded me of how much my education cost her, that I was a poor, insignificant girl, that I should expect nothing after her death since she owns nothing. As if I ever thought about such things! And then that dead loneliness in the house! There we sit together through the long winter evenings without speaking—a book or my sewing for me, and for her, laying out cards or falling asleep over the newspapers. She sits with her lapdog in her lap, which snores terribly, so I often give its stupid little snout a tap, then the spoiled beast yelps, Aunt wakes up, and scolds me. Yes, truly lovely evenings.”

“But you could simply refrain from hitting the dog.”

“Oh no! That is my only amusement. But there are a thousand other things. Every hour of the day, I’m scolded for my frivolity. Every misfortune reported in the German and Danish newspapers, I’m supposed to take to heart. When they guillotine kings, princes, and other people I don’t even know in France, I’m expected to wail, cry, and curse the entire French nation. Back then I didn’t much care about her hatred for republicans, but now…”

She suddenly stopped, and luckily the merchant stepped in, saving her from finishing the last sentence. They went to the supper table. Both husband and wife seemed to suffer from a certain awkwardness, but Claudine’s cheerful presence lightened the mood. Her uncle entertained himself joking with her and assured her that he couldn’t fathom how he or his social circle could possibly do without her lively company.

The next day, the announced gathering took place. In addition to the much-discussed foreigners, whose number had just been increased by a few travelers passing through, it consisted of notable writers, scholars, artists, and others from various professions, but all of the same political persuasion. Madame Valler, who according to the fashion of the time wore a small white scarf interwoven with colorful patterns wrapped around her blonde hair, had cleverly managed to place a few tricolor ribbons in such a discreet way that one only noticed them upon closer inspection. The merchant, however, was not slow to point them out to the interested parties, and soon the gentlemen, both Danish and French, gathered around the beautiful lady, competing to pay her the compliments that were then called “pretty speeches.”

One of the French commissioners, from whom these gifts originally came, modestly stepped forward and apologized for his boldness. “These items,” he said, “were sent to us from Paris. We showed them to Mr. Valler and dared, on his word, to present them to the ladies—more as a curiosity than in the hope that they would do us the honor of wearing them.”

The merchant said that the speaker expressed himself like a gentleman of l’ancien régime, not like a republican.

At that moment, Claudine entered, and everyone fell silent at the sight of her beauty. The tricolored scarf was tied around her dark hair, and its vivid colors uniquely highlighted the shine of her dark locks, her snow-white forehead, and her perfectly shaped black eyebrows. Around her white dress she wore the tricolored belt, and since it was long, it was wrapped twice around her waist and knotted to one side, which made her slender figure appear even more graceful than the fashions of the time usually allowed. All the gentlemen paid their tributes of admiration and flattery. One said that, so adorned, she could represent the Goddess of Liberty at republican festivals and inspire the defenders of freedom. Minister Grouvelle, whose strength in epigrammatic replies and impromptus is still remembered by the few living who knew him during his stay in this country, responded with his characteristic subtle smile: “Indeed, Mademoiselle Claudine, as the Goddess of Liberty, would be able to inspire devotion to freedom while simultaneously depriving individuals of it.”

The young girl felt indescribably happy with all this homage, and when they soon sat down to dinner, she was seated next to Lusard, who entertained her with all the refined, graceful gallantry that, despite the Republic, still echoed the chivalrous tone of Louis XIV toward ladies—a tone that finds its true home in the subtle nuances of the French language. Lusard combined this seductive charm with a certain melancholy, suggesting a depth of passion and significant memories. Thus Claudine enjoyed one of those moments in life when the brilliant spirits of youth, beauty, and love crown the cup with roses that seem without thorns.

In the period in which we now live, we are astonished when we hear or read descriptions of the social gatherings that took place at that time. It is difficult to imagine how such freedom in interaction and expression, such lively surrender to the whims of the moment, could coexist with a tone so refined, so decent, and generally so far removed from anything that could offend the individual—as numerous existing oral and written accounts testify. It cannot be denied that a certain offensive recklessness in speech and writing, particularly concerning religious and moral matters, was common at the time. Yet, this irreverence appeared less shocking in good social circles; it was wrapped in the veil of wit and epigram, which sweetened its bitter core. It should also be noted that humor and the comic softened the offensive, which only becomes truly intolerable when it adopts a sentimental and heroic mask—a view that, incidentally, our present-day, especially theater-going, public does not seem to share.

The company gathered that day at Merchant Valler’s table was truly such that the ancient Greeks, coming from their symposiums, would not have turned their backs on it. The most whimsical notions, the finest witticisms, the most serious topics—handled sharply yet lightly—alternated among the lively guests. Everyone seemed, for those hours, to have cast off life’s burdens and to simultaneously forget and doubly enjoy their own individuality.

At the conclusion of the luxurious meal, the host requested that the French guests please the company by singing some of their national songs. They immediately agreed, and Duveyrier, at that time concealing his real and honorable name under his first name Honoré, began as lead singer with his clear, strong voice, performing the immortal Marseillaise. The other countrymen joined in the chorus, and their “Aux armes, citoyens!” rang out like an inspiring call to arms and victory.

Particularly moving was the last verse, sung in chorus at a slow tempo like a chorale. It was especially touching to hear these men—who had suffered and were still suffering from the misfortunes of their homeland—sing with an earnestness one could almost call reverent, voicing the “Amour sacré de la patrie”, to which so many dreadful yet noble memories were attached. For example, the execution of the Girondins, where in the end only one was left to complete this final verse of the hymn before joining his 22 unfortunate comrades in their violent deaths.

At the merchant’s request, a pianoforte had been brought into the dining room, and at their urging, Claudine accompanied the singing on this instrument. After the Marseillaise, Lusard rose from the table and produced the newly published Chant de Victoire by Chenier, fresh from Paris. He placed it on the music stand for Claudine while also taking a seat at the instrument. She quickly played it through, and then from the enthusiastic hearts of the republicans rang out this magnificent song, which in poetic value certainly surpasses the Marseillaise and well deserved a better closing line in its refrain than the overly fierce “Périssent les rois!” Even today, this splendid victory hymn—extinct with the Republic—if heard by rare chance, will stir anyone whose soul is not closed to the power of poetry and music; how much greater must its effect have been in that era and among a company like this, where the singers inspired the listeners, and the listeners’ enthusiasm inflamed the singers?

An almost magical effect was produced by the verse about the French warship Le Vengeur. The pompous beginning:

Lève-toi! Sors des mers profondes, Cadavre fumant du vengeur,

already leads the mind to the dark abyss; and when it continues:

D’où partent ces cris déchirants? Quelles sont ces voix magnanimes? Les voix des braves expirants Qui chantent du fond des abîmes,

and the chorus then breaks in, Vive la Republique, it seems one truly hears those brave dying men, who, as they sink with their ship, let the air echo with these their last words.

All were enraptured, but none more so than the two youthful spirits, Ferdinand and Claudine. The easily moved girl could not hold back her tears, and when the song ended, Lusard grasped her hand, pressed it secretly to his chest, and said softly, “A close childhood friend and relative of mine was aboard Le Vengeur. Your tears seem to me to fall for him, like pearls on the spot in the depths where he rests.”

“A friend of yours!” exclaimed Claudine. “Oh my God!”

“Do not mourn him! He died a magnificent death.”

“But his family and friends who loved him must surely grieve his loss!”

“Yes, he was that fortunate as well. There are those who still mourn him.”

“Do you call it happiness to cause grief to those who love you?”

“Yes, such is the selfishness of humanity! Perhaps—indeed, likely—one knows nothing of it once dead, but I confess that even in the moment of death it would be a sweet thought to me if, for example, you were to weep for me.”

“That thought would surely not deceive you.”

“Do you promise me to cry when you hear that I am dead?”

“God forbid that you should die in your youth and strength! How can you speak of such things?”

Lusard laughed. “What will one not say when one longs to engage the interest of a charming lady? I would gladly pretend to have presentiments, like Turenne, Henry IV, and other distinguished men.”

The merchant interrupted this conversation. He called them back to the table to drink another glass of champagne to the success and victory of the Republic, after which they rose, and the company dispersed into other rooms.

The next day, the advocate said to Madame Valler, “That which one dislikes in prospect often turns out to be for the best when it comes. I was displeased that little Claudine was to spend this summer in this house and be an inseparable attendant to the prima donna of my heart. But, first, I must commend the good girl for finding my company boring, for as soon as I arrive, she seizes the first excuse to leave; it must be a half-conscious instinct that enlightens her inexperienced mind in this matter. And moreover, she does me the invaluable service of flirting so heavily with the gentlemen who come here that her presence forms at least a small dam against the flood of gallantry that would otherwise utterly wash away my peace of mind.”

“Your peace of mind,” replied Madame Valler, “seemed, thank God, not to be disturbed in our company yesterday. You were in an exceedingly good mood.”

“I’m no young boy—I had to know how to control myself. But believe me, I needed to do so more than once. Say what you will, these Frenchmen have an extraordinary talent for charming the ladies. There’s something in their eyes, in their voices, even in their language… It’s no coincidence that the old parable says when the devil seduced Eve, he spoke French—for ever since Paradise was lost that way, this language has had a demonic power over all of Eve’s daughters.”

“This language, which I, unfortunately, only half understand?”

“Unfortunately? You’re actually sighing about that!”

“Oh, Dalund! If I were to sigh, it would surely be over all this jealousy with which you torment both yourself and me. Do you mistrust me? Have I lost your respect because I’ve been weak enough to return a love which is perhaps deserving of blame?”

“What are you saying? Blameworthy! Must we always return to these pangs of conscience? Oh Eleonore! Have you forgotten that I loved you when you were still half a child? That you misunderstood my silence, that in my absence you gave your hand to another and thus ruined my life? Are you not now bound to me by some comfort, some compensation for so many years of faithfulness, for a love such as mine? Have I abused your kindness? Is our relationship not a matter between the two of us alone? What did we read the other day? How did the words go—those of the French philosopher and student of humanity? ‘A woman belongs to no one but the man she loves; whether it be husband, father, rank, birth, or anything else—it is all invalid.’ And is he not right? Is the soul not free? Can human laws imprison the spirit?”

“Oh, all that certainly sounds very beautiful and reasonable—I often tell myself the same. Yet there is something within me that opposes these arguments, that reproaches me and burdens me with an anxiety I never knew before. The only thing that comforts me is the thought that before my relationship with you, I was in fact worse than I am now. Like so many in my acquaintance, I chased after every empty pleasure; my highest happiness was to be courted—that alone satisfied me. My appearance was my greatest concern. Your company has refined me. You have given me a taste for something better, yes, even for seriously fulfilling my duties. I know now that I manage my household, that I am a mother to Valler’s son, far more gentle and yielding to Valler himself, and more helpful and kind in society.”

“Dearest of all beings! And yet you reproach yourself?”

“Yes, precisely now that a light has dawned on me that my neglected youth never revealed—precisely now it often feels as though an inner voice tells me I am still walking a forbidden path.”

“Dear Eleonore! You make me both the happiest and the unhappiest man. Would you wish me to break off our connection, that you never see me again?”

“Oh no! I would wither like a flower without the sun if I were not revived by seeing you and knowing your devotion. God forgive me! I pray to Him daily… You smile! Ah, you don’t understand… It is impossible for me to cast off entirely what was instilled in me from my earliest childhood, what has grown with me—and precisely in this later, better time, these thoughts have come even closer to me. I don’t know how, but I cannot drive them away.”

“Nor should you—it becomes you.”

At that moment, the merchant came home with two of his friends, both of whom, along with the advocate, were to dine with the family. The newcomers all had such peculiar expressions that both Madame Valler and Claudine, who entered just then, grew alarmed and hardly dared to ask. But they had no time to do so, for the merchant immediately exclaimed, “Have you heard the terrible news? Robespierre has fallen! Just think—how dreadful! He has been guillotined. What do you say, Dalund?”

“Oh, I say that the guillotine and he had become such intimate friends that it’s only fitting it should finally embrace him itself.”

“Is it possible that I must hear such words from you? But what is one to say when even the republicans themselves… Oh, I’m almost ashamed to tell it! I rushed out to them, expecting to find them in the deepest despair—but not at all! And when I expressed my fear that now the era of firm measures was surely over, one of them—yes, I won’t name him out of old friendship—but he replied that the French were not such a crude and wild people that they needed to be governed with raw cruelty. I was so angry that I immediately grabbed my hat and left.”

“Whoever it was who said those words, I agree with him,” said the advocate. “For it is not the French people, but its dregs, who have raged under the Jacobin regime. And it has been no small torment for those of us abroad, every mail day, to take up the newspaper with dread, fearing to read that a friend, a loved one, had fallen victim to the guillotine.”

“Oh! In times like these, a patriot must rise above private misfortune and think only of the public good. But aside from that, I’ve heard something about young Lusard—something good, something I must praise.”

“What is it, dear Uncle?” asked Claudine.

“It’s still a secret, but you’ll hear it soon enough when the time is right.”

Claudine visibly brightened at her uncle’s words; a joyful premonition seemed to stir her, and her inner delight burst into radiant joy when the merchant produced a case, opened it, and handed it to her with the words, “See what I am giving you as thanks for yesterday, when you were so charming and did me honor as my niece. Look, this sparkling star is for you to pin to the bow of your tricolor scarf, and these earrings match it.”

With childlike joy, Claudine flew up to her room, wrapped the tricolored scarf around her hair, fastened the star above her white forehead, and put on the earrings. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror with unspeakable delight, repeating to herself, “What happy days these are! I don’t know where to go with all this joy and happiness!”—and she hurried back down to join the company, her eyes shining more brilliantly than any gemstones.

The merchant owned a summer house on Strandvejen, where the family seldom stayed for more than a couple of days a week, usually from Saturday to Monday evening, and the master of the house himself often stayed even less. Early one Tuesday morning, Ferdinand came and had a long private conversation with his uncle, who immediately went out, and when he returned, he said to his wife, “The weather is fine, and I’ve taken a notion that we should go to our country house this evening and stay there for now until tomorrow. As soon as I finish with my mail, I’ll drive out.”

It was already late in the evening when they arrived at the country house, which lay quite close to a fishing village. The women noticed that the merchant must have something unusual in mind. He went down to the fishermen with his servant, gave them money, and inspected some boats. When he came home, he asked his wife several questions about the house’s arrangements, without anyone being able to guess the purpose. Shortly before bedtime, he went out again to the shoreline, checked the wind, and speculated about the weather for the next day. Madame Valler asked in vain what unusual matter was at hand. He denied it with a laugh. She worried silently over it all. Claudine tried to comfort her and said, “You can believe it, this is something pleasant with which Uncle wants to surprise us. I’m looking forward to it. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a happy day.”

The next morning, as the ladies sat at the breakfast table waiting for the merchant, who had gone out early, he finally returned and said, “Now I suppose I must let you in on the little secret for which I’ve brought you out here. Our friend Lusard has had an affair of honor with an emigrant, who recently spoke insultingly about the French army and the Republic in a public place. They argued and challenged each other. At this very moment, they’ve sailed from here in a fishing boat with their seconds to settle the matter on Hven. Ferdinand is Lusard’s second. Naturally, they’ve also brought a surgeon.”

“A duel!” exclaimed Madame Valler. “That’s dreadful!”

“No, it’s splendid—it’s a necessary evil in our times. If Lusard falls, then he dies in his calling, defending his fatherland against those damned emigrants. But if the other falls, I intend to hide Lusard here until we can get him away, for as things stand, he neither should nor can seek protection from his minister. So have a couple of rooms upstairs ready to receive him if needed.”

Claudine, whose joyful premonitions had now turned into this outcome, was barely able to rise and leave the room. On trembling legs, she hurried upstairs to her little room, where she collapsed into a chair. The window overlooked the garden, but the room adjoined another with a view over the beach. She thought of going in there to look out over the sea toward the hated island, where in this very moment the daring game of life and death was being played! She stepped weakly toward the door and opened it but immediately closed it again and stepped back. She did not have the courage to look toward the ominous, ghostly white cliff. She shuddered at the thought of seeing the boat approach its shore. Only now did she feel how deeply she loved the young foreigner who, whatever happened, seemed lost to her.

“Now I understand his words that evening after the song. He sensed his death! Oh God! Just let him live! Let him triumph over that brute who could aim at such a heart! Oh, if only I could throw myself between them and take into my own chest the blow intended for his! Where shall I flee in this anguish of soul?”

She sprang up and threw herself to her knees, raising her tightly clasped hands toward the sky and began to pray—but her hands and her eyes sank to the ground.

“Oh my God! If only I could pray as I did when my parents were sick. Back then, I could weep, I could pray. But now! Oh, what am I to believe? Is there a Father in Heaven? Is God not so far away from us poor mortals? The most innocent, the best suffer and die, and their misery touches no power in Heaven or on Earth. Did not my parents also have to die, though I prayed so devoutly for them? No, there is no refuge anywhere except in death. Yes, there is comfort! If Lusard dies, then I can die too.”

She threw herself face down on the floor, then got up again, paced the room restlessly, and finally sank back into the chair. Thus the poor girl, pale and trembling, spent several hours in a suffering better imagined than described. A certain busyness in the house and the restlessness in the hearts of its master and mistress—born of their concern for the young friend of the household—meant that no one paid much attention to Claudine.

At last, she heard her uncle enter the adjoining room, open the window, and say to someone whose voice she recognized as the servant’s, “From here I can use the telescope to see them coming.” And after a pause, he exclaimed, “I see two boats. One is headed this way. The wind is good. They could be here soon… I can see Ferdinand standing in the boat, but I see nothing of Lusard. Good Lord! Someone is lying down in the boat! Could he be wounded? Run down to the landing pier as fast as you can; I’ll follow right after.”

This conversation, in broken phrases, reached poor Claudine’s ears and was heard with a pounding heart that nearly caused her to faint. Suddenly, she was seized by a strange strength. She sprang up and ran—faster even than the rushing servant—down to the pier, from whose farthest edge she watched the approaching boat with rigid eyes. She now clearly saw a man lying there, covered with a cloak, while another, whom Claudine recognized as a doctor, sat on the floor of the boat beside him. Ferdinand stood like someone frozen, his eyes fixed questioningly on the doctor’s face.

Claudine was in one of those moments when a person seems to have forgotten their own existence, in a tension that, as it numbs all feelings, prevents pain from being felt consciously. The boat was now close to the landing place. The merchant, servants, and fishermen crowded onto the pier. They pushed the poor Claudine aside without paying her any attention.

The merchant shouted to Ferdinand, “Is he dead?”

“No, but wounded.”

The boat now docked, and Ferdinand said to his uncle, “We’re bringing him here to you instead of to Frederiks Hospital, which we originally intended. He was very reluctant to go to the hospital; he wanted to go home to his lodging, but that would hardly be suitable. The doctor also thought the nearest place was best, since he has lost a lot of blood and besides…”

The merchant interrupted him, “No fuss. Everything is ready to receive him.”

With great care, the wounded man was now carried into the house, accompanied and followed by a whole crowd of those present. Claudine walked silently and pale with the others. Ferdinand approached her, took her arm in his, and whispered, “You here! Poor Claudine! Believe me, I thought of you through all of this.”

While the doctor and the others were occupied with the wounded man, Claudine shut herself in her room and tried to compose herself. There was still life—there was still hope. Her beloved had been brought into her home; that was a great comfort.

Now there was a knock at her door, and Ferdinand entered with a smiling face. “Thank God! The wound is not fatal. Our good doctor is very hopeful. Our patient just needs rest and care. I rushed to bring you this good news.”

Now Claudine burst into tears. She folded her hands and exclaimed, “Oh God! I thank you!” This cry came straight from her full heart, and despite her earlier declarations, she had to, half unconsciously, bow to the thought of a merciful providence—a thought from which no era and no human being can entirely free themselves.

When the family had calmed somewhat after the excitement caused by this event, they finally, after much discussion, agreed on the measures to be taken for the care of the sick guest. The merchant could not and Madame Valler would not stay away from the city for long. She excused herself by saying her presence was necessary at home and proposed sending the housemaid, an older and very reliable woman, to tend to everything needed.

Claudine pleaded with the deepest and most fervent requests to be allowed to stay and oversee the care of the wounded man. Her aunt opposed her wish, but the merchant was so pleased with what he called her heroic way of thinking that he gladly gave his consent, especially as Ferdinand supported his young friend’s wish and likewise offered to stay with Lusard until he was well on the way to recovery. He had already promised the doctor that he would keep watch over the patient that coming night.

It was agreed to send the mentioned housemaid along with a nurse from the city, and the master and mistress of the house departed that same afternoon to arrange for these people and for whatever supplies were needed. Claudine remained behind, to her great satisfaction, and at her earnest request, Ferdinand led her for a moment to the bedside of the wounded man.

When Lusard saw her, he reached out both hands toward her and said in a weak voice, “Is it possible? Is it really you? How happy I am! Blessed be my opponent’s sword!”

Claudine had no time to reply, for Ferdinand, alarmed by the agitation his carelessness had caused the wounded man, immediately led her out of the room and forbade her from approaching the patient for several days—unless he was asleep, and even then she was only allowed to peek in through the half-opened door.

She was therefore very frightened when one night, after she had gone to bed, Ferdinand entered her room and asked her to get up and come to Lusard. The fever was quite high, and in his feverish delirium, the patient kept calling her name. His restless fever dreams, mixing past and present, conjured up the fantasy that Claudine was being brought before the revolutionary tribunal and was to share the fate of his former general the next morning. His anxiety became so intense that he tried to throw himself out of bed, and Ferdinand saw no other remedy than to try what Claudine’s presence might accomplish.

The patient recognized her immediately. He seized her hand with a cry of joy; he was instantly calmed and lay quietly down again but held her hand so tightly in his that she could not make the slightest movement to withdraw it without disturbing the sleep he had fallen into. And the loving girl remained there with deep satisfaction, sitting motionless at his bedside until far into the morning.

Sunk in contemplation of him, she sat watching this noble, pale face and did not even notice that the attentive housemaid had come in to bring her a cup of coffee—until the woman addressed her with gentle complaints that her young mistress had been robbed of her night’s rest.

She now looked at the patient, who seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that Claudine timidly dared to free her hand. “Ah, good God,” said the elderly maid, “what a shame it is to see such a beautiful person lying there so miserable! What wicked times we live in!”

“Yes, isn’t he beautiful?” said Claudine. “Don’t you also think, dear Miss Susanne, that as he lies there, he looks like that lovely engraving in the living room, the one of the sleeping Endymion?”

“I’ve never really looked at that picture,” said Susanne. “But standing here, looking at this poor young man, I thought—God forgive me, I mean no harm by it!—but I think that as he lies there with his dark hair and the curly beard down his chin, he looks like Our Lord as you see him in the big illustrated Bible, where he’s asleep in the boat.”

From that moment, it was clear to both the doctor and everyone around that Claudine’s presence worked like a healing talisman for the patient, whose recovery progressed unusually quickly. The merchant came out to the country house more frequently than usual, and Madame Valler also visited more often, occasionally paying the patient a short call. Ferdinand stayed there constantly until Lusard began to sit up and move around; then he took a day or two away but returned regularly.

Now Madame Valler wanted Claudine to come home with her. “Dear child,” she said, “it’s no longer proper for you to stay here with this young man, who no longer needs your care.”

But Claudine objected, insisting that Lusard was far from fully recovered, that propriety and gossip should not prevent anyone from doing what was good and right, and that Lusard would soon be returning home to France, only waiting until he was well enough to travel.

Her aunt argued that it might still be quite some time before that could happen. But Claudine, fixing her large eyes on Madame Valler with a melancholy expression, said, “Aunt, think—we may never see him again.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks at these words. Her aunt looked at her with compassion, sighed deeply, patted the young girl’s flushed cheek, and said softly, “Ah, my poor Claudine! I haven’t the heart to upset you. But may God not let me have you on my conscience along with my other sins!”

Claudine, overjoyed to have escaped the threat that hung over her, couldn’t help but share this little incident later that evening when she was alone with Ferdinand and Lusard in the latter’s room. She spoke warmly of her aunt’s kindness, her tender heart always moved by others’ troubles, and added, with wonder, her aunt’s final remark as something puzzling to hear from such an excellent woman.

Ferdinand grinned mischievously. “That she’s an excellent woman, a pious and loving, truly feminine soul—that’s also my opinion. But what she meant by that remark is perfectly clear to me. I know what weighs on her conscience. Don’t look so shocked, Claudine! The sin that troubles her isn’t greater than one I, for my part, would—so to speak—gladly eat on a slice of bread. She has a lover; that’s all.”

“A lover!” exclaimed Claudine. “Who could that be?”

“Who else but Advocate Dalund! Do you doubt it? Good heavens—you really are far too innocent for a girl nearly eighteen.”

“That’s impossible! Ugh, it’s awful to even think such a thing.”

“Oh really, it’s awful? I’m very fond of Uncle, but do you think I love Aunt any less for that? On the contrary! You see, I’m twenty-six. It’s seven years since she married Uncle. I was already old enough then to notice things. She was a girl of twenty-two; she had loved Dalund and waited for him for three years. He had gone abroad and stopped writing. Then Uncle proposed, and she accepted him. But I assure you, back then and for the first three years of her marriage, she was a vain little goose. Then came this relationship with her old lover. He’s a man of intellect and refinement, and you wouldn’t even recognize Aunt now if you had known her four or five years ago—she’s become so much more charming.”

“Yes,” said Lusard, “she’s an enchanting woman. She looks like the goddess Ceres, with her rich blonde hair, her full figure, and the gentle expression on her lovely face.”

“I can tell you without exaggeration,” said Ferdinand, “that this beautiful expression came along with all her other improvements.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Lusard, “true love is the magic that brings wisdom, beauty, and virtue.”

Claudine shook her head. “But a married woman! The sanctity of marriage!”

“Oh, so now you too are starting with that old worn-out song that’s been sung to death along with so many other things? The sanctity of marriage! Yes, what a holy thing it is when two people who don’t care for each other are forced to live together in a bond that only the deepest affection, the warmest love, can keep from becoming unbearable. And yet, those who burn with love dare not approach each other unless a priest has said, ‘Now you are husband and wife.’ And although this union is burdened with crosses and hardships in abundance, and nothing but love and shared views can help you bear them with grace, even if you regret a thousand times being chained together, you must still pretend to be happy in your captivity—which is more than what’s expected of any captured animal, for even that is allowed to roar and rage in its cage out of anger and impatience. But as for you poor humans, the rule remains: no one may separate what God has joined—as though the Lord of Nature commanded something so unnatural, so contrary to the very feelings he himself has placed in the human heart!”

“But,” said Lusard, “this so-called unbreakable bond is no longer indissoluble—at least not in France. Among us, it’s easy to divorce.”

“Yes,” replied Ferdinand, “thank Heaven for every chain that’s broken for poor humanity, and this is surely one of the worst. But this freedom is not yet accepted by our customs—perhaps not even fully by yours—and divorce is unpleasant too.”

“But what then should one do?” asked Lusard.

“One should,” answered Ferdinand, “like the true lovers of old—Heloise and Abelard—be so inspired by each other’s virtues that one scorns all bonds that restrict freedom. What is love without freedom? How can I be sure I’m loved if my beloved cannot leave me without fuss? What is sweeter in a love affair than secrecy? Is not love itself sacred? And isn’t the sacred profaned by the gaze of strangers and the curious?”

“All of that is true,” exclaimed Lusard. “Happy is he who wins a Heloise! But still, much could be argued against your theory. We poor mortals cannot grasp perfect freedom. We give life and blood for it, but…”

He broke off. Claudine and he looked at each other with indescribable, meaningful glances.

It was in the first days of the month which, in our climate, is often the most beautiful and not seldom makes up for an unkind summer. With its clear and mild skies, its distinctive aromatic scent, the changing colors that adorn the trees’ leaves, and its starry nights, September could well deserve to be called the season of love more than the spring months. So it seemed to Lusard and Claudine. He was twenty-five, she barely eighteen. He was her young heart’s first passion, just as he often told her that she was his first love—and, as he truly felt, also his last. Alone and left to themselves, they spent their days in the beautiful garden, strolling arm in arm along the shore, watching the moon and stars scatter their rays across the clear sea, whose gentle waves seemed to accompany their loving conversation with a melodic rhythm.

During this beautiful time, Ferdinand arrived one evening in a very cheerful mood. He presented Claudine with a small book and said, “You shall be the first to whom I dedicate this little Primula veris from my muse. You see, I couldn’t resist the desire—and the encouragement from my friends—to try my luck as an author. My poems are now flying out into the world; whether they will be received like cherished larks or scorned like sparrows, time will tell.”

Claudine thanked him joyfully but asked a bit nervously, “But what does your father say?”

“Well, time will tell that too, and that time isn’t far off, for in a few days the book will be advertised for sale with my name on the title page. I would rather jump into it than sneak into it.”

Lusard, who was informed of this conversation, regretted greatly that he could not understand his friend’s poems. Ferdinand laughed and said, “Anticipating this complaint, I’ve ventured to translate a little poem that perfectly fits our recent conversation about the happiness of free love. But you must forgive my mistakes against the language for the sake of my desire to please you.”

Claudine wanted to honor her friend and cousin’s debut on Parnassus. She had the evening meal set in a garden pavilion, around which grapevines heavy with grapes and still-blooming honeysuckle twined. With swift hands, she wove flower garlands, which she used to adorn the table, where candles burned steadily in the still night while the moon cast its bluish rays straight onto the table and flowers, as if to outshine the earthly lights, and the planet Venus high in the sky peeked curiously through the leaves with a trembling glow. Amid lively and cheerful conversation, the little party enjoyed their meal, toward the end of which Ferdinand read his poem, written in such good French verse as could reasonably be expected from a foreigner. He had added some closing stanzas addressed to Lusard. These were actually the most beautiful part of the entire poem; they breathed a youthful warmth, sincerity, and refinement that pleased anyone and utterly captivated the two listeners. Lusard leaned toward the author, embraced him, thanked him with tearful eyes, asked for the poem, placed it in his letter case, and declared it would never leave him in life or death.

Claudine grabbed one of the flower garlands, placed it on Ferdinand’s head, and said playfully, “The poet must be crowned. Though really, it should be a laurel wreath.”

“No!” cried Ferdinand. “The flower crown suits the young singer better. The laurel’s dark, solemn badge of honor doesn’t belong to me yet. It belongs more to our brave friend sitting here. But in its absence, we’ll give him this other crown. See how beautifully the colorful flowers adorn his dark, curly hair!”

“Ah,” sighed Lusard, “the flowers wind reluctantly around a soldier’s head; he must tread them down on his toilsome path, and as punishment, no flower garland is granted to him.”

“But when he returns home to his hearth,” replied Claudine.

“With shining eyes, Lusard exclaimed, “From the hand of love and beauty! Yes, that is where we shall place our hope. What a happy evening this is! It feels as though we are celebrating a feast from the beautiful days of Greece. The air is mild, the vines twine around our leafy bower. Our heads are crowned with flowers. Yes, the gods are present. As a libation to Phoebus, the father of poetry, I hereby pour out my cup of wine onto the ground.”

Claudine cried exuberantly, “And I mine to the gentle Luna, who gazes in at us here.”

“And I,” exclaimed Ferdinand, “to the little god Amor. His mother sits there in the sky watching over us.”

It was getting late. Ferdinand prepared to ride home. Suddenly, he said, “Heavens! I’ve shamefully forgotten that Uncle gave me a letter he received, which concerns you, Claudine, and which you were supposed to read.”

Claudine grabbed it quickly and said, “It’s from Germany, from Aunt Malfred.” She read it through with visible anxiety but then exclaimed, “Victory! Ah, this day is truly happy! Aunt asks Uncle to keep me in his household over the winter, as she has decided to settle permanently in Mecklenburg, where she wants me to come next spring, once she is properly settled. Oh, thank God! Spring is a long way off.”

“I’m also to inform you,” said Ferdinand, “that Uncle and Aunt are coming out here tomorrow along with a German gentleman, a young merchant who brought the letter and who sends you greetings from Aunt Malfred—who, thank God, isn’t my aunt, since she’s your mother’s sister.”

Ferdinand mounted his horse, and the lovers accompanied him partway down the road, then strolled back alone along the moonlit shore.

A perfectly pleasant evening is seldom followed by a happy day. The family from the city brought a small party with them, and besides the aforementioned German merchant, several of the household’s French friends also came—those who had occasionally visited their ailing compatriot. Lusard had long been fully recovered, but the young lover found it difficult to tear himself away from the paradise of love in which he lived. For himself and others, he excused his delay by saying he was waiting for replies to some letters before determining his departure.

Now the French legation secretary brought him a letter, and the merchant brought another, after reading which Lusard appeared visibly troubled. Before dinner, the company strolled through the garden. The French minister took Lusard aside and walked up and down an alley with him. Claudine, meanwhile being engaged in conversation by the German merchant, deliberately chose to walk the same alley so that she frequently passed by the two men, anxiously trying to guess the subject of their conversation from their expressions and gestures.

At the table, she sat near Lusard and her uncle, and her fearful suspicion turned to certainty when the young Frenchman raised his glass and, turning to the merchant, said, “Let me thank you for the happy time your too-great kindness has granted me at this beautiful place, which I must now, unfortunately, leave, though my thoughts will always remain here, and all my wishes lead me back.”

The merchant politely responded, and when Lusard mentioned that he planned to go into the city in a few days and then depart the following week, their hospitable host invited him to a farewell feast the day before his departure. The two lovers looked at each other in silence with an expression noticed only by Madame Valler. She sighed deeply, feeling a pain as though her good angel whispered a bitter reproach to her.

Late in the evening, after the guests had left and the lovers were alone, Lusard pressed his beloved sorrowfully in his arms. “Oh, my Claudine!” he exclaimed. “Never have I felt what I feel in this moment. To leave life must be nothing compared to leaving you.”

Both wept, and when their sorrowful hearts had found some relief in soothing tears, Lusard said, “Let us sit in our dear arbor and try to speak calmly together. Listen to me, my Claudine! We have both known that I could not stay here. Duty and honor call me. But my great offense toward you weighs heavily on my mind. Unable to master my passion, I have stolen into your innocent heart, perhaps to ruin your entire beautiful life. This is not the first time these thoughts have come to me, and careless as my actions have been, I had conceived a plan to comfort us both. You know that I have an uncle, my father’s brother, who emigrated during the Revolution and has since settled in a Danish province. Politics severed every tie between us. But though I will never regret the side I have taken, it has still greatly pained me to stand on nearly hostile terms with a man whom, despite our differing views, I deeply respect and love—a man who made my childhood happy and guided my early youth.

I thought: The power of the Jacobins must surely be broken with Robespierre’s fall; my poor homeland will, I hope, be able to breathe again. Now it remains only to defeat the external enemies, and that is the purpose I was always destined for. Therefore, I wrote to my uncle, told him everything I now tell you, and begged him from a moved heart to reconcile with me. My plan was that, if he forgave me, I would confide in him about my relationship with you and ask him to take you into his home and keep you safe for me until the fortunes of war had granted me a position honorable enough to come claim my dearest treasure from his hands. He is kind and was always patient with my faults. But read for yourself what he replies.”

The letter said roughly this: that Le Duc de Montalbert knew nothing of any Citoyen Charles Lusard; that he had lost a nephew upon whom he had showered favors; and that if Citoyen Lusard happened to know this young man, he should tell him that as soon as he once again adopted his ancestors’ honorable name and loyal mindset, trampled the tricolor cockade underfoot, and fought for his king and his own coat of arms, Le Duc de Montalbert would receive him as a dear son—but any Republican who dared step onto his estate would be shown the way out by his hunting dogs.

“Can I obey him, Claudine?” asked Lusard as she silently handed the letter back. “Do you blame me if I confess that, despite my despair at leaving you, a burning desire still lives in my heart to join my brave comrades-in-arms, a fervor to follow the famous leaders whose names already resound throughout astonished Europe? Do you forgive me for wanting a leaf from their laurel wreath?”

Claudine exclaimed, “Oh Lusard! Never think that I would hold you back, even if I could. No—your honor is sacred to me. Do not grieve for my sake! Do not say that you have ruined my life. No matter what happens, the thought that you have loved me, the memory of our days of love, will be the proud awareness that will keep my head high for the rest of my life, despite my humble station and others’ prejudices. When I sit once more alone with my aunt Malfred, I shall no longer lament our silent, lifeless evenings, for your image and the hope of seeing you again shall be my companions. Our friend Ferdinand once said: Only few women in their ordinary daily lives have such a memory by which they can elevate themselves.”

“My beloved! My little wife! You fill me with rapture. You give me comfort and hope. Yes, it cannot be long before our brave armies win us peace. If I live then, I will come without delay to Denmark and fetch my dear wife to my happy, free homeland. But oh, my darling! Years might pass before that happy day comes—and if I then return and find you in another’s arms, what shall become of me? The young German today, for example—he looked at you with eyes I understood too well. Your family will exert its authority, and…”

“Oh hush, Lusard! Never, never shall I belong to another. I will wait for you with hope and patience, even if it takes until my hair turns white.”

It happened to Claudine as it happens to anyone who, beside a beloved, mourns an approaching separation. A doubled tenderness, an expression of the deepest devotion, gives the moment a sweetness that lets the future fade into the background and revives courage. The beloved is still present. The difference between the hour of farewell and absence is not unlike that between illness and death.

Lusard and Claudine said goodbye on the day he was to leave the country house, from which Claudine was also to be fetched that same evening by her uncle and aunt. The lovers had agreed to keep their relationship secret from everyone except Ferdinand, who had undertaken to handle the letters they promised, as far as circumstances allowed, to exchange. They found comfort in the thought that they would see each other one last time before Lusard’s departure, namely at the farewell gathering the merchant would host in a few days. But when this gathering took place, they both felt so overwhelmed by the constraint they had to impose on themselves to hide their emotions that they could scarcely endure this final meeting. In all the hours they were together, it was impossible for them to exchange even a single unnoticed word.

When Lusard saw his countrymen preparing to leave in the evening, he approached the master and mistress of the house with warm thanks, unable to hide his emotion. Then he turned to Claudine, who stood somewhat apart; she was pale and leaned her hand against a table. Lusard tried to speak but was unable. He took her hand. They looked silently at each other. Suddenly, he bent down as if to pick something up from the floor, dropped to one knee, and, seen only by Claudine, seized the hem of her dress, pressed it to his lips, and quickly hurried out the door, while the sorrowful girl rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of his shadow in the darkness and hear the sound of his footsteps.

Only a few days had passed after that evening when the Justice Councillor burst into his brother’s home in a state of great agitation, expressing in the strongest terms his accusation that his son had, with unparalleled insolence, brought ruin and disgrace upon both himself and his family. Ferdinand’s previously mentioned book had now been published and filled his father with horror and fury. About this little volume of poems, which at the time attracted much attention, it could certainly be said that it was a very youthful work, published with more recklessness than prudence, as it expressed the era’s ideas about freedom and morality with striking frankness.

Yet, since these ideas resonated with a large segment of society and the poems revealed no small amount of talent, the book caused quite a sensation, being both praised and condemned far beyond its merit. When the Justice Councillor rushed like a madman to the bookseller to try to stop its sale, it was already almost sold out.

A serious dispute arose between the brothers. The merchant defended Ferdinand, but the Justice Councillor insisted that his son—whom he called “lost” and “degenerate”—had ruined his entire future with this book. A sensible and highly regarded gentleman had assured him that there was talk of bringing the author to justice. “But that disgrace,” the father added, “I will not live to see. I still have two other children besides him. I won’t allow them to suffer for their brother’s sins. I told him as much: I will pay him his maternal inheritance. It’s not large but enough to live on for a year. Then he can go seek his fortune in that accursed Babylon he thinks is paradise, and see how well that goes.”

“Have I heard the like? You actually said that to him? And what did he reply?”

“He was quite pleased and said the sooner he left, the better.”

No sooner said than done. Ferdinand was soon ready to depart. The merchant gifted him a respectable sum of money, and equipped with letters of recommendation and credit, full of hope and eagerness for travel, he bid farewell to his family. But Claudine was so distraught, and he himself so moved at having to say goodbye to her, that their parting scene only confirmed the merchant’s suspicion that the two were in love.

After this time, it was evident that grief consumed Claudine’s previously cheerful spirit, and it was moving to see the self-control with which she vainly tried to hide her true feelings. Bit by bit, her health seemed to suffer, and her fresh beauty faded noticeably. She sought solitude and joined in amusements and gatherings only with visible reluctance—except for those held at home, where she could hope to encounter someone among Lusard’s compatriots and perhaps catch some small tidbit of news about him.

From Paris, he had sent her a short letter, but it was enclosed within one to the merchant and, like it, was full of thanks for the kindness shown to him—written with the caution naturally necessary for a letter sent openly in that manner. Ferdinand had later written to his family and in a letter to Claudine enclosed one from Lusard, written the evening before his departure to the Sambre and Meuse Army, where he had been assigned. These lines breathed the warmest love and revived the longing girl for a time, but soon her diminishing mental and physical state became once more obvious.

Her uncle grew very annoyed with her and frequently told her she had become a different person, that he no longer had either pride or joy in her as before—all of which did nothing to encourage her. A doctor had been called, but he seemed uncertain in diagnosing her true illness, and since Claudine, unaccustomed to medicine, had a great aversion to it, the good Madame Valler thought it best, in private, to confide to the doctor, who was a friend of the family, that Claudine’s illness lay in her soul and could not be healed with physical remedies. The doctor, like everyone else—Madame Valler excepted—attributed this spiritual ailment to Ferdinand and blamed him for abandoning a girl who could not live without him.

Madame Valler tried in vain to distract Claudine. She continually resolved to speak to her about the matter of her heart, but could never get the words over her lips to begin such a conversation. She said to herself: How can I teach this young girl to overcome the power of passion when I myself have succumbed to it? Ah! When I look at her, I feel all too late my guilt toward her. I should not have left our country house when I was forced to receive the sick guest there. I should have overseen his care and sent the young girl to the city, or at least kept her under my eyes. Valler actually wished that I had stayed out there, but I did not dare. And why? Out of fear of Dalund’s jealousy. Yes, I feel it—such a relationship, which seems to us so excusable, so humanly forgivable, affects our life and our conduct in so many unforeseen ways that peace of conscience can hardly exist with it. God forgive me! I shall never again allow it to prevent me from doing what I recognize as my duty.

Fate seemed immediately to take Madame Valler at her word, for not long before Christmas, the merchant said to his wife one day: “You’ve surely noticed that I’ve been in a damned bad mood for some time; but you must know, I’ve engaged in a speculation with a house in Amsterdam, over which I’m in mortal anxiety. Still, everything can turn out well, especially if your brother, who lives over there, will help me and get involved in this affair.”

He now explained the situation as best he could and added: “It’s necessary that I travel to Amsterdam as soon as possible. But you know very well that your brother—whom I otherwise love and respect—hasn’t always, shall we say, been particularly fond of me. You, however, he carries on his hands and always says he could never refuse you anything. Therefore, it probably won’t help much if I go, unless you decide to travel with me.”

“I! Travel now, in the heart of winter?”

“Yes, that’s true, it’s a terrible season to travel, but the winter hasn’t turned severe yet. I’ll make everything as comfortable and easy for you as possible, and you must consider that this concerns our livelihood. Well, little Nore, you’ll say yes, that’s obvious, right?”

“Yes,” she answered sorrowfully, remembering her earlier promise.

When Claudine came to the usual evening family gathering the next day, she found Advocate Dalund, who had been alone with Madame Valler for a long time. It was clear that the latter had been crying, and the former was particularly gloomy. Claudine recalled that conversation with Ferdinand and said to herself: She’s been crying. Yes, she knows what secret love and separation mean. Ah! I could surely confide in this lovely woman—I wouldn’t find a harsh judge in her. If only I could get out all that weighs on my poor heart!

The next day, which was a Sunday, Madame Valler had gone out early. When she returned, she said to Claudine: “You’ll never guess where I’ve been. You mustn’t laugh or tell anyone, but I’ve been to church. I assure you, dear Claudine, that I truly feel comforted and strengthened by it. I regret that I didn’t suggest you come with me. I felt I had to go alone and sit as secluded as possible. Forgive me.”

“Dear Aunt! That’s easily forgiven. I don’t even know... I think the pastor wouldn’t have told me much more than what I could say to myself.”

“Yes, that’s how the so-called enlightened people speak, but I hardly dare say it’s something they don’t understand—I mean, something they haven’t yet felt. How deeply it touches the soul and heart to hear thoughts you have dimly held yourself—but only dimly—spoken clearly, beautifully, even just to hear them spoken by another. It affirms them, strengthens them, and how much more so in this place, in this way! There are things one has no courage to confide in any human being, and then it’s as if an inner longing compels us to seek those quiet places dedicated to an invisible friend who does not abandon or condemn weak mortals. I was so sorrowful last night. This coming journey filled me with fear; it seemed so burdensome, so dangerous. It was as if a dark premonition told me I would never see my dear home again. And when I came into the church and heard the sound of the organ, I wept—but not from grief. A strange feeling overtook me, as if I were separated from this world and all its confusion. The pastor spoke of the comfort that comes from fulfilling one’s duty; I applied those words to myself and to this unwelcome journey, and I felt as though a blessing was pronounced over my undertaking.”

Sorrowfully, Claudine said: “But me! What will become of me when you leave?”

“You shall stay here, my own Claudine, with our old, faithful Susanne. I had wished that my stepson, poor Christian, could have stayed home here with you, but his father insists on sending him to board with his teacher. I’ve thought so much about you and had long since decided to try to get you back from Aunt Malfred by next winter, and then settle it so that we will keep you here in the future. In the spring, you must certainly travel over to your aunt so as not to offend her; but before then, we can arrange many things, for in a month or at most two, I’ll surely be home again. In the meantime, take care of your health and try to lift your spirits.”

With heartfelt kindness, heightened by a charming expression of modesty, Madame Valler now began a confidential conversation with Claudine. Her delicate sensibility spared the young girl from having to confess her heart’s secret. “I know,” she said, “what it is that troubles you: You love Lusard, and he loves you.” Claudine’s heart opened to this gentle comfort that was offered her. She spoke of her love, of her longing, and through many tears, of her fear for the absent one from whom she had heard nothing for so long—fear for his life, fear of already being forgotten by him. The kind aunt comforted her regarding the latter with the tumult and confusion of war, which made correspondence difficult and often impossible; she promised to write to Claudine during their separation and to make every effort to find some news of Lusard.

But however sincere and intimate this conversation was, there remained one important point that neither party could bring themselves to touch upon. As innocent as Claudine certainly was, she had lately been seized by an anxious suspicion that she didn’t dare follow through with in her thoughts. Madame Valler, too, had often thought with alarm about the possible consequences of the young lovers’ time together at the country house. But neither aunt nor niece dared broach such a delicate subject. On one side was the fear of offending, on the other a deep sense of shame that bound both their tongues. They consoled themselves with the thought that they would soon see each other again, and since Claudine’s health had recently improved, they were somewhat reassured.

A relief for the anxious Claudine was, however, very near, for the very next evening the merchant hosted a small farewell gathering for his circle of friends. At this, the Republicans shared joyful news about the victorious progress of their army in Holland under Pichegru’s command and reported that their mutual friend Lusard was among those mentioned with distinction in the general’s dispatches and that he had been promoted a couple of ranks. In the joy of her heart, Claudine couldn’t help but ask if a letter had arrived from him, but this was immediately denied as something nearly impossible under the circumstances. From Ferdinand, however, letters arrived during these same days. He already seemed to have lost some of the high enthusiasm and bold expectations with which he had approached the land of Gaul, but instead, he spoke warmly of a young man from Geneva whose acquaintance he had made in Paris.

By the last days of the year, the merchant and his wife set out on their journey, and Claudine, much encouraged by the recent news of her beloved, saw them depart with relative calm and with hope for their promised early return.

This return, however, was delayed. The merchant’s plans were crowned with success, but misfortune struck when he broke his leg from a careless jump off a carriage. Although the accident wasn’t life-threatening, he suffered quite a bit, especially from extreme impatience. The pious Eleonore cared for him day and night with the greatest devotion. In her letters to Claudine, she never complained, but the deepest longing shone through them. By the end of March, their departure from Amsterdam was still undecided.

Poor Claudine was near despair. Shut away within herself and in her lonely room, without advice or support, haunted by the dreadful thought that Lusard—who had sent no word—might be dead or unfaithful, she felt abandoned by heaven and earth. At last, she made the only reasonable decision that could be made under such circumstances: she wrote to Madame Valler and confessed everything, fully placing herself in her gentle hands, resolved to follow her will as the only guiding light in the darkness surrounding her threatening future. “Too late,” she wrote, “I now feel how much I have sinned against a home that so lovingly received me and where I now have become a burdensome weight. Ah! In my boundless enthusiasm for the noble man I loved, I was proud to belong to him, to offer his love every sacrifice without reservation, to be bound to him by every conceivable tie. In my inexperience and recklessness, I did not think of the terrible consequences that now have struck—not only me, not only the few who take part in my fate, but a miserable being whose existence fills me with fear and sorrow. My greatest hope is that God will take us both away from a world that will cast us out. God will not cast us out, and you, dear Aunt, you will not either. Be merciful as He is, and take pity on your unhappy Claudine.”

This letter, which bore the clear marks of the trembling hand that had written it, Claudine brought herself to the post office to ensure that it was safely sent. A glimmer of hope and calm soothed her anxious soul. The elderly housekeeper, who clearly understood the situation her young mistress was in, tried several times to bring up the difficult subject, but Claudine—living in the youthful illusion that she could hide her condition—would not engage with her. The good Miss Susanne therefore, like Claudine, decided to write to Madame Valler, and both postponed any further decisions until the housewife’s reply and hoped-for return.

Meanwhile, the days of precious time were being counted, but before any reply from the absent ones could be expected, Justice Councillor Valler appeared, as if from a heavy dream, with a face that immediately announced a messenger of misfortune. With circumlocution that only heightened the anxious anticipation, he finally uttered the sad news that the beautiful, kind Eleonore Valler was dead. A few days of illness had been enough to end this seemingly so vigorous life. This unexpected news spread the deepest sympathy among acquaintances and strangers alike and brought profound grief to the circle of those who were close to her, whether near or far. Claudine was completely stunned by this harsh blow and sat for several days in silence and without will, to the terror of the well-meaning Susanne, who tried in vain to pull her out of this numbness.

One morning, she received a note from Advocate Dalund. In a few words, he bid her farewell, as he was about to travel abroad and had therefore entrusted his affairs to a colleague for an indefinite period. Without further mentioning what had passed, he simply added the following words: “I leave you, dear Claudine, with many dear memories and heartfelt wishes for your future. Whether and when we shall meet again, or where my path will take me, I do not know at this moment myself. Happy is the one whom no family ties and no ingrained prejudice hold back from boldly leaving behind this entire miserable world!”

It could certainly be said, without unfairness, that poor Claudine was nearly a victim of the era’s prevailing ideas. From Ferdinand’s words and poems, down to those casually spoken phrases, everything seemed to combine with her own romantic disposition to deliver her, at the most vulnerable moment, into the power of those demons that most often approach the best and the most beautiful. As she read those words, she sank into deep thought. She said to herself: Dalund is unhappy; he has lost the one he loved. So have I. But he goes freely into the wide world; he is not abandoned to misery and shame as I am. He still has a mother, a brother, and a sister; I have no one, not a single soul on earth. My only friend is dead, forever gone, and—oh God! my letter! Only now do I remember it. Where is my letter? Into whose hands has it fallen? No, I cannot live! What should stop me from boldly leaving this whole miserable world? No tie binds me. Nearly half a year has passed without Lusard sending me a single word. How can war so prevent him? Even if I were in a thousand wars, I would find some way to remind him of me and my faithfulness. No, he is dead… or he has forgotten me. No, no! He has not! He is dead! And what then stops me from following him, from bringing his child to him? No ingrained prejudice shall hold me back. The noblest, the most innocent, have chosen a voluntary death and preferred it over shame, constraint, and the world’s contempt. If there is a God, could He then reject such proud souls? No, I do not fear His judgment. If my death were not His will, He would have sent me a saving hand.

The transition from numbness to exaltation in which Claudine now found herself seemed to her the result of a sublime serenity. She decided she would not see the next day. She said to herself: Often when I looked out over the sea, it occurred to me how natural the mythological idea is that on the way from this world to another, we cross the waves. They rock us like children soothed after weeping; they cool the burning heart; they sing us to sleep with their monotonous lullaby; they carry us over to that distant shore—without bloodshed, without the agony of treacherous poison. That is the death I will choose. With a quick leap, I will cast myself into Charon’s boat; and if the unfriendly shore sends my poor body back to the earth I wished to flee and betrays my secret to men, so be it! Their evil words will not reach my ears, and I will despise them.

Claudine spent the rest of the day putting all her small belongings in order and sorting and burning most of her papers. A crystal heart, containing a lock of Lusard’s hair and a flower—called la pensée in French—that her beloved had given her at their farewell at the country house, she untied from her breast, where she had always worn it, and secured it with several rows of cords, tying it tightly around her neck, fearing to lose this treasure in death. And as the day began to wane, she wrapped herself in her veil and cloak and walked to a secluded spot by Kallebodstrand behind some stacks of timber outside the West Gate. Exhausted and with fading resolve, she sat on a pile of wood; she tried to compose herself and revive her earlier determination. Terror of death and despair over life battled within the unfortunate girl. The moon reflected on the gently rolling waves; there were beacons burning on the sea in the distance. The charm of the spring evening only deepened Claudine’s sorrow. She sat bowed toward the earth, holding both hands over her eyes as if to shut out the sight of nature’s beauty—the familiar, kindred nature she intended to leave.

Then she suddenly heard her name called, and when she looked up, old Susanne stood before her with folded hands and said in a gentler voice than usually came to her: "My God and Lord! Miss Claudine! What are you thinking of? I’ve been anxious for you for many days, and today I felt sure something was wrong, so I followed you all the way from home. I mean you so well; do not shut your heart like this to God and mankind! Dear Lord preserve us! What are you thinking of? Perhaps the good God Himself led me here for your rescue.”

These last words, which seemed to connect with Claudine’s earlier thought—that if her death were not God’s will, He would send someone to save her—struck her conscience strangely. She broke into violent sobs. Susanne sat beside her, wrapped an arm around her, and tried with loving words to open a path to her heart. “God forgive me,” she said, “but the enemy of God and mankind gladly tempts us to the worst, and I was terribly afraid that you here, by this horrible water, would put an end to yourself—and to someone else as well.”

Yes, Susanne! answered Claudine, I thought it would be best to die—best for me and best for… Oh, what is there for the two of us poor souls here on Earth?

“Sweet Savior! Oh, dear child! Have you truly forgotten your Christianity? The world may be godless nowadays, but surely your blessed parents taught you to pray the Lord’s Prayer in your earliest childhood. Why should you die? You are no worse off than thousands of others. You can be sure that what is hidden and secret is a hundred times more terrible. I had my suspicions back when you stayed alone at the country house with that young Frenchman. In my heart, I was angry with my masters for it—God forgive me that sin! They said he was ill. Oh yes, indeed he was! But what’s done is done, and everything can still be made right. I’ve already thought through the whole thing. Be reasonable now, calm yourself, and listen to what I have to say. I have a cousin, a kind, decent, and respectable woman; when the time comes, you shall have a room and care with her, and everything will be arranged in the best way, and no one will say a word about it. She and I will work together to find a good, honest woman who can take in the innocent child, and then the whole matter will be as good as dead and powerless. Now you’ll come home quietly with me, and we will discuss further how best to manage things. But just trust in God—He can send help that no one could ever imagine. Who knows? Mr. Lusard might return before you even dream of it and set everything right.”

When someone has endured the suffering of keeping locked in their heart an anxiety and sorrow never spoken aloud, a secret they believe hidden from all human eyes and whose discovery they dread—then it is one of the many contradictions of the human soul that it feels a relief in finding someone who knows, and indescribable comfort in hearing what seemed so monumental, so unheard of, spoken of with a certain simplicity. People often say that common, trivial words of comfort are unnecessary to hear from others, as anyone can say them to themselves. But if those who say this had ever felt utterly crushed by fate—or worse, by the consequences of their own wrongdoing—they would know the infinite difference between the words we say to ourselves in moments of sorrow and those spoken by someone else, who calmly understands our situation. These ordinary, familiar sayings often contain sound wisdom, like most folk proverbs; when spoken with love, they acquire a special blessing, and the hope that, in our private reflections, seems like a mirage, takes on flesh and blood when given to us by another’s hand.

Claudine felt the truth of this. For the first time in many months, her trembling hand rested in a kind hand, and a gentle voice reached her ears. She followed Susanne home, arm in arm, and when night came and she found herself alone in her cozy room—the same room she had left with the resolution never to set foot in again—she felt as if she had awakened from death into new life. For the first time in several years, she threw herself humbly and repentantly before God, thanked Him for her rescue, and entrusted her future fate into His hands. From that moment on, she sat—certainly anxious but calm and patient—eagerly occupied with the tasks required by the approaching time. Old Susanne arranged everything necessary with a busy cheerfulness that seemed to bring her great satisfaction. The previously mentioned glittering jewelry, Grosserer Valler’s gift from those splendid days, along with several small luxury items of lesser value, Susanne quietly converted into ready money, and the little sum proved fully sufficient to cover all expenses for the time being.

To the household, it was said that Miss Claudine was traveling to her aunt in Germany. Her belongings were packed, and Susanne managed so cleverly to remove all witnesses on the evening when the ailing Claudine was brought to her designated refuge that no one the next morning doubted that the young lady had indeed been collected by the visiting family with whom she was supposedly undertaking her journey.

When the morning sun peeked into the small, cozy room where Claudine lay in a snow-white bed, its reddish rays kissed, as if in welcome to this world, a little boy in his young mother’s arms. Never-before-imagined feelings flowed through Claudine’s soul. Ecstasy, tenderness, and a new, previously unknown, overwhelming love flooded her heart—and with it, the fearful thought already arose that circumstances would soon rob her of this treasure whose priceless worth she, in her earlier despair, had not fully grasped. But the present moment was blissful. She gazed at her son in joyful wonder, searching his little face for traces of his beloved father’s features, and covered his tiny hands with her kisses.

The woman in whose simple but pleasant home Claudine now found herself was a ship captain’s widow named Madame Lyng, who, from her former prosperity, still owned the small house she lived in and from which she rented out a few rooms. She had endured much in life and was one of those rare, underappreciated people whose kindness and gentleness of heart stand in place of formal education and refinement, and whose own experiences of suffering and injustice had taught her a natural delicacy and consideration, regardless of her outward social standing. With sincere compassion, she received the young patient, cared for her with the greatest tenderness, and never once let a single curious question or tactless hint pass her lips.

It had been arranged that Claudine would stay for a month with this widow, in whose home she felt so comfortable that she almost wished never to have to leave this place of refuge, and she sometimes felt almost sorrowful over how quickly her health and strength were returning. Susanne, who visited her regularly, brought a few times the woman she had selected as the child’s foster mother, but Madame Lyng, noticing the painful effect this woman’s presence had on Claudine, told Susanne that the child must not be taken from its mother as long as the mother remained in her house.

The third week of this month was nearly over when Susanne arrived one day, visibly uneasy, bringing letters that had arrived that very morning—one for herself and two for Claudine. With a pounding heart, Claudine recognized her uncle’s handwriting on one and her Aunt Malfred’s on the other. The merchant informed his niece that the previously mentioned letter to his late wife had arrived a few days after her death. He had opened and read both that letter and one from Susanne, never imagining that either could contain any secret, least of all one which, to his grief and utter shock, he had discovered upon reading them both. He wrote that he would refrain from reproaching Claudine but believed himself fully justified in demanding that she now comply entirely with the arrangements he had outlined in his letter to Susanne, for which he had placed the old servant in charge.

From Aunt Malfred, he had also received a letter, and one of similar content was presumably now in Claudine’s hands, from which she would learn the path she was to take—and thank her good fortune for offering her such a happy means of repairing the disgrace she had brought upon herself and her family.

In Aunt Malfred’s letter, this stern lady ordered her ward to come to her new home in Mecklenburg without delay, where an unexpected and great fortune awaited her. The enclosed letter would inform her of what this was about—and, the aunt added, however much foolishness may have crept into the world lately, it was surely inconceivable that a girl without fortune and without any prospects for the future could turn away such luck. Sadly, she had realized too late that Claudine, during her stay in Copenhagen, had lived in the most ruinous circles; but if her foolishness had progressed so far that she would reject the offer made in the enclosed letter, Aunt Malfred would no longer acknowledge her as her niece.

Claudine guessed in horror the contents of the enclosed letter—it was indeed a formal proposal of marriage from the German merchant who had spent a day the previous summer at the country house and whose enamored glances and behavior had not gone unnoticed by the young girl.

Susanne could barely wait for the anxious Claudine to finish reading her own letters before urging her to read the one that had been sent to Susanne herself, whose importance she could not overstate—and indeed, it was crucial for poor Claudine. For in it, the merchant ordered Susanne, under threat of completely losing his favor and her position in his household, to ensure that Claudine’s mistake remained a secret from the world, to take responsibility for ensuring that the child was immediately placed with someone who could keep its existence hidden, and that the mother, as soon as her health allowed, was to be promptly sent to Mecklenburg. The costs necessary for this arrangement could be charged to his account until his soon-expected return. He wished for Claudine to be gone, if possible, before he saw his house again—a house that now seemed sorrowful enough to him. He did not deny that he was very angry with his unworthy niece—and even more so with her reckless seducer, who had so disgracefully abused his hospitality.

With burning tears but in complete silence, Claudine folded the letter and handed it back to Susanne.

“Yes, dear Miss,” said Susanne, “now you can see for yourself that it is my duty to insist that the child be taken as soon as possible to that good woman you’ve seen. I will keep an eye on it, that I promise, and we won’t lack money now, so the good Lord has arranged things as well as they could be, given how bad they were. Shouldn’t we go fetch the baby tomorrow—or even tonight? Shouldn’t we, hmm? And then, if by next week with God’s help you are well enough to travel…”

Madame Lyng, who saw the dying glances the pale young mother cast toward her son’s cradle, interrupted Susanne’s stream of words and replied, “No, there can be no question of traveling yet; the four weeks we agreed upon are not over, and I won’t give up my little lady before then. And you won’t have the child today, tomorrow, or the day after either. It isn’t baptized yet. On Sunday, it will go to church. I have already arranged it with the pastor, who has helped me organize everything necessary. The little mother and I will carry him to the baptism ourselves, and my tenant downstairs will stand as godparent; he has promised to do so because the pastor requires a witness. That’s how I’ve arranged it, and if you want to join, we’ll be glad.”

“I would like to,” replied Susanne, “but right now, with my master expected home, I have so much else to manage that it’s beyond my strength. But dear God! What is all this, if I may say so, but foolishness? Should Miss Claudine, who has so many acquaintances in this town, come to church in such a way that she might be seen by God and all the world?”

“Yes, by God, that’s certain,” said Madame Lyng, “but not by all the world, because few people come to that church. And the pastor, who is my good friend, has scheduled a time for us right after the service, when no one else will be there except a simple child whose parents are bringing him, and we don’t know them—so we can be at ease on that account.”

“And on top of that, a strange man should be godfather?”

“Yes, my old tenant,” replied Madame Lyng with a laugh. “He won’t give away anything. He’s hard of hearing and so nearsighted he won’t even be able to see who’s sitting right across from him in the carriage. He wouldn’t recognize our little lady even if it could save his life. Besides, he’s a good man and not nosy.”

Shaking her head with a concerned expression, Susanne said, “God forgive you if this makes me miserable! The merchant could come back before we know it, and I can’t lie to the good man whom I’ve served faithfully for so many years. But in God’s name! After Sunday then, we’ll discuss it.”

“No, the week must finish before you may speak about the child.”

“The whole week? Good Lord, Grethe! How can you be so unreasonable? Well, goodbye! I have other things to do than stand here getting upset.”

With heartfelt concern, the good Madame Lyng looked at the deep dejection that overtook Claudine after this conversation. She tried to encourage her with her care and unmistakable goodwill but could find no way to avert the fate that loomed over the grieving mother. Even the recent attempt to buy some time would soon no longer be useful.

Thus passed a few days, and Sunday morning arrived—the day the child was to be baptized. The spring sun shone so warmly into the little room that Madame Lyng opened a window in the larger adjoining room and left the door between open. They were just finishing dressing the little boy when Madame Lyng laid him in Claudine’s arms and said, “I’ve often had premonitions and a strange sense of foreknowledge at solemn moments like the one we are now approaching, and it feels certain to me that no matter how things turn out, this sweet child will be your joy and happiness in the world.”

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the outer door. Madame Lyng pulled the screen in front of Claudine’s door but left it open. Claudine took advantage of her solitude to surrender to her feelings; she pressed her son to her breaking heart and eased it by letting her tears flow freely. She had only half noticed that someone had come to visit Madame Lyng and that a woman’s voice was speaking in the adjoining room through the open door. Finally, she was startled to attention by an exclamation from her hostess’s usually gentle voice: “What are you saying? Well, that is a dear message you’ve brought me. It’s been many, many years since I’ve heard from my good Christiane, whom I’ve never forgotten.”

“She hasn’t forgotten you either,” replied the visitor. “She says it was in our good days we were together; when the bad times came, we were separated.”

“I’m glad you’ve visited her. Is she still living in her village?”

“Yes, she still has her neat little house. It’s so tidy and cozy there; one could happily live there for the rest of one’s life.”

“But does she live entirely alone?”

“Yes, with a young farm girl who serves her and whom she has trained.”

“My thoughts,” said Madame Lyng, “have often been with our good Christiane. I’ve often wondered how she’s managed to support herself out there in the countryside for so many years.”

“Well, you see! The farmers in that area are well-off. For anything they needed to decorate themselves or such things, there was no one they preferred over Madame Christiane, as they call her—or Madame Nissen, as the gentry call her. She’s also had work from the nearby town and the surrounding estates. She was always so skilled with her hands—she did tailoring, embroidered caps and bodices, and I don’t know what else. She also taught sewing to girls from the town and the estates. Since the place is quite far from Copenhagen, people there thank God for someone like Madame Christiane nearby. Yes, so far it’s gone well, but now she’s beginning to worry about the future since neither her eyes nor her strength are what they once were. She would like to have a respectable younger woman as a companion to help her, but where can one find such a person? Madame Christiane is truly a refined lady—she even has a noble air about her.”

“Oh!” said Madame Lyng, “You should have seen her in our good days, as she calls them. She was the prettiest and loveliest girl one could ever see. Who would have thought her fate would turn out so badly in this world?”

“Yes, good heavens! She was disgracefully treated in her youth. He married another right before her eyes—that wretched man she trusted so much. But she did the right thing; she left the day before the wedding was to take place. Who would want to stay on as a companion to such a young lord’s mother? She went to her aunt, the steward’s wife, who helped her in every way to set herself up in the village after she had given birth to the boy. But here I am talking on! You probably know all this as well as I do.”

“No, I only know the general circumstances of her fate. Does her son still live? And where is he?”

“Oh, he’s been with the Lord for decades now. He died when he was only a year and a half old. And do you know what she says? Of all her misfortunes, she says losing that boy was the greatest. Isn’t it rather unreasonable? After all, God help us, such an illegitimate child, with no father, and a child the mother might have been forced to send away to strangers…”

At this turn in the conversation, Madame Lyng quickly rose and shut the door to Claudine’s room. Shortly after, when the visitor left, she hurried in, gathered the mother and child, and led them to the carriage waiting at the door, where the mentioned old man already sat, looking half-asleep.

Upon entering the large, nearly empty church, Claudine felt strangely overcome. It had been four years since she stood on the church floor as a confirmand, and apart from the day a few days later when she took communion, she had not set foot in the sacred space again until now—coming as an abandoned, poor mother to present her fatherless child for baptism. In the pew where the godparents briefly sat was also the humble couple Madame Lyng had mentioned with their child. “Ah,” sighed Claudine to herself, “how happy those parents are! No doubt their appearance bears signs of hardship and struggle. They likely return home to a modest dwelling where nothing festive awaits them, but they bring their child to their own home, where no one can take it from them. They are two to share life’s burdens and to love their child.”

The church attendant now gave a signal that the pastor was ready, and the small group stepped out onto the church floor, where the elderly, white-haired pastor met them with a gentle gaze, and his resonant voice echoed through the high space. The rite, as used in this solemn ceremony, was almost entirely unfamiliar to Claudine. It touched her in a way she could not explain. The beautiful Gospel about Jesus taking the little children in his arms and blessing them moved her so deeply that she could not hold back her tears, which fell like dew on the child in her arms. She named her son Charles, after his father, and the image of her lost beloved stood clear and without doubt before her soul.

When she returned home, she threw herself into Madame Lyng’s arms, her cheeks flushed. The older friend looked at her in surprise. “You seem transformed,” she said.

“Yes, I am,” replied Claudine. “Oh, dear friend! You, who are the only person in the world I dare confide in, oh, have mercy on me! I cannot give up my child! I cannot! I must not! Oh, if you only knew what has happened within me during the holy rite from which we have just returned! Yes, my dear Aunt Eleonore was right. In the quiet sanctuary of the church, there is a friend who does not abandon us in our time of sorrow. It seemed so real to me, as though I were one of those women who, with an anxious heart, brought her child to the Savior—as if those who surrounded him wanted to push the poor mother away, but he himself called her with his gentle voice and took the little child into his mighty arms. A blessed feeling passed through me at the thought that I dedicated my son to him; the sign of the cross on his tiny face and chest was a token to me that the gentle Savior would accept my poor boy as his own. Oh! Never did I think that such moments could exist for me. But in my soul I said: Jesus, Lord! You who have taken my child into your arms, I vow not to let him slip from mine. I vow that the mother shall, with faithfulness, atone for what the maiden foolishly failed in. I entrust myself to your help.”

The passion with which these words were spoken deeply moved the good Madame Lyng. “Oh, dear child,” she said, “what you say is so beautiful and so good. But alas! The hardship and necessity of this world are heavy burdens. Believe me! I have experienced it. God grant I could help you, but how shall we manage to prepare for you and your son a secure future against your family’s wishes?”

“Listen to me,” replied Claudine. “A solution has been revealed to me—as if God himself let a voice speak to me, yes, a voice, for my eyes did not see the one it came from. And you, dear friend, surely can help me.”

She now explained the conversation she had overheard that morning. The Christiane, whose fate resembled her own, wanted a helper; to become that was her greatest desire. “I know well how to do many kinds of work; I can also teach children in academic subjects. I shall be diligent and modest and a loving daughter to your friend, if only she will allow me to have my child with me and grant me as much from what I can earn as a mother would grant a daughter.”

Madame Lyng was quite pleased with this plan, which seemed desirable for both parties; she only expressed her concern about causing harm to Susanne. “None of us could want that,” she said, “and do you think your family will allow you to remain peacefully in such a humble position?”

Claudine believed these difficulties could be overcome, and after further deliberation, they agreed on a course of action, which they now carefully set into motion. Madame Lyng wrote the same day to the so-called Madame Christiane, and after a few days received a highly satisfactory response. Christiane eagerly awaited her young friend, as she put it, and a farmer from the village who delivered the letter had agreed to transport the young lady or at least her belongings. Madame Lyng sent him Claudine’s trunk along with a letter, to which the young friend had added a few lines. The task now was to carry out their plan without causing Susanne any sort of trouble. Susanne needed to be able to truthfully assure her master that his orders had been carried out, and since the contrary would soon become apparent, she would also need to be able to honestly claim ignorance and innocence. Claudine knew her uncle well enough to trust that once he was convinced his will had been done, he would not easily bring up again a matter that was unpleasant to him. Thus, Susanne might discover the truth soon enough without needing to resort to falsehood to conceal it, and she would likely do so very soon when she innocently went to check on the child.

They chose a day for Claudine’s departure when they knew Susanne would be fully occupied with household duties, waiting for her master’s return, and that for the next few days, she would have no opportunity to leave the house—which indeed turned out to be the case after his arrival. Madame Lyng had arranged for Claudine to travel with a partially covered return carriage, which would take her to an inn a mile from the village that was her destination. This village was not on the main postal route, but from the inn, where she would rest for the night, she could easily find transport the next morning to her destination.

The day before her departure, Claudine wrote to her uncle, thanking him for the time she had spent in his house, asking for his forgiveness, and—without further explaining her plans—begging him to consider her as if she now shared the grave of her unforgettable aunt. She also wrote to Aunt Malfred, politely but firmly declining the proposed marriage and adding that she had now truly realized the truth of her aunt’s oft-repeated remark that a girl in her position ought to be able to support herself. Since a good position in a respectable household in one of the provinces had been offered to her, she hoped her aunt would allow her to choose this path to independence. The letter ended with many thanks for the education and upbringing that made such a step possible. This letter was to be sent in a week’s time, while the one to her uncle would be delivered after his return. They had carefully thought through every detail that could help conceal Claudine’s whereabouts. She would exchange her father’s surname for his given name and call herself Johansen; furthermore, according to Christiane’s suggestion, she was to present herself as the widow of a sailor lost at sea.

That evening, Susanne came by. They told her that Claudine would be leaving the next day and that Madame Lyng would ensure the child was brought to its destination. Claudine lovingly said goodbye to Susanne, remembering with a moved heart all she owed her well-meaning older friend, and asked her to accept a small piece of jewelry as a keepsake of her and of that night when Susanne had been her good angel. Deeply moved and pleased, the old woman accepted both the jewelry and the letter to the uncle. With a lighter heart, she returned home, and early the next morning, the good Madame Lyng quietly took Claudine to the place where the carriage waited. Completely hidden beneath its cover, mother and child rolled out through the city gates.

It was a warm and beautiful June day. To feel oneself under God’s clear sky, healthy and free, with one’s greatest treasure saved from shipwreck, after bodily suffering and long days of sorrow and anxiety—this is surely one of the greatest joys that can be granted to us poor mortals in this earthly life. Claudine experienced such a blessed feeling. She eagerly drew in the fresh air, filled with the fragrance of a summer’s day, into her relieved chest; she greeted the bright green trees and the meadows blooming with anemones as old friends from the springtime of her own life. The little birds flying to their nests hidden in the bushes, where they sheltered their young from any thieving hand, seemed to share her fate and, with their songs and chirps, to wish her happiness. But as joyful as she was, a sense of fear still dominated her heart. She felt like a fleeing prisoner pursued by someone seeking to rob her of the treasure she carried. Whenever a carriage, a rider, or even a passerby came along the road, she carefully hid herself in the corner of the carriage. Whenever the child cried, it distressed her, and she glanced anxiously around to see if anyone was near.

Though the journey lasted the entire day, she never stepped out of the carriage but made do with some bread and milk that Madame Lyng had provided. In the evening, they reached the mentioned inn. She asked for a small room, laid her child down to rest in a bed that was there, ordered a simple supper, which she ate with youthful appetite, and looked forward to the rest she sorely needed after the long journey.

After a while, she heard a carriage roll into the yard, accompanied by much noise and the trampling of horses, and soon noticed that a room adjoining hers was opened and that several people entered, whose voices indicated that they were gentlemen speaking French, German, and Dutch among themselves. Suddenly, one voice rose above the others, speaking in Danish to the serving girl who had entered, asking what rooms were available for him and his party for the night. With horror, Claudine recognized her uncle’s voice. To her even greater terror, her little child began to cry at that very moment. She hurriedly grabbed him in her arms and held him as tightly as if someone were already trying to snatch him away.

“Who is staying in that room?” asked the dreaded voice.

“A young woman with her child is lodging there.”

“Are we to be bothered by that child screaming all night? That’s outrageous! Can’t that madame be given another room? Can’t someone go in and ask her to swap with one of the rooms meant for us? Let’s have a look in there! Is she pretty?”

Though Claudine had already made sure the door was locked, she trembled with fear. After a moment’s thought, she slipped out through a door on the opposite side and headed for the kitchen, where she told a couple of the house’s maids that she had expected a carriage from the town she was heading to would pick her up there, and that it was crucial for her to reach her destination before morning. She asked them to arrange transport for her. They assured her it was impossible to fulfill such a request so late at night. But when she persisted, asking whether there wasn’t a farmer nearby who could, for a good fee, be persuaded to drive her the relatively short distance, they said that on the far side of the meadow there was a house whose owner often transported travelers. However, they had no one to send there since both their stable boy and they themselves were too busy attending the newly arrived foreign gentlemen.

Claudine, unwilling at any price to remain under the same roof as her uncle, decided to brave the summer night and find the farm herself as described. Since the innkeepers actually preferred that her room be made available to more distinguished guests, they encouraged her plan, and a half-grown girl was ordered to accompany her part of the way. Claudine quietly slipped back to her room, took her little sleeping boy, carefully wrapped him to protect him from the night air, tucked a bundle under her arm, cloaked herself and the child in a veil and cape, and set off with the girl, who hurried along with quick steps, eager to return home as soon as possible. Only by promising her a good payment did Claudine prevent her from turning back after the first hundred paces.

The path across the meadow was longer than she had hoped. The wind blew cold; they walked against it, and poor Claudine struggled to keep pace with the girl. She was tired, and it became difficult to carry both the child and the bundle. At last, they reached the house. The girl peered through the open gate and said, “The watchdog isn’t there; you can safely cross the yard to the main building just ahead. If you knock on the window nearest the stable, the man should come out—if he’s home.”

After these words and after receiving the promised payment, the girl ran back as fast as she could, and Claudine followed the directions, approaching the window where she peeked inside and saw two beds with some sleeping figures who appeared to be women and children. She knocked repeatedly on the panes, but the sleepers were not at all disturbed. She went to all the windows and at one of them, looking into a small chamber, she saw two farmhands also sleeping. A bit less bravely, she dared to knock there again, but with no better luck.

It started to drizzle, and as she, growing impatient, knocked once more, one of the men muttered something in his sleep in such a rough tone that she retreated in fright. At the same moment, she noticed a shed with an open door and quickly slipped inside. She listened anxiously but soon realized that all was still and everyone remained fast asleep.

She examined the small space she had entered. It adjoined a stable where horses stood. The stable was separated from her little room by some boards like a lattice; it was actually a feed room, and in the corner was a large pile of hay and straw. For the weary traveler with her nursing child at her breast, this was a welcome refuge. She decided to wait here for the dawn, which could not be far off, prepared herself a bed with her bundle as a pillow, wrapped herself and her child tightly in her cloak, and lay down after pushing the door slightly ajar, for it could not be fully closed.

She had resolved to rest but not to sleep in this strange and uncertain place, yet she found little peace anyway because soon she heard the sound of animals scratching and scurrying around in the straw spread over the floor. She assumed it was rats and was frightened by these unpleasant guests. Suddenly, she felt something cold and wet touch her cheek. She started up in alarm but soon calmed down when she caught sight of a large dog, wagging its tail and humbly crawling toward her. She patted it, pleased to see a friendly, living creature. The dog lay down at the foot of her bed, resting its large head on her cold feet and warming them.

This small event made a pleasant impression on the poor fugitive. She felt safer under the dog’s protection, less alone, and despite her intentions, a sweet sleep soon closed her eyes while the little boy also slept safely at his mother’s breast. And so lay Claudine—who had not long ago been so celebrated, so admired, so envied—on a rough straw bed in a shabby shelter, hiding from the eyes of the world, abandoned, with no protector but a dog brought to her by chance. And yet, far from being miserable, she drifted into a gentle sleep, her heart full of hope and love.

In the early morning, the owner of the farm returned. The farmhands, who were just leaving their sleeping quarters, received his cart and began unloading it, while he himself unhitched the horses and led them into the stable. The dog, hearing its master arrive, ran to meet him and in doing so pushed open the door to the shed where Claudine lay sleeping with her child in her arms. Her hat and veil had slipped from her head, and her rich locks flowed down around her face and shoulders. The rising sun, standing directly before the narrow door, cast its red rays onto the sleepers, so that in the dim surroundings and background they shone in a magical light.

The farmer, seeing this sight from the stable, stood for a moment as if petrified. Then he beckoned to one of the farmhands, pointed into the shed, and said quietly, “Look, Jørgen! What do you think? Doesn’t it look like the Virgin Mary with the Child, with rays around her head, like she’s painted in that picture hanging at the magistrate’s house?”

“Yes,” replied Jørgen, folding his hands, “But where the devil—God forgive me for swearing—where did that woman come from?”

At that moment, the farmer’s wife came out into the yard. The man signaled her and showed her the unexpected guests, and while the farm’s men and maids gathered around with exclamations of surprise, Claudine awoke. For a moment, she had difficulty collecting her thoughts, but she soon gathered herself, rose quickly, and explained briefly the reason for her coming and her stay at this farm. The farmer and his wife kindly invited her to step into their home and share their breakfast, which was ready. She accepted the offer and sat down among them and their workers at a large table laden with porridge bowls and milk pails.

The wife offered to make her coffee, but she preferred a glass of fresh milk and some bread, and this small meal would have been more pleasant if the well-meaning hostess, in her innocent simplicity, hadn’t embarrassed her with her sympathetic questions. “Oh dear God,” she said, “it was really terrible that I, our old mother, and everyone here at the farm slept so heavily last night and didn’t hear anything, so that you, who I can clearly see are a fine lady, had to lie in that hole down there on bare straw. But dear lamb of God! How is it that you are traveling all alone? You’re such a young girl, and that little one there is your own, isn’t it? Surely you must be married? I would think so, for such mistakes—what the pastor calls mistakes—shouldn’t happen among fine folks. For simple people like us out here in the countryside, that sort of thing isn’t so serious, and people say that over in Copenhagen soon all church, baptism, and marriage will be abolished anyway, but I can tell by looking at you that you’re surely married, right?”

Claudine blushed and answered softly, “I was.”

“Heavens! Where’s the husband then? You’re not a widow, are you?”

As flustered as a nervous student during an exam, Claudine stammered, “I… I don’t know myself… my little boy’s father is gone… lost at sea…”

The wife cried out, “At sea! Oh Lord help us! That wicked sea takes so many lives. It wasn’t more than last year that Hans Jensen’s son and son-in-law...”

The husband now came in and announced that the wagon was harnessed and ready. Very relieved to escape the difficult questioning, Claudine said her goodbyes with many thanks to the farmer’s family and climbed into the wagon, which would take her to the desired town, while on the way she reflected on the regrettable nature of her situation, which made falsehoods and evasions a necessity. The depressing and degrading role she had just played in that earlier conversation filled her honest heart with unease and shame, and with a pounding heart she approached the new circumstances into which she was about to step.

Hope and courage easily give way to fear and despair for someone who feels alone, just as darkness and fear of ghosts only scare those who are lonely. Part of the way to the village went through a stretch of forest. The farmer turned to Claudine and said, “It’s to Madame Christiane’s house we’re going, right? I know exactly where that is. She’s well-known around here.”

The wagon now stopped at a small, low house whose very appearance had a comforting effect on Claudine. Vines climbed up the walls and framed the windows, whose shiny panes glistened in the sunlight; a small garden lay outside the open door, beside which stood two wicker chairs. In the garden, lovely flowers and bushes scented the air, and in one corner under a large chestnut tree stood a bench and a table. Claudine had not yet stepped down from the wagon when she saw a woman come out of the house and approach with friendly eagerness. It was Christiane, standing before her guest in her simple, neat attire, with her aging yet still pleasant, refined face. She lifted her expressive, gentle eyes to Claudine as she extended both hands and greeted her with a melodious, “A heartfelt welcome.”

The two women looked at each other and were both overcome by that inexplicable feeling that at a first meeting with a stranger seems to say that this is no stranger at all, that we know and understand one another, and that strange, melancholy sense arises that we have shared both joy and sorrow together in some previous existence, of which we have forgotten everything—except love.

Claudine had not yet set foot on the threshold of her future home before she already felt at home. A young, neatly dressed farm girl curtsied at the wagon to receive the luggage and travel gear, and Christiane helped mother and child out of the wagon and triumphantly led them into her house. To Claudine, it felt as if peace and freedom wafted towards her from this quiet refuge — she felt like someone who, after a stormy sea voyage, sets foot on solid land. Over this simple house lay such order, cleanliness, and tasteful charm that no one could enter without thinking that this was a good place to be.

Christiane led her guest into a spacious and cozy room she had prepared for her. There was even a lovely cradle. The little boy was asleep. Christiane took him from his mother’s arms, looked at him silently, kissed his little forehead softly, and laid him down in the cradle. Then she turned to Claudine and said, as two large tears ran down her cheeks, “You cannot imagine the feeling of joy and melancholy with which I once again lay a child in this cradle, which I wetted with my tears the last time it was used. That was many years ago.”

Where there is spiritual kinship, a beautiful, natural relationship arises effortlessly. It wasn’t long before the two women were united like mother and daughter without ever having consciously worked to establish this bond. Both possessed that genuine tone of goodness, the reflection of a noble, refined spirit, which — in both fortune and adversity — is one of the best guardians of domestic life.

Christiane felt rejuvenated and uplifted by the happy circumstance of having such company in her solitude. And indeed, it seemed that a good angel walked beside Claudine. Her resourcefulness and skill in the kinds of work the local villagers were accustomed to having done at Madame Christiane’s home soon brought increased earnings to the household. Her naturally cheerful spirit, her youth, and her beauty won her the sympathy and goodwill of all.

On one occasion, a prosperous farmer’s daughter, who was about to be married, came to consult Claudine on how best to decorate her future home for the festive occasion. Claudine went with her and so tastefully arranged everything — without offending local customs — that the young bride was overjoyed, and all the wedding guests declared they had never seen such a beautiful farmhouse. From that time on, scarcely a wedding or celebration took place in the area without someone turning to little Madame Johansen for advice and assistance.

Gradually, other sources of income emerged. The village pastor had two young daughters who had previously been taught needlework by Madame Christiane. When the parents learned that Claudine could also teach them languages, drawing, and academic subjects, they eagerly seized the opportunity. As word spread about the progress these children made, Claudine received further offers from prominent families in the nearby town to tutor their children. Soon, she was teaching eight young girls every morning and devoted several hours to this small school, which she did not wish to expand.

Thus passed the time, divided between work and the innocent pleasures that only the contented truly appreciate. Such a life — equally distant from want and from excess but warmed by the sunshine of love — is surely the one that comes closest to paradise. Every small addition of comfort or convenience, every little wish fulfilled — things that in more affluent circumstances would seem trivial — marked an epoch in this modest life. For example, an old guitar and a small stroller — the former a gift from the schoolmaster who had kept it for years as a memento of his youth, and the latter a present from the pastor’s wife — were priceless treasures to Claudine.

When she wandered through the countryside, pushing her little boy ahead of her in the stroller, watching him bounce with joy and reach for the birds flying over his head, she felt a true increase in her happiness. And no less so in the evenings when, hidden beneath the shade of the large chestnut tree, she accompanied her sweet songs with the guitar’s tones, enchanting Christiane and even the passing farmhands returning home from work, who would stop to listen.

Through Madame Lyng’s letters, Claudine learned of what had happened in her former circle after her departure — just as they had foreseen. After some time, the merchant received letters from Aunt Malfred informing him of Claudine’s disappearance, something Susanne had previously discovered. But only after the storm had settled and the entire event seemed forgotten did Madame Lyng give in to Susanne’s pleas and inform her of her beloved young lady’s fate and whereabouts — information the good-hearted old woman no longer felt obliged to conceal.

What Madame Lyng did not know — and what Claudine never learned — was that shortly after the merchant’s return, while he still believed that his commands concerning his niece had been fully carried out, he received a letter through the French legation from Lusard. It had been written a long time before and had made many detours amid the chaos of war in which the writer was involved before reaching its destination. A small open letter to Claudine was enclosed.

Merchant Valler forwarded it to Mecklenburg, where he assumed his niece was staying with Aunt Malfred. Angry as he was at Lusard, he did not otherwise reply to the letter but merely told one of the French diplomats who inquired that Claudine was with her aunt in Germany and, as far as he believed, was preparing to make a good marriage. This was also the answer he gave anyone who asked about his beautiful niece. When he soon after learned from Aunt Malfred that his claim was false, he nonetheless let it stand and always avoided speaking about Claudine. Based on the aunt’s information, he imagined her making her living somewhere at the world’s edge (where exactly, he did not know) and therefore, with a clear conscience, consigned Lusard’s letter — which seemed to him meaningless — to the flames.

Claudine, who might have interpreted that letter quite differently from her uncle, spent many solitary hours grieving her painful uncertainty about her beloved’s fate and feelings. But as deeply as she felt this dark aspect of her destiny, it never robbed her of the appreciation for the quiet happiness she now enjoyed. Holding her son in her arms or during peaceful evening walks in intimate conversation with Christiane, she often said that only now, after so much fear and sorrow, did she truly understand the value of life.

In this peaceful monotony, summer and winter passed without emptiness or boredom. The long winter evenings were spent reading books supplied by the pastor to these women, who were respected and cherished by the entire community. When the little boy was put to bed early in the evening, Claudine would read aloud to her motherly friend, and a pleasant, intimate conversation often unfolded from this reading. Their solitude was also frequently interrupted by visitors. The schoolmaster and the steward from a nearby manor—both good, jovial, and reasonably cultured men—were old friends of Madame Christiane. They approached the young, beautiful companion with sincere pleasure and doted wholeheartedly on the lovely little boy.

Thus passed seven years. During this time, Claudine had made countless efforts to obtain news of Lusard, all in vain. In the early years, she never wrote to Madame Lyng or Susanne without begging the latter to inquire through Merchant Valler about her beloved’s fate. But as that avenue was completely blocked, she cleverly devised ways to seek information from the French legation without revealing her identity. Yet this, too, proved fruitless. Weary of her many repeated, unsuccessful efforts, she eventually entrusted this matter—so vital to her—into the hands of Providence, thinking there was no comfort to be found among men.

Meanwhile, little Charles had grown into a healthy, beautiful, and gifted boy. Christiane saw in him the son she had lost early in life. He called her Grandmother, and she fully deserved this name by the love she gave him. Claudine lived solely for her child, whose young soul clung to her with touching, childlike devotion. He possessed an extraordinary curiosity for knowledge and was as calm and attentive during the lessons his mother, at his own request, gave him daily, as he was lively and brave when he romped in the meadow with the big dog, with the lambs and goats, or played soldier with the peasant boys, acting as a valiant leader of their little band.

Claudine was at once a serious teacher and a playful companion in his games. She crafted, following illustrations he had, cartridge pouches, helmets, and similar items for him and his playmates. And when she sat working on these little projects, with Charles standing by her side, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing, leaping with delight, throwing his arms around her neck, and bursting out with words of loving gratitude, the mother was as childishly happy as the child. And when the merry little band marched out onto the meadow in the evening, Claudine would sit by the garden room door watching her Charles shine among the other boys like a young stag among a herd of calves.

One day, Christiane found her young friend sitting with a sorrowful expression, quietly hiding her face among the hanging branches of the chestnut tree. Worried, she said, “My Claudine, you’ve been crying! What’s troubling you? Are you hiding your sorrow from me? Oh, I can guess what it is! I’ve often feared that our quiet, limited life might, over time, become too narrow for your vibrant youth.”

“What are you saying, dear Mother?” exclaimed Claudine. “Oh, quite the opposite! Day and night I thank God, who so kindly guided my wayward steps to you and your peaceful home. No, my sorrowful thoughts are far away—I don’t even know where—and that is my sorrow: that I don’t know. Where is Lusard? Is he dead? Is he faithless? How bitter is the thought that it must be one or the other. When my Charles, as just happened, brings his sweet face close to mine, looks into my eyes, and smiles with that lovely expression around his mouth, suddenly his father’s image stands before me; just so Lusard looked at me, just so was the expression on his beautiful face when enchanting words flowed from his lips. Has death’s cruel hand erased those noble features? How did he die? Did he fall in war? Have enemies trampled over his beautiful form and torn it apart? Did he suffer, lying helpless without a loving hand to care for him, without a friend to receive his last breath? Oh, these thoughts are so terrifying that it seems it would comfort me more to believe him faithless, even in another’s arms, if only he lived and was happy.”

“No, dear child! Believe me, who have known what it means to be forced to despise the one you once loved with your whole soul—death is far less bitter.”

“Despise Lusard? I never could, even if he had broken every vow he made me. And if he lives, perhaps now and then, in some fleeting moment, he might remember poor Claudine, and a feeling of regret and love might touch his heart—for that he loved me, of that I am certain.”

Christiane shook her head. “Ah, dearest Claudine, I fear that is an illusion. Wouldn’t it be better to be able to tell yourself and your son that his father died a hero’s death, fallen bravely in battle for his country, for his ideals?”

Claudine fell silent and, after a pause, said, “Perhaps you are right. It’s strange how your words sound to me like an old, nearly forgotten favorite song. There was a time when I burned with enthusiasm for those ideas of heroism, of dying for one’s country and for freedom. Ah! What has become of those proud hopes of mankind’s rebirth into a nobler life? I no longer understand such things. I never hear them mentioned now except as one might speak of a dreadful earthquake that destroys a region without truly changing its appearance. Yes, I now see many things differently than I did back when I and everything around me was animated by enthusiasm and hope.”

With a natural train of thought, Claudine began to speak of those early days of her youth, glowing with poetry and love, including that evening when, girded with the tricolored sash, surrounded by republican songs, and enveloped in homage and adoration, she first dared to believe herself assured of her beloved’s heart. She cheered herself with the vivid memory of those fleeting enchantments and with the interest her youthful-spirited friend listened to her words. They continued their conversation after the coolness of the harvest evening had driven them from the garden into the warm sitting room. Claudine fetched the aforementioned tricolored sash, which she always kept, and showed it to Christiane.

At that moment, little Charles entered, and at the sight of the bright colors and the golden fringes gleaming on that unfamiliar treasure, he was overcome with admiration and an eager desire to own such an ornament that could truly glorify his military games. With caresses and pleading, he begged his mother to let him have the sash. She replied that he might wear it during his play on holidays and festive occasions and, softly saying, “You are the one most entitled to it,” she tied it around him as a shoulder sash, into which he gravely tucked his toy sword. Then he implored her to play a march on the guitar.

As an echo of the conversation that had just taken place, Claudine sang the “Marseillaise,” accompanying herself on the guitar. Charles, who had heard this song before, joined in the chorus with his full voice, shouting, “Aux armes, Citoyens”, while beating time with his elbow and hand on a little drum, and followed the call “Marchons, marchons” as bravely as he could within the four walls of the little room.

It never occurred to any of them that this little scene had an audience beyond their one spectator—Christiane. But indeed it did. The room was a corner room, one window facing a narrow path that ran between a village pond and the house, separated from the path by a deep ditch. The path was almost unused and overgrown with grass and weeds.

A small hunting party of three had, by fate, been led down this path near the house from which the familiar tones of the “Marseillaise” sounded. The hunters stopped, and one of them exclaimed, “What the devil is that? Is that damned sansculotte nonsense spreading into the villages too?”

Seeing light inside the window, one of them, a light-footed young man, jumped over the ditch and peeked in. “Come,” he said quietly to the others. “There’s something worth seeing here.”

The second jumped after him, but the third, who was somewhat corpulent, had to be helped over the ditch by the other two. Despite all this maneuvering, they maintained utmost silence so as not to be discovered. There they stood, gazing in silent astonishment at the beautiful singer and the lively child with his tricolored sash.

When the “Marseillaise” ended, Claudine played a cheerful waltz on the guitar, to which the little boy danced, moving with exceptional lightness and grace in leaps and spins.

The uninvited spectators now thought it best to quietly slip away, but only after repeated urging were they able to pull the first man away from the scene in which he seemed completely absorbed. He was a young nobleman who had recently come into possession of an estate a mile from where they now stood. The other two were his companions, with whom he gathered a lively company at his manor to replace the amusements of the capital and the court circles to which he had been accustomed.

The three men quietly made their way to the edge of the nearby forest, where their servants held their horses, and only after mounting did they begin to speak as they trotted homeward at an easy pace.

The eldest said with a laugh, “Well! That was an unexpected little comedy we just witnessed. I thoroughly enjoy such little adventures on a hunting trip, and although you two dragged me mercilessly over that ditch—I still feel it in my arms—I don’t regret it. Truly, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a lovely girl as that charming creature who sat there playing the little cittern. Who could they be?”

“They must be French,” replied the second. “A mother, of course, with her daughter and son. That little scamp—with his French national sash! And the way he screamed ‘Marchons, marchons’! I’d have gladly given him a good Danish slap. But the sister—she was damn sweet. What do you say, cousin? Have you lost your tongue?”

“Yes indeed,” answered the baron distractedly, “she is very beautiful.”

The cousin continued: “What the devil is wrong with you? You’re acting downright curious. Hell! How it would amuse me if you had suddenly fallen hopelessly in love with that girl—someone you certainly couldn’t marry—and perhaps had to suffer a great deal of trouble, sighs, and tears to win by other means. It would delight me to my very soul to see you wasting away from love, you miserable rascal, who’s always gotten in our way without ever feeling even a penny’s worth of love! If only I could witness that sweet revenge!”

“Nonsense! You’re talking rubbish,” replied the baron. “But one thing is certain—I am curious to know who those people are. The whole situation seems so strange, so like a fairy tale.”

“Perhaps,” said the eldest, “I can now repay your hospitality by finding that out for you. I know the priest in that parish very well. Tomorrow I shall visit that man of God on this highly reputable errand. Surely he knows his flock, and if he doesn’t, then surely the pastor’s wife does.”

The jovial gentleman kept his word, and by noon the next day he brought the promised news to his two hunting companions. “Now open your ears,” he said, “you’re about to learn something and admire the count for his keen guesses. The family is not French but good Danish folk, born and bred here. The elderly woman is no mother, the beautiful young woman is no maiden, and the half-wild boy is no brother—but the illegitimate son of the young woman, who is a sailor’s widow named Johansen. They live by their handiwork and by giving lessons to some young girls. Among others, the pastor’s daughters have learned all kinds of skills from them, both the older and now the younger ones. In that household, they practically hold a formal speech in praise of these women’s virtue and refinement—but don’t let that deter you. The prospects are good nonetheless, assuming, as your cousin the count claims, you’ve taken a glancing shot on our hunting trip. The wound isn’t fatal—at least, if I know you.”

Here, however, the corpulent gentleman was mistaken, for, judging by his words, the baron was indeed mortally wounded. The winged god who so often mocks poor mortals does not let himself be mocked unpunished, and it seemed that this time he intended to take exemplary revenge on a lover who had dared to toy with his arrows without ever feeling their force. This time, he felt it. The brief sight of Claudine, the sound of her voice, had impressed themselves upon his imagination with an inexplicable power from which he could not free himself.

It’s often said that love at first sight exists only in novels, plays, and other poetic fictions. On the other hand, one also hears the claim—especially from men—that they could never fall in love if they weren’t struck by Cupid’s arrow at first sight. Without venturing into a precise explanation of such an inexplicable subject, one could reasonably assert that the myth of Cupid’s arrow contains a deep truth: that it is always a single moment’s impression that ignites the feeling we call love, whether this moment occurs at the first meeting or later. One could well say that the first meeting—or even just the first glance—has the advantage of springing from an unconscious, sympathetic feeling, a joy in another human being, free of reflection, emerging directly from something shadowy—just as mythology teaches that both Graces and Furies, beauty and horror, are born from the dark, mysterious night. And it’s certainly true that love, as a passion, contains ingredients of both. This was a realization the baron would come to understand in time, without ever having consciously formulated it.

For the first time in his life, he kept his feelings a secret. His noisy and numerous social gatherings became a burden to him, and he often sought to avoid them with all sorts of excuses. In those free hours, he hovered around the little country house that hid the object of his desires. On rare occasions, he managed to see her in the garden or to meet her—mostly accompanied by her son or the elder companion—but a casual greeting in response to his respectful bow was the full extent of these encounters.

He succeeded in making the acquaintance of the pastor’s family. There he enjoyed the advantage of hearing her spoken of, learning about her domestic situation, and hearing her praised. But meeting her there, as he had hoped, was not easily achieved, as both she and Christiane almost never participated in any family gatherings and carefully avoided anything that could lead to intimate discussions about the past.

At last, the baron had an idea that seemed whispered to him by a good spirit. One fine day, he went straight to the house, knocked with firm resolve—though not without a certain embarrassment that suited him exceedingly well. He was received by Christiane, to whom he addressed himself with great politeness, saying that he had been referred to her to have a fine peasant costume made for a girl who was to be married on his estate. He prolonged the discussion with explanations about this outfit, which, for understandable reasons, seemed so puzzling to Christiane that, to the baron’s great joy, she called Claudine for help.

Now, at last, the lovesick man had the happiness of standing face to face with the adored beauty, of seeing her eyes meet his, and hearing her words addressed to him. The commissioned work was agreed upon without much difficulty, and a day was set when the baron could have it fetched—an errand he decided to carry out himself.

When the appointed day came, the baron indeed arrived with a basket in his carriage, intended to hold the very elegant peasant dress that would have made any bride on the estate supremely happy. But upon returning home, he placed the basket in a wardrobe with a rather vexed expression, for this time he had not seen Claudine at all. He could only hear that she was inside, singing with her son—and the existence of this child, his beauty, and Claudine’s obvious deep maternal love had already begun to be a painful thorn in his jealous heart.

A few days later, he appeared again and ordered a pair of embroidered peasant caps, saying he wanted to delight the women on his estate with these gifts for the upcoming harvest festival. He also fetched these himself. Thus, he continued commissioning more and more of these fancy pieces, and the harvest festival had long since passed without the orders stopping. Both the two women and his valet, who saw these items, began to have their own thoughts about the baron’s politeness toward the girls on the estate. But the truth was, the poor gentleman had a large trunk full of glittering peasant attire that had never yet come into use by anyone.

When the thought of how conspicuous his behavior was began to dawn on him, he pondered other methods of approaching the dear house and gaining entry. His first idea was to take a riding tour on a rainy autumn day, knowing that the pastor and his wife were not at home. He cut the strap of his saddle, went into a cobbler’s shop in the village to have it repaired, stabled his horse at the inn, and then, dripping wet, walked to Christiane’s house to ask if he could stay there while his saddle was being fixed. He said he had intended to visit the pastor but had found no one at home. He was received with the utmost politeness, and since the little household was just having tea, they invited him to join their modest meal. Now the ice was broken. The baron was a handsome young man with a charming demeanor, spoiled and neglected in his upbringing, but with no small amount of natural intelligence and the polished manners of high society. The innocent women were far from suspecting any plan to intrude on their modest home; they joined warmly and cheerfully in the conversation, which their guest did his best to keep lively and pleasant for as long as possible. With heartfelt thanks for their hospitality, he asked for permission to visit again. At last, he departed and rode home through terrible weather, but in the best mood in the world.

A timid modesty, also among the new experiences he was making within himself, however, caused him to use the granted permission sparingly. Yet he constantly pondered ways to come to Christiane’s house, at least with as much freedom as the steward and the schoolmaster—two men whom no one would have considered dangerous rivals but who became the objects of the young lover’s secret jealousy.

At Christmas, he had the clever idea of bringing little Charles an entire basket full of Christmas presents. A child’s heart is almost always grateful. The joyful boy clung affectionately to the kind giver, who set up houses, trees, soldiers, etc., to show him how to use the various delights, explained pictures to him, and especially taught him some little games, playing them with him as a demonstration. This was very cleverly calculated to stretch out the visit. Charles rejoiced, and with maternal and grandmotherly interest, both women shared in their beloved boy’s joy and gratitude.

It was Christmas Day. The previous evening had been celebrated in the simple home with humble means. A small Christmas tree still stood in the room. They decorated it anew with fresh apples, cookies, and candles, which were lit in honor of the great increase in Christmas gifts. The baron helped with this task. Meanwhile, the two old family friends also arrived and brought their small offerings. They felt little pleasure in encountering the unexpected, distinguished guest, who, for his part, wished them to the devil. But the ladies of the house had such a wonderful talent for hospitality, combined with such good manners, that everyone soon felt comfortable in their place. The baron, however, showed the newcomers every courtesy, and the good-natured older men soon settled into their usual ways.

The ladies invited the baron to share their meal, and they sat around the modest but neat table in the best of spirits, spending an evening that seemed to each a bright spot in the dark winter.

From that day forward, the baron’s visits became more frequent. He sought in every way to ingratiate himself and seized every opportunity to show attentiveness. He brought books and engravings, beautiful flowers, and other such small pleasures to the quiet household. The modest way in which he managed to hide his passionate feelings beneath the veil of friendship and goodwill gradually earned him the innocent women’s trust and their natural, unforced friendliness. Nor was he unworthy of it, as he was at that moment, both in thought and deed; for although it is true that in the first phase of his infatuation, he had harbored bold and blameworthy plans, the purity and feminine dignity that surrounded Claudine like a halo had long since banished every impure hope.

Throughout that winter, the poor baron suffered the inner struggle between his love and his class prejudices. His friends’ mockery tipped the scales toward one side, while his restless and jealous passion pulled it toward the other.

It had caused quite a stir in the baron’s social circle that he hadn’t been seen in the capital all winter. Rumors of his rustic love affair circulated with many guesses and fabrications. Several of his former social companions visited him from time to time, eager to see his beloved and learn something about this relationship. But apart from the two previously mentioned gentlemen, they all returned home with unsatisfied curiosity, leaving their hospitable host with an unpleasant memory of all the teasing, mocking remarks, and hints he had strained to endure with an indifferent expression.

With the coming of spring, a firm decision finally arose in the baron’s soul. He would offer Claudine his hand and purchase his peace and contentment with the sacrifice of far less essential goods. After making this decision, he felt an inner relief and gradually dared to show the tip of his suitor’s shoe.

It had never occurred to Claudine to see a suitor in the distinguished, wealthy, and at the same time modest, almost bashful man. The small remarks that had occasionally slipped from Christiane about the baron’s secret sighs and glances had been met with laughter by Claudine. But the change that now took place in his tone could not escape her notice, and this discovery made her less free and straightforward toward him. He noticed this with pain, and new worries and doubts arose in his mind.

Did he not dare hope to win her love? Did she love another? Had her deceased husband been so dear to her that her heart had died with him? Who, really, was this fortunate man? No one ever mentioned his name. Who was she herself? No one ever spoke of her family.

Amor is the greatest of all teachers. With a diplomatic finesse the baron had never before imagined himself capable of, he managed a couple of times to steer the conversation to such a topic that, from Claudine’s remarks, he concluded that something like a marriage against her parents' or relatives’ wishes had separated her from her family. It was clear that she had passionately loved her son’s father and still loved him in her unspeakable affection for the child.

A jealousy that could be called mad seized him at this supposed discovery. The deceased rival became more than hated, and little Charles, who approached him with innocent devotion, became increasingly an object of his aversion. Sometimes he would draw the child close to him and stare into his lovely face, searching in the childish features for those of the detested father—and to his torment, imagine that they were, unfortunately, beautiful.

Thus, day by day, he became less master of himself and hardly tried to conceal the violence and turmoil of his heart from Claudine, whose quiet and peaceful existence his stormy presence began to disturb. Not only did she meet him early and late on every one of her favorite paths, but when she, because of this, no longer left the house alone, she still so often saw him standing before her as she sat working under her beloved chestnut tree that she worried she would soon have to abandon this cherished refuge and shut herself in her room. The presence of this burning lover and his hints about the sufferings she caused him instilled in her an involuntary dread.

Naturally, such an unreasonable situation could not last long. In a moment of clarity, the baron finally resolved to boldly draw his lot from the urn of fate. With a carefully composed calm, he approached one day when Claudine had ventured out into the garden.

With an expression of quiet sadness, he said, “You won’t flee from me as from a wild beast, but will grant me a moment’s conversation?”

Claudine indicated a seat beside her under the chestnut tree, which kindly sheltered the two with its lush blossoms, broad leaves, and branches, as though it knew that the coming conversation would be about love.

With a voice that was not free from a slight tremor, the baron said, “What I have on my heart to say to you, you surely already know, for I cannot believe that you have misunderstood the boundless esteem I hold for you. That I love you cannot be news to you. I saw you for the first time without being seen by you, and from that moment I have had no thought but of you. I can truthfully assure you that you are my first love, and you will also be my last. Therefore, I come now with honest words to ask for your hand. Will you become my wife? Everything I have, I lay at your feet. I will be the most loving husband to you and will take care, as duty requires, of your son’s upbringing and your future when I am gone. Tell me, will you make me the happiest man alive?”

With great embarrassment, Claudine replied, “Ah, Baron! Such a striking mismatch would, far from making you happy, more likely stand in the way of your future, which now lies before you with such bright prospects.”

“No, not unless it is with you. I am my own master! I desire no other happiness than to live peacefully and in love.”

Claudine sighed; it was difficult for her to explain her thoughts without wounding the sincere suitor. The baron had seized her hand; she allowed him to hold it and said, with a gentle squeeze, “Believe me, I feel the honor, the enviable nature of the fate you offer me. But all the more, if I were to accept it, I would have to be able to say to myself that I was not unworthy of it. I would need to believe that I could truly contribute to your happiness—but I cannot, for only the deepest love can be the return for yours, and it is no longer within my power to give that to any man.”

The baron sat in silence with a sorrowful expression. After a moment of silence, he said, “But you are free, aren’t you?”

“I am not even certain of that,” Claudine replied, her eyes cast down.

“You imagine, perhaps, that your husband, who disappeared on a sea voyage, might somehow be alive by some miracle. But I ask you to consider how utterly unreasonable such a hope is. After so many years, would no one, neither from the ship’s crew nor anyone else, have any information about him? But at the very least, it should not be impossible to obtain some certainty about his fate. What was the ship’s name? Where was it registered? Who were its owners or shareholders? Tell me all this, and nothing will be spared in the effort to find the truth.”

After a moment’s reflection, Claudine replied, “I could easily avoid answering these questions; I could say, truthfully, that the detailed account of a beloved person’s violent, perhaps agonizing death is so overwhelming that I am too weak to face an image that would torment my imagination day and night. But the devotion you show me gives you the right to my confidence, all the more because what I have to confide to you will likely serve as an antidote to the spell I have unknowingly cast upon you. You, like everyone else, believe that I am a widow, that my son is the fruit of a lawful marriage. It is not so. As a very young, inexperienced girl, I was swept away by the lawless principles of the times, by the recklessness of my surroundings, and by the love of the most charming man—and my own. My son is the fruit of that love. The shame with which I make this confession shows best how fully I recognize my guilt, but still, I must add that I cannot even truly regret the all-sacrificing love that has granted me the bliss of motherhood, which compensates for all I have suffered or might yet suffer for my beloved child.”

This confession did not seem to make an extraordinarily deep impression on the baron. He was silent for a moment, then said, “It has occasionally crossed my mind that a secret of this nature might lie behind your circumstances. But this happy lover—he is dead?”

“I suppose so. At least, his life was exposed to the greatest dangers.”

“So he was either a sailor or a soldier?”

“The latter.”

“But what drove him to leave you under such circumstances?”

“His honor, his duty.”

“From what you’ve told me now, I must assume that he was a foreigner.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“You will not entrust me with his name or your own, for I suspect there is a secret surrounding that as well.”

“I have told you, and will tell you, everything that concerns you—everything that I believe I ought to say. Ask me no more. I am fatherless and motherless; my family would surely not tolerate my claiming their name, as I have broken free from their authority. In order not to give up my child, I have abandoned everything as a fugitive and hide here, thanking God for the refuge He has granted me and for the motherly friend He has let me find. This is all I can say, and more than I shall ever tell the rest of the world.”

The baron looked at her with deep affection and then said, “The integrity that leads you to share this confidence with me only increases your worth in my eyes, and far from being an obstacle to my wishes, these revelations seem to me rather to remove the difficulties. That you are entirely free is now undeniable, for either this fortunate man is dead, or he is faithless, and in either case, the bond that tied you to him is broken. I will not deny that the thought that you once belonged to another is bitter to me and always will be, but I have always regarded you as a widow, knowing you were a mother. And as for morality, I myself have no right to be a strict moralist. The judgment of the world, however, cannot be indifferent to me in my position, but surely it would not be difficult for us together to take measures that would mislead curiosity. I therefore repeat my offer: If you will give me your hand, you will naturally also give me your full confidence, and then your family would likely not refuse to reconcile with my wife and help us conceal the true secret of your past—especially since it must be in your relatives' own interest to keep it hidden. My heart is so firmly set on the hope of having you that nothing in the world can make me willingly abandon it.”

“Ah, Baron! The more kindness you show me, the greater the wrong it would be on my part if I accepted it. I still preserve my first, my only love. I still live in the memory of him. He left me with deep sorrow. We were both young and imprudent; he is unaware of his son’s existence. I swore him faithfulness unto death; if I broke that oath, the thought of him would become a horror to me. If I imagined him alive, I would tremble to meet him and appear before his eyes. A thousand unreasonable possibilities that might show him innocent of his long silence would rise in my imagination; if I imagined him dead, then the hope of meeting him in the hereafter would no longer be my comfort. In dreams, I often see his dear image; I always see him faithful and loving, and when I wake, I feel strengthened by my dream. But if I belonged to another man besides him, then I would wake with remorse and fearful forebodings. No—for me, only the cloistered life is fitting, to which a gracious Heaven has wonderfully led me. I have nothing more to do with the world. Faithfulness is what I have promised God and myself, and when I must one day say to my son: ‘In the eyes of the world, your birth is marked with dishonor; your father’s name you cannot bear’—then I will be able to add: ‘But your mother was faithful unto death to him and to you.’”

The baron remained silent for a long time with a dark expression. At last, he said, “Allow me to say that the feelings you express seem to me exaggerated and do not suit your age, your situation, or real life. How is it possible that you, so young, so beautiful, could continue to live here, hidden and without support? It is a miracle that you’ve managed it for several years already. How much could change in your surroundings? Nor can your son always remain with you. A boy cannot be raised solely at his mother’s side; he must eventually go out into the world and learn something.”

“My Charles is not neglected; he is far ahead of other children his age. Certainly, it will always seem unbearably difficult to live without him. But what the future will bring is hidden from human eyes. A good angel, I believe, has walked beside me in my greatest need and distress; surely it will not abandon me now.”

After this conversation, Claudine hoped she had extinguished the baron’s futile hopes, but here she was mistaken. He persisted in his attempts to persuade her, lowering his demands so far that he was even willing to forego her love and be content with the hope that time and duty would eventually win it for him. There was hardly a permissible means he left untried. He appealed to Christiane to use her influence, but she understood Claudine far too well to meddle in the matter—and the baron only ruined his cause further by trying to tempt her with offers of personal benefit. He was more successful with the pastor’s wife, who, in her well-meaning good nature, allowed herself to be persuaded to act as his advocate with the beloved woman, whose trust the baron otherwise had never abused.

This kind of pursuit became extremely unpleasant to poor Claudine and was made even more so by the gathering of gentlemen whom the pleasant season now drew to the baron’s estate—much to his own discomfort in his current state of mind. These men, mostly young and lively, were driven by curiosity and mischief to track down the baron’s much-discussed love story, and they swarmed around the area, hoping to satisfy their curiosity. Despite Claudine’s utmost caution in hiding herself when she noticed these unusual wanderers, it happened one early morning that, as she ventured a little outside her house, she suddenly found herself face-to-face with a hunting party. To her horror, she recognized among them an acquaintance from her former social circle, who greeted her with a surprised yet friendly expression. Like a frightened deer glimpsing the hunter from her quiet refuge, she rushed back into her home, her heart pounding so violently that she could scarcely tell Christiane the reason for her alarm. That evening, when she said goodnight to her Charles and he wrapped his little arms around her neck, tears rose to her eyes, and she prayed to the child’s guardian angel to shield him from all prying eyes. The events of the past had instilled in Claudine a dread of losing her son that was almost pathological. Even though she told herself that, in her current situation, she was independent of her relatives, it still seemed to her that persecution awaited her if her refuge were discovered.

In the solitude of the night, a thousand troubling thoughts crossed her weary mind. From time to time, she had heard news from her uncle’s household through Madame Lyng and Susanne, with whom she maintained a correspondence—not lively, but not entirely extinguished either. She knew that Grossier Valler had remarried some years ago to a wealthy woman of English descent and now kept what was called a grand house. The old Susanne, now retired, was living with her cousin, the good Madame Lyng. Her repeated inquiries about Ferdinand had only recently been answered with the news that his father, the justice councilor, was now as pleased with him as he had formerly been displeased, since he now had the joy of seeing his son well established and married in Geneva.

In a sleepless night, the faded images of times past passed before her waking senses with renewed vividness. Claudine tried to console herself with the memory of her uncle’s character and found reasons for both comfort and fear in her knowledge of him. On the one hand, she comforted herself with the thought that the merchant, in his entirely new domestic situation and surroundings, would surely not seek out a niece who could do little to flatter his vanity. Moreover, he was too principled to trouble her unnecessarily and too frivolous to truly concern himself with her fate. On the other hand, his immense vanity and worldly mindset would likely find great satisfaction in the connection of his relative with a man like the baron. If the baron continued down the path he had begun, he would find a powerful ally in the merchant. The thought of her stern and undoubtedly embittered Aunt Malfred was even more terrifying. “Ah,” sighed the anxious Claudine, “an ominous feeling tells me that my days of peace are disturbed, that troubled times are near.”

She rose from her bed and looked, by the moonlight shining into the room, at little Charles, whose cradle stood at the foot of her bed. He lay in deep sleep, his small hands folded over his chest. Reverently, the young mother folded her own hands and said, “He has fallen asleep with his evening prayer upon his lips. A comforting feeling fills me at this sight. Oh You, who let a ray of Your divinity fall into my confused soul when, in that solemn hour, I brought my fatherless child to Your sanctuary and dedicated him to You, and promised You to be a faithful mother—You know I have kept my promise. Lord, whom all good spirits serve, send an angel to guard this innocent one in this quiet refuge, which no evil words or feelings have polluted but which is consecrated to You and to love.”

Anyone in distress who can pray a prayer like this with a clear conscience will surely experience, as Claudine did, that the angel is already standing by their bedside, bringing peace and rest.

In the mornings, the Baron’s guests usually went their own ways, and during these hours, he often snuck away to the quiet home where he could generally expect—especially on warm days—to find Claudine beneath the dense shade of the chestnut tree.

When he arrived on the day in question, his face bore a strange expression that foretold something unusual. After a few indifferent remarks, he said, “An incident—not any spying on my part—has revealed to me half the secret you would not entrust to me. An old acquaintance of yours met you yesterday and immediately recognized you. He mentioned your name to those who were with him, and when they came home to me, I was besieged with questions, which, of course, I declined to answer. The one who claimed to know you and your family further asserted that you were married in Mecklenburg to a wealthy merchant; whether you are a widow or by what twists of fate you ended up here in such a humble position, he was most eager to learn.”

Claudine replied seriously, “Yes, unfortunately! I had suspected that something like this would be the result of that meeting.”

“You see then yourself, dearest friend, how unlikely it is that you can remain hidden from your family for much longer. Permit me, then, to formally ask for your hand from your relatives. All misunderstandings and difficulties will be smoothed over when I may step forward as the one who has the right to protect you. There will then be nothing for you to fear.”

“Nothing—except myself, my conscience, my inner peace. You are too righteous a man not to understand that such fear is the worst of all.”

“Then will you not reproach yourself for having made me unhappy? Have I deserved that from you? I dare say—without violating delicacy—that, in order to win you, I have not shrunk from sacrifices that few in my position would be capable of making. And as a reward for such great love, you consider everything—except me.”

“Forgive me, Baron! You view our relationship from an incorrect perspective. As a reward for your kindness to me, I have given you my trust, my friendship, if you are willing to accept it. That I cannot give you more, I will never reproach myself for, as I have never wished nor tried to awaken feelings in you that I could not return. My reasons and my thoughts I have explained to you so often that I shall not weary us both by repeating them. Therefore, I beg you, let us forever abandon this subject. And if my fate truly weighs upon your heart, then grant me the quiet peace which is all I desire from the splendor of the world. Do not disturb my existence and that of my child by exposing us to the world’s attention. Believe me—if the love with which you honor me has caused you unpleasant hours, it has not spared me from anxiety and distress either. Let all this be finished. Be to me a friend, whom I shall never cease to cherish dearly, and let this be the final conversation we have on a matter where these, in truth, are my last words.”

The Baron sprang up. He was pale. Claudine was terrified at the sight of him. “Good!” he said with trembling lips. “Excellent! I have nothing more to say—and indeed have said far too much. I shall not trouble you or yours any longer.”

With these words, he rushed away as though pursued by demons. And indeed, it could be said he was—for passion had robbed him of the freedom of his soul. As soon as he arrived home, he sat at the dinner table with his friends. They looked at him with astonishment. He affected such wild cheerfulness that they thought he must be drunk or burning with a high fever. Nevertheless, he had so much champagne and other fine wines brought up from his cellar and toasted his guests so heartily that most soon could not keep pace with him. Immediately after the meal, he rushed outside—and strangely enough—took the path toward the village, which he had previously sworn with the most dreadful oaths never to set foot in again.

Near the village was a steep hill, the edge of which hung over the sea. Here he stopped, threw himself down in the grass, and surrendered to his despair. In his agitated mind, he felt his honor insulted, his heart wounded, and he saw himself mistreated, rejected, and cast aside for another. “If only I had him here—the hated, vile seducer! I would clasp him and throw myself down with him into the sea. I could certainly do it—if he is dead, then I could meet him beyond; that too would be revenge. Oh, if only I could meet him!”

At that very moment, the Baron heard a small voice behind him say, “Here I am!”

He turned around and saw little Charles, just as he had first seen him, wearing his tricolored sash and a toy rifle slung over his shoulder. The enraged man seized the smiling boy in his arms and cried, “You are sent to me by hell itself!”

The child grew frightened at his angry face and said, “Let me go!”

“No!” he shouted. “You look like your father! And surely those are his hated colors you’re decked in. I’ll throw you into the sea—then you can greet him if he is dead, and accuse him before God if he lives.”

Charles began to cry. “Let me go!” he cried. “You’re scaring me! I’ll complain to God about you, because it’s a sin to frighten me. I’ve always liked you. Let me go! I want to go home to my mother.”

The Baron released him and threw himself down on the ground, his rage dissolving into violent sobs. Charles made a movement as though to approach the weeping man, but the Baron gestured with his hand for him to go away and said angrily, “Hurry! Run home!”—and the startled and frightened child ran away from the dangerous place.

The unhappy lover lay for a long time on the cliff, weeping out his double intoxication. When he had somewhat composed himself, he shuddered inwardly at the dreadful power passion had exerted over his soul. He returned home and, at the evening table, announced to his friends that he would leave the next morning for Copenhagen to settle some matters, as he had decided to embark on a journey abroad.

Claudine sat alone under her tree in the garden. She felt uneasy. The Baron’s wild, pale expression as he left had made an anxious impression on her mind; she could not explain her fearful premonition. Then little Charles came running toward her at full speed, and with a flushed face and tearful eyes, he threw himself into her arms and humbly begged forgiveness for having, disobedient to her orders, climbed the cliff by the sea. “Dear Mama,” said the child, “I’ve never done it before and will never do it again, but I saw the Baron sitting up there, and then I thought I could go up to him—but how strange he was!”

And now he told in detail and truthfully the scene that had taken place there. Claudine could hardly conceal the inner turmoil she felt at this account. She held her son tightly in her arms and could only weakly scold him for his disobedience—and certainly more out of fear than punishment, she ordered him that neither that evening nor the next day should he go further than the meadow outside the house. Charles knew well that pleading and arguing would not change his sentence; he sat patiently at his mother’s side and seemed thoughtful.

Finally, he said, “The Baron said I should send greetings to my father, that I should complain about my father to God—what did he mean by that? Isn’t my father dead at sea? Grandmother told me so. Tell me about my father! You never do. Wasn’t he good?”

“Yes, very good.”

“Tell me, is he dead at sea?”

Claudine, moved and uneasy, answered, “No, he fell in the war.”

“Fell in the war?” cried Charles. “That makes me happy—I like that! Then he must have been a brave man?”

“Ask me no more now. When you are older, I will tell you about your father—now you wouldn’t understand me.”

The boy sat quietly for a while. Then he suddenly sprang up with great cheerfulness, grabbed his drum, and loudly began singing the Marseillaise—a signal that was immediately answered by his rural playmates, who, with their good Zealand peasant dialect, sang the French chorus that their little leader had taught them. Like a true army from the early days of the Republic, the small troop, either in wooden shoes or barefoot, rushed to their general and joined him on the meadow.

Claudine was deeply affected by the child’s story. “How close was that disaster,” she said to herself, “the disaster that of all things would have crushed me the most! Oh God! How my conscience reminds me of that dark hour when I myself—like that madman—wanted to throw myself into the sea with this child and end his precious life with my own, to stand before my judge above as a criminal, to meet Lusard as the murderess of his son! I shudder at the thought! Had that misfortune struck me, as it so nearly did today, then the punishment, harsh as it would have been, would still have been just. Yes, truly, this is no dream—a higher hand protects my innocent son. Should not this thought strengthen my sinking courage? But at this moment it fails me. How I tremble to think of this half-insane man who constantly hovers around my quiet refuge! I feel so forsaken. I feel what it truly means for me and my poor child to be without a protector.”

Scarcely had Claudine in her quiet mind spoken these words when, unexpectedly, a protector appeared. A carriage, driven by a postillion, stopped nearby; a man jumped out and hurried toward the garden gate, and before Claudine could move away, he ran toward her, seized her in his arms, pressed her to his chest, and could barely say through his deep emotion, “Claudine! Do you not recognize me?” And with indescribable joy, Claudine greeted her childhood friend and relative Ferdinand Valler.

When the first emotions of their reunion had calmed, Ferdinand said, “At last I have found you, after a long and fruitless search. It has been nearly nine years since we last saw each other. How much has changed in our circle and in the whole world in that time! From my early letters from abroad, you probably know that in Paris I made a friend of a young Swiss. When he returned home to his country, I accompanied him at his request. His father and he were the heads of a large industrial enterprise. With the help of my language skills and through my friend’s kindness, I first became an employee and later a partner in the firm—and what was even better, I became a son and brother to the family by marrying my friend’s charming sister. And here you see your once reckless cousin, now—without boasting—a diligent businessman, a loving husband, and father to a little three-year-old daughter. I can truthfully assure you that in all these changes of fortune, I have never forgotten my beautiful little cousin who shed so many tears at our farewell. I asked about you in every one of my letters, and it was not long before I received the reply that you were married in Mecklenburg to the German merchant I had once seen at Uncle’s house. I must admit this news displeased me. But now, as I took advantage of an opportunity to revisit my homeland, I made a point of traveling to Copenhagen via Doberan and visited a country estate a few miles away that was named to me as the merchant’s summer residence. I had myself announced to the lady of the house and was utterly surprised to stand before a stranger. Fortunately, Aunt Malfred was there, from whom, regarding you, I learned little except that she was angry with you. Things went no better in Copenhagen until I was finally directed to old Susanne. From her, and even more from the lovely lady with whom she lives, I received a detailed account of everything. Oh, my dear Claudine! With deep concern, I heard what you have suffered, and with joy, how you have endured your hard trial. You have remained true to yourself. Your youthful enthusiasm—stirred and nurtured by the spirit of the times, by love, alas, even by my own exalted outbursts—you have remained faithful to in a nobler way than time and the rest of us, who lived in its beautiful promises that it did not keep. With you, these ideas have been refined into a true freedom that cannot be broken by adversity or by fear of people into denying your fidelity and love. Oh, I could throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness for the part I played in your fate—if I did not also feel, to my comfort, that your victory is greater than your misfortune!”

With deep emotion, Claudine listened to the faithful friend’s heartfelt praises, which lifted her in her own humble eyes. “Through our mistakes,” he said, “we often learn to turn our minds to the higher and better.”

Ferdinand held both her hands in his and said softly, “Everything can still turn out well. Perhaps it may yet be granted me to be an instrument for your restoration, as I was once for your misfortune.”

In an anxious voice, Claudine asked, “Do you know nothing at all about your friend Lusard?”

“What?!” he replied. “You don’t know...”

Claudine interrupted him, placing her hand over his mouth. “Oh, hush! Don’t speak the word aloud! A thousand times I have said it to myself, yet I still tremble to hear it.”

“What do you mean?”

In a barely audible voice and turning away her face, she whispered, “That he is dead.”

“Dead? No, not at all! Don’t you know that half a year ago he settled here in Denmark? In Jutland, on his uncle’s estate, which he inherited?”

Claudine stared at him without answering.

Ferdinand continued, “Do you not remember how often he spoke of his uncle, the emigrated Duc de Montalbert? That rigid aristocrat, whose anger pained his nephew so deeply, let his bitterness die with the fall of the Republic, met his nephew in Paris, reconciled with him, and named him his heir. After that, he was kind enough to depart for the homeland from which there is no emigration.”

“Has Lusard never written to you in all these years?” Claudine asked timidly.

“Only a couple of times. In the turmoil of war, there isn’t much peace or opportunity to write letters, but as he left Paris to travel to his new estate, he sent me a few lines through a countryman heading to Geneva. I am going to visit him and hope to bring him back to you with greater joy than when I brought him to you on the bridge by the fisherman’s hut. Do you remember that day?”

“Oh, Ferdinand! You frighten me!”

“How so? Do you not love him anymore?”

“Oh, how can you ask! But alas, I do not even know myself… The wealthy, distinguished Montalbert seems so foreign to me. It is no longer the young Lusard, with that loving, melancholic expression—the man who faced an uncertain fate. He has forgotten me.”

“Who says he has forgotten you? He has, like me, been misled by false information. He believes that you are unfaithful.”

“Consider it, Ferdinand! If he still loved me, would he—would any man—be restrained from seeking certainty about the fate of a girl who had entrusted her honor to him, if he still loved her? No, let me be dead to him.”

“Claudine! Do you forget your son? Should his father not know of his existence? Would you deprive your child of his father’s name, his rightful place?”

“Oh, Ferdinand! My poor boy has no right to his father’s name or inheritance according to the laws of men. If there is no love, then there is also no right—neither for him nor for me. And I want no restoration that I should receive from any hand other than that of love. Put yourself for a moment in my place! Remember those days when Lusard loved me so warmly, so dearly. No one knows this better than you, our shared and only confidant. Imagine if now a sense of duty and honor brought him back to the mother of his son, whom he no longer loves, and I had to see him cold and disheartened, sighing over the bond that now stands in the way of his future plans and desires! Imagine that! No, I cannot degrade myself so deeply; then, indeed, I would mourn my youthful mistakes. In my humble condition, I am content. I live peacefully, in the shadow of love and friendship. And as for my son’s future, I will comfort myself with the thought that the noblest, the most distinguished men have come from humble, often poor homes.”

Their conversation was now interrupted by Christiane, who returned from a visit to the village, bringing little Charles with her, who had run out to meet her. With heartfelt warmth, as if greeting an old friend, Christiane welcomed her young friend’s relative, and the little boy greeted, for the first time in his life, a family member.

Ferdinand was on his part delighted by the child’s beauty and charm. “Ah, Claudine,” he said, “this sash your son is wearing—I recognize it, and when I think of that evening when I first saw it…”

He broke off and said to Charles, “Can you also sing the Marseillaise?”

The little boy brightened at this question and immediately started singing his favorite song. Ferdinand embraced him, moved, and said, turning to Claudine, “Oh, what power memories have over the soul! This song, this sash, your dear face, and what your child’s features recall to me—they bring me wholly back to the days of my youth.”

A joyful celebration was held that evening in the simple home. Its inhabitants did everything within their means to show their guest how much happiness his presence brought them. With feminine inventiveness, they arranged a cozy sleeping chamber for him for the coming night, and the rustic supper table, in all its simplicity, was charming and pleasant.

After little Charles had gone to bed, the two friends and their guest sat in intimate conversation late into the night. With as much freedom as if they were alone, the two relatives resumed the thread of the conversation they had begun earlier, with Christiane sitting as the gentle, conciliatory mediator between their differing views. In the end, it was decided that Ferdinand must solemnly promise to first explore Lusard’s true feelings before speaking to him of his former beloved. “Yes, I promise you,” said Ferdinand, “I recognize you also in your noble pride. Under no circumstances shall your friend and cousin undertake anything that could wound you or disturb your peace. But whatever happens, you shall always have in me a faithful brother, and your son shall not be fatherless as long as I live.”

The next morning, Ferdinand set out on his journey to Jutland, leaving Claudine in painful suspense. Christiane understood her state of mind and sought, wisely and lovingly, to comfort her. Claudine said, “How happy I have been these many years by your side, my second mother, the confidante of my thoughts! From where have they now come—these restless, passionate feelings that have overtaken my once peaceful mind? How quietly my youthful love lived within my soul! How fervently I prayed to God for Lusard’s life! And now, knowing that he lives, that only a short distance separates us, it feels as though the old passion has awakened inside me. With deep sorrow, I imagine myself forgotten by him, with jealousy, that another may have taken my former place in his heart. I long for him and tremble at the thought of seeing him again. I count the days until Ferdinand’s return and feel as though I might die from the anxiety of reading my fate in his face or hearing it from his lips. I do not recognize myself. I thought I was cured of my youthful delusions. I am ashamed before God and before your eyes.”

“Not before mine,” answered Christiane. “My eyes have shed tears like yours; I know these torments of uncertainty. But with certainty, calm will gradually return,” she added as she brought Charles, who had just entered, over to his mother and laid his little head against her breast, “and comfort is near.”

The two friends felt more bound together during these anxious days than ever before, and they promised—no matter what might happen—never to part from one another.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand arrived at Lusard’s estate. He entered unannounced via a path that led through the garden up to the house. The doors stood open to a garden room, from which a few steps led down into the garden, and right inside the doors sat a man at a table full of papers and books, so engrossed in reading that he did not notice Ferdinand standing nearby, observing his old friend, whose appearance seemed changed, marked by the traces of troubles and sorrows on his handsome features. But these dark impressions vanished the moment Lusard greeted his welcome guest with unfeigned joy and surprise. The entire quiet, desolate manor came to life, and from the large hunting dog up to the old steward, it was clear that this visit was a pleasant interruption to their accustomed solitude.

Naturally, in their very first conversations, the two friends exchanged news of the changes in their lives during the long period they had been apart. The great transformations in the political world, which had played a larger or smaller role in their destinies as well, also became a topic of discussion. Ferdinand still clung to his old fondness for republican ideas and referred to Carnot’s famous maxim: “Que César soit grand, mais que Rome soit libre”, and believed himself certain that his friend had settled outside his homeland out of dissatisfaction with the new empire.

“No,” said Lusard, “I have nothing against seeing the republic transformed into a monarchy. It has gradually become clear to me that France, least of all countries, can be a republic. Republican virtues presuppose a certain firmness, a hardness in will and manners, that does not suit a country which nature itself has destined for refinement, for luxury, without which it cannot sustain itself. Are not the most important products of our soil those which elsewhere are considered luxuries—wine, silk, and so on? There is always a certain sympathy between a country’s nature and its people. Ours is, by its natural character, soft and light like our silk, strong and robust like our wine—it ferments, to be sure, like the wine, but it is not cruel and demonic, as it showed itself during the Revolution. There it stepped outside its natural state and was not aware of itself. Oh my God! In the days when we two lived together, people everywhere were thrilled by the great drama we were enacting, whose first act had been as beautiful as the following were abominable. But you can believe me that both I and my fellow countrymen in our circle longed quietly in our hearts for a hero who could slay the thousand-headed Hydra that, in various forms, tore apart our country and our hearts. He came, this hero. How we all followed his victorious banner with indescribable enthusiasm and love! Each of us would have felt blessed to die for him; I myself felt as though in heaven when he once praised me and singled me out in front of the army. But now, after so much terror, so much noble, brave blood spilled, even now the goal has not been achieved; the ideas for which we have suffered and sacrificed so much have not triumphed. Peace and freedom are still far away. Despotism reigns under different forms, and I confess that, tired and yearning for independence, I have gladly taken refuge in this quiet sanctuary in your little peaceful homeland.”

“But,” said Ferdinand, “does this silence and solitude not seem empty to you after such an eventful life?”

“Yes and no! I do indeed feel that something is missing here. From these flowers out on the terrace, which lie drooping on the ground because there is no loving hand to tie them up, to this room, where anyone can recognize the household of a bachelor, one notices the absence of that sense of beauty and life that I love and would gladly see around me, but which I do not know how to create. And even more, I miss a friend like you, with whom I can speak freely and intimately.”

“You lack a charming wife,” said Ferdinand, pleased to steer the conversation onto the topic he had intended. But Lusard only shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.

Thus it went on for several days. Claudine’s name was not mentioned. It seemed to Ferdinand as if Lusard deliberately avoided touching upon that subject. Finally, one evening, when Ferdinand returned from a tour of the surrounding area, he found the dinner table set in an arbor in the garden. There were candles on the table, and some flowers were arranged in the shape of two wreaths. Lusard greeted his guest with an expression that combined melancholy and pleasure, entirely recalling to Ferdinand the friend of his younger days.

When the serving attendant had left them at dessert, Lusard said, “Tell me! Does this little decoration I’ve arranged awaken no memory in you? I wanted to hold a commemoration in honor of one of the most beautiful evenings of my life, which I spent in your company at that always dear country house on the Strand Road. Do you remember it? This evening is beautiful, just like that one. The moon shines through the leaves, as it did then. The candles burn quietly here on the table. The flowers lie fragrant beside us, but what a difference! They lie scattered, not bound into lovely wreaths; we cannot crown our heads with them—they fall apart like the blooming hopes of youth. Back then, we were three! One place is empty.”

His voice betrayed his inner emotion. He filled Ferdinand’s glass and his own and said, “In memory of your cousin, the captivating Claudine!”

Gladly, Ferdinand raised his glass and clinked it against his friend’s. After a brief pause, he said, “So you have not quite forgotten Claudine?”

“No,” replied Lusard with a very altered expression. “It was indeed she who forgot me first, and very soon.”

“What! Have you never inquired about her? Never written?”

“Ah, I must laugh at myself, who, God knows how, has this evening fallen back into old memories of love. But since we have come to this topic, I feel I owe you an explanation—indeed, a plea for forgiveness for the wrong I did to your charming relative. I have indeed recognized—and still recognize—the lack of control over my passion that led me to ingratiate myself into the heart of an innocent girl and demand loyalty from her to a wandering soldier whose life and fate hung by a thread. All of this I told myself with remorse and deep anxiety when I had to leave Claudine, whom I loved—yes, adored—with a rapture that neither Rousseau nor his Saint-Preux would have been ashamed of.

I was immediately, upon my return, thrown back into the tumult of war, yet I sought every opportunity to get news of my beloved. I wrote to your uncle and to her but received no reply. Not even a year after our separation had passed when I learned that she had married in Germany—precisely the man concerning whom she had sworn to me that neither coercion nor persuasion would ever cause her to break her loyalty to me.

I was young and in love. When I received this news, I was in despair, and it suited me perfectly that the very next day we were to engage in battle. I threw myself into the fire of combat as one seeking death. But as often happens, the bullets mocked me, though they did not entirely spare me; for, covered in wounds, I was carried from the battlefield and lay gravely ill for a long time. Such a long and painful illness helps reason reclaim its rights with admirable strength, and little by little, I came to feel consoled by the thought that Claudine’s fate had led her into a safe harbor from the uncertain sea upon which my love had lured her.

Nevertheless, I can say without lying that I have never forgotten her. Several times there have been discussions of marriage plans proposed by my family or other friends—or even brief inclinations from my own side—but always, Claudine’s image placed itself between me and the intended bride, and immediately she seemed to fade beside the memory of my first love. I have felt the truth of what one of our songs says: that spring, which always returns for nature, never returns for lovers.”

Ferdinand now said seriously, “But suppose these reports about Claudine’s marriage were false. Suppose she were still free?”

“Impossible! Your own uncle…”

“No matter! He himself may have been deceived, or may have had his reasons for deceiving others, to avoid the malicious judgment of the world. Suppose Claudine, abandoned and without support, had gone out into the wide world like a poor fugitive to seek refuge, with your child in her arms?”

Lusard interrupted him, seized him by the arm with vehemence, and cried with trembling lips, “My child! For God’s sake! Oh Ferdinand! If this is a joke, then it is far too cruel.”

Ferdinand continued, undisturbed, “With your child in her arms—your child—whom she would not abandon, whom she has supported all these years with her own work, raised as a model of motherly devotion, of loyalty to the reckless lover who, based on a false rumor, forgot what he owed to a girl whose love he had misused.”

Lusard sprang up, and in his agitation, nearly threw himself to the ground, grabbing Ferdinand by both shoulders. “Do you mean to kill me?” he cried. “Are you telling me a fable?”

“What will you say if it is the truth?”

“What will I say? Take me to her feet! Help me beg for her forgiveness! Make me the happiest of all men!”

And so said, so done. Not many days later, as Claudine sat alone and sorrowful under the chestnut tree, she saw Ferdinand peek his head over the garden gate—and before she could collect herself, Lusard was at her feet. He bowed deeply to the ground, took the hem of her dress, pressed it to his lips, and exclaimed with tearful eyes, “This is how I said farewell, and this is how I return—adoring you more than ever. Can you forgive me?”

Anyone who has ever experienced such a reunion knows that it is, like a foretaste of distant bliss, expressed in words no tongue can utter.

Ferdinand had immediately stepped away and hurried to find little Charles, just as he saw him coming over the meadow, leading his small band of play-soldiers, wrapped in his tricolored sash, loudly singing the Marseillaise, with the chorus echoing after him as best they could. Lusard jumped up at the unexpected sound of the song. Claudine silently pointed with her hand at the little commander. The overjoyed father ran toward his son. He seized Claudine’s arm, pressed it to himself, and said, “Ah! I know this sash. Oh! These colors, these tones—they once inspired me and thousands with me, but never have they made my heart beat as it does in this moment.”

Part Two. The Present.

In the summer of 1844, fifty years had passed since that summer day when young Claudine stood on the pier by the fishing village, her anxious heart staring out over the sea after the boat that carried her wounded lover. Not far from the magnificent old manor where these lovers had lived as the most loving and happiest married couple, the two great chestnut trees by the church wall had for ten summers shed their blossoms over the white marble stone that covers the grave where they rest, united in death as in life. Their son, Charles Lusard de Montalbert, had, after many years of absence, returned home to his ancestral estate just a few weeks ago.

He sat alone in his mother’s favorite room, completely absorbed in reading old letters, which he, once finished with the last one, carefully gathered and placed into a large folder, tied it together, and stored it away in a cabinet in the room. Then, with a serious expression, he paced the floor in silence for a long time. Finally, as if waking from a dream, he stopped and let his gaze wander over all the objects that surrounded him. It was a clear spring evening, and the setting sun cast its red rays through the tall windows into the cozy room. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace, the doors wide open.

Lusard took a deep breath and said to himself, “How strangely I feel! This little retreat, where I so often sat in close conversation with my mother, seems both pleasant and melancholic to me. Everything in here is just as she left it. How strange that these many letters have carried me back into times long past—some even from before my earthly existence! With her characteristic devotion, my dear mother preserved these kind words from relatives and friends. How they have moved me—those brief, few, but so loving lines from my father’s hand during the first days of his longing love! And those lovely, simple letters from Eleonore, filled with kindness and goodwill, and even more those from him, from Ferdinand, whose charming personality I still clearly remember from my childhood! I almost feel as if I long for these relatives now covered by the grave—and for relatives in general, for blood of my blood. There is something to what is said about the voice of blood. I feel far too alone in the world. Yet let me not be ungrateful. Here comes my faithful friend, my good Johanes Milner. I hear his steps in the other rooms and at this very moment welcome the sound with joy.”

Lusard now opened the door to a man with a jovial and engaging face. He shook his hand, led him to a chair by the fireplace, offered him a cigar, lit one himself, and sat down opposite him.

After a few remarks about the weather and the like, Milner said, “Well! Haven’t you yet taken a closer look at my arrangements here on the estate and gone over my accounts for all the long time you’ve been away?”

“Yes, now I have seen and reviewed everything, and I was just about to come to you this evening to thank you. It is true, I cannot thank you enough. You have not only managed the estate as a highly capable man in every way, but you have also so thoroughly adopted my thoughts and views that I am truly reminded of our conversation the day before my departure. No one could have carried out our plans except an intimate friend. While I roamed the world and abandoned my post, you acted, worked, and fulfilled my duties. When the good people here on the estate welcomed me so warmly and kindly upon my return, it was certainly not in jest when I said that it was you they should thank.”

“Oh, enough of that! As the saying goes, it’s no great feat to cut a broad strap from someone else’s hide. Was it not you yourself who prescribed everything that has happened here, all the improvements? Did you not begin implementing them during the years you managed the estate in your father’s time? And did not he himself lay the foundation? I still remember how the pastor, my late father, and the other men around here spoke of the noble lord. That was back in the days when the two of us rode to school in Horsens and back every day, and I envied you your little gray pony.”

“That’s not true! You never envied me anything. You have been to me the treasure for which one can never thank God enough—a faithful friend, as the old songs say, a childhood friend whom no upheaval in life has deprived me of.”

“Every word you say is a true comfort to my heart. But if only I had your eloquence, then I would surely ask which of us owes the other more. When I came home here ten years ago from Zealand, having abandoned my livelihood in righteous anger against my superiors, when I sat there with wife and child and empty hands, and my relatives and friends turned away from me and called me a restless head, it was you who came to meet me, gave me fields and land, built me a lovely house, and made me a happy man. What would have become of me if I had been left to wander in the mood I was in back then?”

“And what would have become of me if I had been left to wander in my state of mind back then, when both my parents died so soon after each other, and this house, this garden, and this region seemed so melancholy to me that I could not bear to look at them? Had my good fortune not brought you here, you, in whose hands I could entrust my welfare and that of my tenants, then I could not have left with a clear conscience, and even less stayed away for nine whole years; and had I remained here, I believe I would have wasted away from sorrow and loathing of the entire world.”

“Yes, well, surely it refreshes the mind to fly out into God’s wide world. The swallow and the stork, who always travel, always seem to be in good spirits. But if it had been my lot to see the world, I would have preferred the journey you made in your youth to Paris with your parents over the long travels you have just made alone in those Greek, Oriental, and American lands, which to me must seem somewhat dead, somewhat ruined, something one might grow melancholy from seeing. But of course, you’ve always been enamored with ancient glory and the Greek heroes, from Prince Hector to Lord Byron.”

“Yes, you see! My youthful desires stepped in like old friends to comfort me in my sorrowful state, and since nothing prevented me from fulfilling that old inclination, I took up the pilgrim’s staff like so many others who seek peace in toil and change. Like a true pilgrim, I also visited the Holy Sepulchre.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, I was in Palestine, on the Mount of Olives, with sincere devotion, but I did not for that reason renounce my old love for the ancient world, nor did I neglect the classical lands. I had not intended to be abroad so long, but l’appétit vient en mangeant—appetite comes with eating—the one place leads to the next, just as one study leads to another. You meet like-minded travelers, you join them on their wanderings, and thus I came to South America, a land whose acquaintance I would not want to have missed, and in short, that’s how the time passed, much to my own surprise.”

“Well then, thank God, we have you back safe and sound now. But how will you, after so much activity, adapt to our quiet life here at home?”

“Oh! Now I myself long for peace.”

“But you are so alone here in your house.”

“Ah yes, that is true.”

“Do you know what my wife said last night after you left us? ‘If I could live to see our good friend and lord’s wedding, I think I would be as happy as I was last year on our only daughter’s wedding day.’ You laugh and shake your head. But isn’t it wisely said by my wife? What prevents you from finding a charming, good girl and making both her and yourself happy?”

“Do you remember the words that so often occur in Ossian when speaking of a hero who has fallen far from home? ‘The day of his return home has passed,’ it says. Meaning: there is a day written in the stars when he was to return home; it has passed unused. The same has happened with my marriage. The star-written day for my wedding has passed.”

“Well then, I know this much—you are no old man, and you are still a handsome man. My wife repeated that very thing many times last night.”

“Well, then, I suppose I’m carrying about half a century on my thinning hair. Still, I won’t be affected and claim to feel like an old man. I have no desire to give that satisfaction to the young lions of our day, who at twenty years old are older than I am. But alas, the day of love has also passed. My father used to sing an old French song about spring, ‘qui ne revient plus pour les amants, comme il revient pour la nature’—‘which returns no more for lovers, as it returns for nature,’ and I believe that song is right.”

“But good heavens! Must it really be in life’s springtime, in one’s inexperienced youth, that one must choose the person who is to walk the entire path of life with us?”

"No, far from it. But it has gone with me as it has with so many others. In youth, one seeks adventure, grabs it with delight, and lets it go with contempt because it was only adventure without truth; and when one finally finds a pearl from a distant land, someone else has already claimed it. Meanwhile, time passes. Everyone takes someone, but I take no one and get, like others who do not, none. Yes, you certainly see those of whom Baggesen says:

‘They wisely thought so: In want of an Aphrodite, One must settle for a Charite, And thank God that one can get her.’

But for me, it has gone like this:

‘So humble, modest, and discreet, Not even Eginhard the scribe was,’

and to put it briefly: That is my story."

“Yes,” replied Milner, “now we laugh; but I still cannot help, in many an hour, asking myself with a worried mind: Into whose hands will all this one day fall? Who will preserve what we have built with such care? Will not perhaps a greedy hand sow poverty and ruin where prosperity and beauty now flourish? Not to mention your own solitary bachelorhood when the old days come.”

“There you see,” Lusard replied, “how we two are in sympathy! I have had exactly such reflections these past few days. What I wish for, what could now make me happy, would be a young man whom I could regard as a son, whom I could marry according to his heart’s choice, thus beautifying this solitude with a young, charming family whom I could love, and who would love me.”

“Yes, that would be a wonderful thing. But where are we to find such a truly fine fellow?”

“Yes, that is the problem. If only you had a son who resembled you!”

“Dear Charles! Now you’ve got me mourning my little boy again—but what is gone is gone.”

“I have, of course,” said Lusard, “thought about my own relatives, but they are essentially strangers to me. On my father’s side, there is no one to consider; but my mother’s family, who are Danish, seem to me in every way the closest. This evening, I have been reading old letters that have touched me deeply in a particular way. There may be descendants of my mother’s cousin, Ferdinand Valler, a wonderful man who was settled in Switzerland and died there. There is also still, in Copenhagen, a son of my mother’s uncle, the late merchant Valler.”

Milner interrupted him, “Merchant Valler—yes, I remember him well from our student days, when your parents were staying in Copenhagen for your sake, and I, for a year and a half, was practically a child in their house. I shall never forget that.”

“Do you not also remember the merchant’s son, Christian Valler, who, although he was about ten years older than we were, was still a very good friend to us?”

“Of course. He worked in his father’s office. Good heavens! One loses track of old connections so completely. I don’t think I’ve thought of that man more than once in all these years—some fifteen years ago, when I saw in the newspaper that he announced his wife’s death.”

“God forgive me,” answered Lusard, “I have also nearly forgotten him and the entire family. However, while my mother was still alive, I occasionally heard from him and his family, and thus I know that he remarried and has children. Who knows if among them or other relatives of mine, there might not be someone after my own heart?”

Honest Milner eagerly embraced his friend’s plan and was very enthusiastic in encouraging him in his intention, urging him to travel to Copenhagen, which he did indeed undertake a few weeks later.

With deep pleasure, Charles Lusard revisited the Danish capital, which, in the many years since he had left it as a young student, now seemed to him greatly increased in liveliness and charm. The bustling life that had awakened and displayed itself in streets and squares—the swarm of people pouring out of the city’s western gate and meeting him even before he had entered the city itself—the music and brilliance that shone and echoed from Tivoli’s illuminated paths and gondolas—all this filled him with the brightest spirits and filled his mind with joyful anticipation.

The next morning, he learned that his relative Christian Valler, a merchant like his father but bearing the title of Commercial Councillor, owned and lived in his father’s house, which, however, neither as a business nor otherwise had maintained its former prestige. Lusard made his way to the familiar house and found his old friend from youth in his own small office, seated in the very spot where his father had once sat, on the same kind of swivel chair at a similar desk—but not with the jovial, ever-youthful appearance that had characterized the old merchant. The Commercial Councillor looked like a man beset by a swarm of flies on a hot day. However, his wrinkled face grew smoother and kinder at the unexpected visit of his nearly forgotten childhood friend.

“It has been many years since I was granted such a pleasure,” said the Commercial Councillor. “Where in the world have you been all these years? I heard you were abroad.”

“Yes, but now I am beginning a new life at home, seeking out my family, of whom you are the only one I know.”

At a meeting of this kind, the passage of time and life’s changes are always the first topics that arise. “They are all gone who were once gathered with us,” said the Commercial Councillor. “Your parents, my father, my uncle the old Justice Councillor; and those who still live are scattered all over the world. My last stepmother, who was not as kind as the first, has gone to England; my cousins, Ferdinand Valler’s siblings, are either dead or settled far from here…”

“But,” interrupted Lusard, “Ferdinand Valler, who unfortunately is also dead—did he not leave behind a wife and children?”

“His wife,” replied the Commercial Councillor, “died before him, and they had only one daughter, who married a Dane and lived here in the country with him. He was a factory owner named Bergland. To tell the truth, he was a scoundrel and a schemer who squandered his wife’s fortune and would have left her and their child in poverty if her father, who had tried in vain to help his son-in-law as long as he could, hadn’t been sensible enough to ensure that everything he left was placed into a life annuity for his daughter. That is what she lived on, very respectably, here in the city until a few years ago, when she passed away. She was a lovely woman.”

“But she had children, you say?”

“Yes, a son.”

“Where is he now?”

“He, as far as I know, went to Switzerland about a year ago to seek his fortune there, where he has family. He’s a poor sort of fellow, a fool like his father, but with an excellent mind.”

“Well then, what is he lacking?”

“He lacks all sense and steadiness. He bounces from one thing to another. First, he studied theology and completed his exams very young with top marks, but then suddenly he switched to studying medicine. Then he left that to pursue natural sciences and history, and God knows what else he threw himself into with terrifying intensity—while it lasted. Nothing will ever come of him. I honestly tried to help him and even gave him a place in my house for a time, but I certainly have reason to complain about him, if I were inclined to talk about those matters.”

“That saddens me! My parents thought so highly of his grandfather, Ferdinand Valler. Well, thank God, I find you with your old, kind-hearted nature, and as I hope, happily settled as husband and father in the venerable Valler household, which I am glad to see you still maintain unchanged.”

“Yes, God help us for the old venerable house! It’s not what it once was. Times have weighed it down, as with most others. The good days for business were already over when you were in Copenhagen thirty years ago. But my father had his wife’s large fortune to fall back on—but I didn’t retain any of it. Still, I can’t complain; it will last out my time, but my children won’t be made rich from what I leave behind.”

“I look forward to making the acquaintance of your family. Do you have many children?”

“Four daughters: one from my first wife and three with my current one.”

“No son?”

“No, thank God! It’s bad times for sons—and frankly, for daughters as well.”

“Surely, though, you wouldn’t want to lose them?”

“Oh yes, through marriage—that’s the Lord’s will. That is, the eldest, who is nineteen; as for the other three, there’s no hurry. The eldest of them is just turning fourteen, and the two youngest are little girls of nine and seven.”

“You are still fortunate! You are surrounded by a growing family and have the hope of sharing joys and sorrows for your children with their mother. It has always moved me when I’ve seen an elderly couple walking arm in arm, supporting one another. I would think to myself that thus they have walked together through life’s good and bad days; and if I were to envy any couple’s domestic happiness, it would be theirs.”

“My wife is still young; she’s only thirty-four. She’s generally considered beautiful, cultured, and talented, an excellent piano player, very assertive in society, and much courted by the gentlemen. My eldest daughter is a good little girl who manages the household and also tutors her younger sisters when my wife is otherwise occupied.”

“Well, that is all very lovely. I hope you will introduce me to your wife.”

“Yes, I can give myself that pleasure right away, for I believe she is at home.”

The Commercial Councillor now led his relative upstairs to the upper floor, where his family lived. In the anteroom, they met the servant, who said, “Madam is not at home.”

“Nonsense,” replied the Commercial Councillor, “I can hear her playing in there.”

The servant said awkwardly, “Yes, the music teacher is inside giving Madam her lesson, so it’s the same as if she weren’t at home.”

“Go in and say that I am here with a gentleman from my family.”

The servant went inside, and meanwhile Lusard tried to get permission to leave and postpone the visit to a more convenient time. When the servant returned with the message that Madam would have the pleasure of receiving them in three-quarters of an hour, Lusard broke away and left after handing over a calling card.

At the dinner table, an argument arose between the Commercial Councillor and his wife. She came to the table holding Lusard’s card and said, “Good heavens! What a magnificent name: ‘Mr. Lusard de Montalbert.’ Is he French? A distinguished gentleman? Is he part of your family? I don’t recall ever hearing about him.”

“Yes, he’s part of my family.”

“And he’s French? And apparently a nobleman? How did you come to have such a relative?”

“His mother was my cousin, the beautiful Claudine, whom you surely have heard about.”

“Oh, that Claudine, the one who was in your father’s household and ran away, etc. Yes, her story is hardly something to discuss in the presence of young girls.”

“God grant the young girls would inherit her virtues!”

“Oh, thanks, but heaven forbid! I am their mother! But what I was going to say—what is he, this Frenchman?”

“He’s no Frenchman; he’s a landowner.”

“So he must be rich?”

“I don’t know. His estate in Jutland is said to be an excellent property—that’s all I know. But he himself is a cultured, handsome, decent man, and an old friend of mine whom you might well have welcomed.”

“But how was I supposed to know he was such a gentleman?”

“You knew I was bringing him and therefore should have wanted to receive him kindly.”

“The sort of people you usually bring aren’t of that caliber.”

“When your husband brings them to you, they shouldn’t be greeted by being told to wait three-quarters of an hour to speak with the lady of the house.”

“Should I have dismissed my music teacher and wasted a full dollar for the lost lesson?”

“You could have let Mariane take the lesson.”

“No, Maren has her duties and her place is in the kitchen in the mornings.”

“The girl’s name is Mariane. I don’t want to hear the name Maren.”

“Well, you’ll have to get used to hearing it. I call her Maren; it suits a household servant perfectly.”

The young Mariane blushed and used the opportunity to rise from the table to fetch something from another room. Her younger sister Colette burst into loud laughter.

“What are you laughing at?” asked the lady of the house with an angry look.

“I have to laugh that Mariane should stay in the kitchen for the sake of the food we’re having today—when even the cook, with one hand tied behind her back, could have managed these dishes.”

“Mind your own business, you naughty girl!”

“And I’m also laughing thinking about the music teacher—how delighted he would have been if he had ended up giving Mariane the lesson. He’s so very fond of my sister, even though she doesn’t play as well as Mother. But whenever Mother isn’t available, the moment he steps in, he always says: ‘Perhaps the eldest Miss will do me the honor?’”

“That man is a fop, I’ve noticed that well enough, and it’s most unbecoming for a child your age to make such remarks.”

“A child of nearly fourteen isn’t that silly. When I was no bigger than my youngest sister, Mother often praised my cleverness, and it would be a poor thing if I hadn’t grown smarter since.”

The Commercial Councillor stood up from the table and said, “I won’t listen to any more of this nonsense. Hurry and pour the coffee, little Mariane—I’m heading out.”

His wife said, “Do sit still for a couple more minutes and tell me when you will introduce me to Mr. Lusard de Montalbert.”

The Councillor softened his tone a bit and replied, “If I can find him tomorrow morning, I can invite him to dine here at noon.”

“Can’t he come this evening? I’m eager to see him.”

“I don’t know whether I’ll be able to find him and whether he’d be polite enough to visit again today.”

“Do your best, I beg you.”

The Councillor walked over to the coffee table where Mariane was standing, and as he took his cup and drained it, he gave her a sign to follow him and left the room. Once they were out in the hallway, he gently took his daughter by the chin and said, “Listen, my girl! Make sure everything is neat and elegant tonight. Our guest probably isn’t used to a large supper, but still, let it all be nicely presented. You know what to do.”

“I’ll ask Mother, but I know her housekeeping budget…”

He interrupted her: “Here’s some money, but no need to mention that to Mother. Just do the best you can, according to your own taste.”

He left but then turned back, smiling: “And I’d also like to see you change your clothes and make yourself as pretty as possible, for I hope my old friend will think well of my children.”

Much embarrassed by the task assigned to her, Mariane humbly went to her stepmother to ask for instructions and dared, as was her habit, to make a few suggestions. To Mariane’s relief, at that moment, a nearly daily visitor to the house was announced—Mr. Arnold, a law student and a distant relative of the lady of the house—who promptly dismissed Mariane with these welcome words for the flustered girl: “Now I don’t have time to chatter with you. Arrange things nicely and prettily, but don’t let it cost more than usual…”

She didn’t have time to say more, for the young gentleman, dressed in the latest fashion, was already stepping in. As he passed Mariane, who was leaving the room, he cast her a sidelong glance and whispered, “You sweet little thing!” She turned her head aside and pretended not to hear.

Mr. Arnold bowed to the lady and said, “My lovely cousin! The humblest of your humble servants bows before you.” Then, turning to the two little girls sitting by one window, locked in a quiet tug-of-war over a doll, each pulling it toward her own side, he added, “Good day, you delightful creatures!” At the other window sat Colette with a book in her hands, though her keen eyes were glancing slyly over the top. Arnold approached her: “There you are, Colette, you little rascal!” Colette nudged him with her elbow.

He now sat down beside the lady and said, “I come on behalf of Madame Lissing to beg and entreat you to grant her the pleasure of your presence this evening. There is no formal soirée, just a small réunion of select good friends who hope to enjoy your piano playing. A couple of the Italians will sing for us, and otherwise only our familiar circle—Baroness Rodolphe among others, and our friend the Court Chamberlain. Yes, he now has a particular reason to wish for your presence, besides his usual burning passion, as you well know. I make no secret of betraying him, this dandy who invades my territory to court my cousin. And the story is delightful: this morning we were walking together in town when we saw an exceedingly beautiful girl enter a boutique. Mind you, she wasn’t a lady, but a grisette—likely a maid or seamstress. She was simply dressed and carried a large parcel. Out of curiosity, we followed her into the shop and stood at the same counter as her, right beside her. We asked to see various items and requested her advice, but she was coy. Feeling a bit awkward about the disturbance we’d caused, the Court Chamberlain bought a small écharpe—utterly exquisite, woven with gold, and as expensive as gold itself. As we stepped back onto the street, he sighed heartbreakingly and said, ‘Listen, my dear friend! Don’t you think I might dare offer this little shawl as a gift to your beautiful cousin Madame Valler?’—‘Try it!’ I replied. And I’d wager anything that tonight he’ll sneakily present this offering, which, of course, you won’t accept.”

“Oh, if it would annoy you, I’m very tempted to accept it. What charming stories you dare tell me—chasing after a shopgirl! I’m certain it was your idea, not his, for there’s something decent and innocent about that man.”

“Now I must laugh!” said the Frenchman. “He was weeping. But what harm is there in truly admiring a beautiful face? If I were blind and indifferent to beauty, how could I, in such high degree, admire you?”

“Oh, it’s not worth wasting words over this. I cannot go to Madame Lissing’s this evening. The invitation came too late. I have guests myself.”

“Guests? You didn’t tell me that last night.”

“I didn’t know. It’s a gentleman who has arrived in town—a relative of the Valler family.”

“A relative of Mr. Valler’s! Must be a fine old philistine!”

“Look—there’s his card.”

“For heaven’s sake! What kind of foreign bird is this? Where does he come from?”

“He’s a wealthy landowner, handsome and elegant, a nobleman of French extraction.”

“Well then! In God’s name, you’ve acquired a new suitor. The rest of us might as well pack it in.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“Nonsense! No, I know you well. Now you’ll flirt with him outrageously. You’ll direct all conversation his way and turn your back on the rest of us, who’ll be left sitting like wallflowers. But I swear I won’t set foot in this house again until I hear that that migratory bird has flown away with the other wild geese.”

The lady said angrily, “What’s wrong with you? Are you in your right mind or not? Do I owe you an account of whom I speak with or not? Are you perhaps my lover? Have I ever engaged in any confidential relationship with you or anyone? Is there the slightest shadow upon me or my reputation?”

“Good heavens, no! I’m not saying that. You are virtue itself—except for an unparalleled talent for flirting.”

“It’s delightful to hear such phrases! But what business is it of yours? Even if I did flirt, which I most certainly do not, it would cause no dent in my virtue. On the contrary! Flirtation can often be a virtue. It says so in one of Scribe’s plays.”

“Yes, yes! Everyone has their catechism.”

This conversation was now interrupted by the Commercial Councillor, who, after a brief greeting to Mr. Arnold, said to his wife, “I didn’t find my cousin—he wasn’t home—but I managed to write a few lines explaining why I came and inviting him to dine the day after tomorrow. Then I went to our old friend, Councillor Dalund, and he promised to come.”

The Commercial Councillor now politely turned to Arnold and said, “Won’t you also do us the pleasure of joining us for dinner the day after tomorrow to meet my cousin and old friend Mr. Lusard de Montalbert, a gentleman who has traveled through both the New and the Old World?”

Arnold accepted the invitation, and the Councillor left the room to find his daughter Mariane, whom he persuaded to handle the preparations for that day’s meal in the best possible manner and gave her extra money for the purpose. In vain did Mariane plead with him to entrust both the money and the arrangement of the dinner to his wife.

“No, no,” he said. “She pinches on everything, even if I give her twice as much money. Besides, she doesn’t care about it. This time, I want it done properly. You need only say, ‘Father will cover whatever I ask for,’ without mentioning how much. Then she’ll be quite satisfied.”

When the Commercial Councillor had left the living room, Arnold burst into loud laughter and said, “So the foreign gentleman is an old friend of your husband. Then he must be an old fossil! You should have told me that right away, and I could have spared myself the annoyance and your anger.”

“You flatter yourself in vain. I asked the servant, who said it was a very elegant gentleman, much younger than Valler.”

“Oh, so he has indeed worn out not only his baby shoes but also his dancing shoes. Don’t be angry anymore; otherwise, I’ll have to take my own life. Give me a sign that you forgive me. Break off a little flower from this jasmine tree and give it to me as a token of reconciliation.”

“You’re a child!” the lady said, laughing, but at his repeated pleading, she broke off a small sprig from a flowerpot and handed it to him. He kissed her hand and exclaimed, “But heavens! Since the distinguished guest isn’t coming this evening, then there’s nothing preventing you from granting me the joy of escorting you to Madame Lissing’s soirée. As I said, it’s not a large gathering. You don’t need to change—you’re lovely as you are. It has just struck seven; she wanted us to gather by half-past seven so we could enjoy as much music as possible, and the party must break up unreasonably early since her husband is ill.”

The lady allowed herself to be persuaded without much resistance. She left the room briefly to make a few adjustments to her attire, while Arnold hurried over to Colette, threw his arm around her, and said, “Sweet Colette, with those wise, far too wise eyes! It’s terrible how grown-up you’re becoming. You’ve grown as if you were already eighteen. Listen! I’ll be a loyal friend for life and death if you’ll put in a good word for me with Mariane.”

“With Mariane! Are you proposing to my sister?”

“Oh, good heavens! What do I have to propose with! No, you see, it’s quite a simple matter. Mariane is terribly stuck-up toward me. She hardly answers me when I speak to her politely and nicely. It offends me dreadfully, especially when others witness such treatment, which, frankly, I’m not used to. It puts me completely out of sorts.”

“Are you in love with Mariane?”

“Oh child! You’re using such big, decisive words. It’s not something to be taken so solemnly. I’m awfully fond of your sister—just as I am of you. She isn’t as lively a figure as you, nor as piquant, but as I said, her wild, stern manner bothers me. That’s why I ask you to explain to her…”

The lady entered, and the conversation abruptly ended. The two youngest little girls now began a loud and wailing complaint. “What’s this?” asked the mother. “Why are you crying, little ones?”

Natalia, the oldest, sobbed, “Now you’re leaving us, and you promised us this morning that you’d take us to Tivoli tonight if the weather was good.”

“I truly forgot.”

“But we poor things,” exclaimed little Ida, “we haven’t forgotten—we’ve looked forward to it all day.”

“Stop that crying then! You can still go.”

She rang the bell. The maid entered and was instructed to dress quickly and take the children to Tivoli. The lady and Arnold then hurried out.

Colette leaped up laughing, spun around the floor like a top, and when Mariane entered at that moment, she threw her arms around her neck, kissed her, and exclaimed, “My own Mariane! I’ve finally got hold of you. I’ve hardly seen you all day. But thank heaven, now we have peace and freedom this evening since Mother has gone out with the charming Mr. Arnold.”

“Mother has gone out?” asked Mariane.

“She certainly has, and she’s kind enough to stay out until bedtime.”

At that moment, the maid entered with the children, who were ready to go out. “Where are you going?” asked Mariane.

“We’re going to Tivoli,” answered Natalia.

“No, you can’t go. Mother said this morning that you were to stay home today as punishment for your misbehavior yesterday when you refused to study and deliberately ruined your knitting.”

“Mother said herself that I’m to go to Tivoli. You don’t have authority over me.”

“Yes, I do since I’ve taken on teaching you.”

The maid took Natalia by the hand and said, “Let’s go now.” Then she turned to Mariane with a smug look and said, “You must excuse me, Miss Maren! I have to obey my lady’s orders, not yours.”

Mariane silently turned away, and the maid left with the children.

“This is just too much!” exclaimed Colette. “Why do you put up with it? Why don’t you go to Father and ask for his help?”

“Poor Father! Let him have his peace. But now we’re alone, and I have time; let’s sit at the piano and try those romances the music teacher lent us yesterday.”

She opened the instrument, sat down, and struck a few chords. Colette, who took her place beside her, grabbed her hand and said, “Wait a bit! Let me first tell you what excitement we had at the institute today. Our teacher got a migraine, as she often does, and had to go lie down. It was during embroidery class, and Miss Baldyre—that’s what we call her among ourselves—was called out; someone wanted to speak with her. No sooner had she stepped out the door than Line Sørensen pulled out a very fancy letter she had found downstairs on the stairs. The address read: ‘To the fairest of the young Graces who attend this institute.’ Then chaos broke loose. Who was the fairest? The letter flew like a bird around the table; they were about to tear it to pieces. Finally, they agreed—on my advice—that it wouldn’t be improper to read the contents. I was allowed to break the seal and read it aloud. It was beautifully written, in verse, and declared that an admirer would be waiting on the way home to observe from nearby and exchange a few words, and so on—you can imagine the kind of thing that sounds grand but that we’ve all read and heard before. The teacher came back just then, and the letter was swiftly hidden under the table and passed hand to hand back to Line. You can imagine how eager we were to get out on the street. We didn’t see anyone who might be the letter writer; we walked slowly, looking all around, but saw no one. But when we got to the corner, suddenly—not one but three elegant young gentlemen sprang from behind a fence. One ran straight to Line, another to Sophie, and guess what—the third to me. He was really a very handsome fellow with lovely black moustaches and a little goatee. He was extraordinarily gallant and paid me a thousand compliments.”

“Heavens! And you?”

“Oh, I listened to him and only replied with a word now and then. He followed me all the way to our doorway and very humbly asked if he might see me again tomorrow. And when I hesitated to answer, he snatched one of my gloves as a pledge, he said, which he wished to return along with a little gift.”

Mariane was silent for a moment. Then she took her sister’s hand between both of hers and said affectionately, “Colette! You say you care for me—I believe it, and I return it with all my heart. But will you take from me my only friend? You will, if you get involved in such flirtations, which are repugnant to me. Believe me! I’m older than you! I have, as you know, until Grandmother’s death just a few years ago, lived in her quiet, respectable home, with her teachings deeply impressed upon my soul. I know that you will ruin yourself if you take another step on the path you walked today. Promise me that you will never meet this gentleman again, and if he approaches you tomorrow, tell him that you were so embarrassed by his behavior today that you didn’t know what you said or did, and that you decline any further acquaintance with him.”

“Oh, Mariane! How can you ask that of me? Such a charming, handsome man! And what harm is there in accepting a gift offered respectfully? I’m sure Mother is accepting a gift from a young gentleman this very evening.”

Mariane shrugged. “That’s also something I dislike in you—you judge your mother and speak about her with a harsh tone.”

“She speaks harshly to me too, and she doesn’t like me—I know that well. When I was little, she doted on me, took me everywhere, just as she does now with the little ones. But of course, their time will come too. Natalia, who is so high and mighty now, will soon become the outcast. See! I don’t like such things.”

“But how can you expect your mother to love you if you have so little love for her?”

“Yes, that’s true! I do lack love, but I can’t help it. And it’s not because I’m hard-hearted, because I love you—I respect you—so sincerely, so deeply!”

“Dear Colette! If I am truly fortunate to have your love and trust, then prove it to me by following my advice.”

Colette sighed. “Ah! That’s easy for you to say. You have a lover who holds your whole heart, someone around whom all your thoughts revolve.”

Mariane blushed. “What makes you think that?”

Colette skillfully grabbed a little string peeking out from under her sister’s collar, pulled it out from its hiding place, and said with a laugh, “Don’t you think I recognize this ring? What does this mean? You confide nothing in me, but I know everything.”

Mariane took the ring from her and hid it, saying with a melancholy seriousness, “If you know everything, then you also know that I don’t even know what meaning or hope I dare attach to this ring. And you must also know that I have sorrow enough already, without you—who are good—adding to it.”

“Me! Oh, I would rather die than cause you sadness.”

“Then promise me that you won’t get involved with that young man. If you think about it, you’ll realize that if he truly had affection and respect for you, he wouldn’t have approached you in such an indiscreet manner.”

“Indeed! You have a point. Accompanied by two others… and then the letter on the stairs… Yes, you are right! You are always right. I’ll do as you say—I promise.”

With warm, youthful affection, the two girls embraced. Then Mariane said, “Let’s make use of the time now to practice our romances. It’s not every day that we have the chance to take over the piano.”

Meanwhile, Lusard had returned to the hotel where he was staying. From the note the Commercial Councillor had left, he learned that the family had hoped for his presence that evening. He thought it was still not too late to take advantage of the invitation. He therefore went, as before, to the office, where he found the Commercial Councillor very busy, but visibly pleased to see him.

“Well,” said the Councillor, “it’s kind and friendly of you to come. I’m looking forward to introducing you to my wife, who is very eager to meet you. I’ll take you up to her now but must ask you to excuse me shortly after—I have some matters to attend to that cannot be postponed.”

He hurried upstairs and walked straight into the living quarters. Outside the door to the drawing room, Lusard said, “It’s a good sign that one always meets music and harmony outside your door. How lovely it sounds in there!”

The Commercial Councillor now entered with his guest into the room where the two young girls were, who, startled like songbirds when someone approaches their bush, quickly rose and shyly greeted the stranger. “Where is your mother?” asked the master of the house, and was very surprised to hear that his dear wife had gone out to an evening gathering.

With modest gallantry, Lusard approached the young, unfamiliar relatives and addressed Colette, whom he assumed to be the eldest. She curtsied slightly and, somewhat annoyed, turned to her father and said, “Couldn’t you introduce us, since Mother is out?”

The Commercial Councillor laughed, took both his daughters by the hand, brought them forward to his old friend, and, with a few heartfelt words, recommended them to his kindness, asking him to be content with their company while he stepped away for a few minutes.

Lusard took one girl’s hand in each of his, kissed their small hands, and said, “I am a poor fellow who has gone through life without sisters or close relatives to grow up with or accompany me on my earthly journey. You can well imagine, then, how happy I am in my later years to meet charming young cousins who kindly extend their hands to me.”

He now asked their names, their ages, their occupations, and through the combination of heartfelt and modest courtesy he showed them, he very easily won the goodwill of the girls, who were unaccustomed to such attention and polite manners. “I interrupted your music,” he said. “Grant me the pleasure of hearing again those young, fresh voices that sounded so delightful to me when I stepped in here.”

Very timidly, the young girls complied with his request and sang a duet. At first, Mariane’s voice trembled, and her usually steady hand faltered on the familiar keys, but gradually her confidence returned, and the two young voices blended so softly and with such precision that Lusard, deeply moved, exclaimed, “It’s been a long time since I heard such singing. In our over-refined times, it touches me like hearing my mother tongue far from home. My mother used to sing like this. Her voice, her songs still echo in my soul. I grew up with songs like these. When she sang in the quiet evenings to the guitar or piano, I listened with sweet melancholy as an adult; as a child, I danced to them.”

He fell silent, as if following the thread of these memories, and Mariane let her large, thoughtful eyes meet his with a sympathetic expression, which did not go unanswered.

The Commercial Councillor now returned and did his best to persuade his friend to spend the rest of the evening with him and his daughters, but Lusard, considering the mistress of the house’s absence, declined the invitation, adding, “I’ve already enjoyed so much pleasantness in your home this evening that, for fear of tempting fate, I dare not ask for more all at once.”

“Well, as you wish,” replied the Councillor. “But don’t forget you’ve promised me for the day after tomorrow. You will meet an old acquaintance here who is one of the few left from our scattered circle: the former Supreme Court advocate, Councillor Dalund.”

Lusard was delighted to hear this and decided to visit his and his parents’ old friend the very next morning. He now thanked the young girls and left them quite charmed by his presence.

When the lady of the house returned, Colette greeted her with a loud praise of the new cousin’s elegance and manners, not forgetting to elaborate on how much pleasure he had taken in her and Mariane’s company and their singing. Both the lady and the Commercial Councillor were very annoyed—she because her husband had received a guest in her absence, and he because she had gone to a gathering without his knowledge. Moreover, he reproached her that the two youngest girls had only just returned home from such an unsuitable late-night outing. Everyone went to bed dissatisfied—except Colette, who found all these conflicts thoroughly amusing.

The next morning the family was gathered when Lusard was announced and this time was received with great pleasure and shown in to the household. Mrs. Valler was still a handsome woman, and when in a good mood, could be very charming and pleasant. She received Lusard in an especially courteous manner, lamented her bad luck that seemed to conspire against her wish to meet her husband’s dear friend and relative. She introduced him to her two youngest, very pretty children, who, already fully trained in what is called “personal presentation,” approached him with respectful friendliness. Lusard was delighted with his relative’s domestic happiness, and the courtesy he showed Mrs. Valler was an honest expression of the pleasure she inspired in him.

He then said that, to excuse his rather frequent visits, he must confess that today he came to invite the Councillor to join him and Dalund for a meal at a restaurant. The Councillor agreed with a very pleased expression, and Lusard added, “How uplifting it was to see Dalund! By his own account, he’s over eighty, and yet he’s so mentally young, so physically vigorous. He takes a little walk every day. The sun and fresh air, he says, are life necessities for both the young and the old. He seems even more cheerful than thirty years ago. His home is extraordinarily beautiful; he has taken pleasure in surrounding himself with artworks, flowers, and countless little refinements that he didn’t care for in his younger years. He said: ‘When we grow old, it feels as though the small, pleasant habits are like threads still tying life to us. In youth, one demands great things from life; in old age, one becomes a child again, more modest, finding joy in little things, loving one’s toys, and not grieving at the thought of soon leaving them to younger siblings.’”

“He truly has a happy old age,” replied the Councillor. “He lives with his nephew, to whom he long ago handed over his affairs and part of his fortune. The younger Dalund and his family honor their uncle as a father and carry him in their arms.”

Lusard continued, “I find the old man so charming. The slight touch of sarcastic humor that characterizes him blends pleasantly and fittingly with the deep sensitivity that is a main trait of his character.”

At these words, the Commercial Councillor looked at his wife with an expression and gesture that clearly said, “There—you hear that!”—a silent remark which the lady answered by quickly and secretly sticking out the tip of her rosy tongue at him, after which they parted on both sides very satisfied with each other. The only thing the lady found fault with in her new relative was his ability to speak Danish like any native, since she had hoped that his primary language would be French—a language she spoke with reasonable fluency.

According to their agreement, Lusard picked up the elderly Dalund, and as he accompanied him to the restaurant, he warmly expressed his satisfaction at finding the Commercial Councillor in such happy domestic circumstances, beside such a beautiful and pleasant wife. To this, Dalund replied, “Well, I won’t prejudge your opinion on this matter. See with your own eyes, and I predict it won’t be long before you reconsider your view of his domestic bliss.”

The next day, the announced gathering took place at the Commercial Councillor’s house. Everything was arranged beautifully and tastefully. The lady of the house had no lack of appreciation for what was beautiful and pleasant, but her domestic involvement was limited to what was visible, and on special occasions such as a large dinner party, her zeal was of such a restless and burdensome nature that it often became an obstacle to the quiet, unnoticed efficiency with which Mariane managed everything.

On the day in question, as the family assembled to receive the invited guests, Mariane and Colette entered, dressed in snow-white, simple dresses, with their beautiful braided hair and glossy locks—the former’s dark blonde, the latter’s dark brown. Their father, who was alone in the room, met them with pleasure and, patting Mariane’s flushed cheek, said, “My little industrious housekeeper has become quite warm from so much work.”

At that moment, the lady of the house entered, laughing, and said, “It’s truly touching to see such a sentimental papa doting on the big girls.”

She was dressed very elegantly, wearing over her ornate dress an exceedingly magnificent so-called écharpe in brilliant colors woven with gold.

“What is that showy shawl, or whatever it’s called?” asked the Commercial Councillor.

“It’s one I was given,” she replied.

“By whom?”

“By our friend the courtier.”

“What’s this? You’re accepting gifts from young men? I must insist that you refrain from that.”

“Leave that to me. You can be sure it was done in such a way that nothing improper could be suspected. I believe my reputation and conduct are such that they don’t need to be subject to criticism.”

“But such gifts…”

She interrupted him, “You don’t understand. In our time, it’s quite common to give and receive gifts. When visiting ladies on birthdays, confirmations, or similar occasions, it’s like a whole bazaar of presents. My cousin Malle and her daughters hardly ever need to buy anything—they dress entirely in gifts.”

The Commercial Councillor shook his head. “That’s a custom I definitely won’t allow in my house.”

Colette nudged her sister and whispered, “What did I say! You hear it—you who forced me to refuse that lovely brooch!”

“You won’t regret it,” whispered Mariane.

The company gathered in the Valler household that day was of a very different nature from the one that had filled these same dining room walls with songs and lively conversations fifty years earlier. It consisted of gentlemen and ladies from the families with whom the Councillor usually socialized, as well as a few young men such as the aforementioned courtier, Mr. Arnold, and a couple of so-called intellectuals from the equally so-called newest school in literature. When the household introduced Lusard to the other guests, there was not a single person whom he recognized by name or face.

At the table, he was seated next to the lady of the house, while at the far end Mr. Arnold sat between the two young daughters, engaged in a conversation that caught Lusard’s attention even though he could not hear a word of it.

Colette had promptly told Mr. Arnold that she had carried out his request with her sister. “And do you know what she said?” added the frivolous girl. “She said, ‘The tone Mr. Arnold allows himself to take with me deserves a much more serious response than a poor girl like me has the courage to give him.’”

Mariane was deeply embarrassed by Colette’s boldness, but when Arnold eagerly demanded an explanation, she said, “Yes, I said that. If my father had noticed the way you behave toward me, or if I had a brother, he would tell you that I have never given you cause to approach me with the sort of inappropriate familiarity you permit yourself. For example, I have never given you permission to address me informally, let alone all the other reasons why I ask you to refrain from bothering me.”

Arnold was genuinely taken aback by the young girl’s serious words. “Forgive me,” he replied, embarrassed. “I thought I could consider myself part of the family, and I must have been very mistaken if I believed I had heard a young gentleman addressing you informally without causing offense.”

Mariane blushed but answered after a brief pause, “That must have been a close relative who has known me since childhood. Otherwise, it is something that only I can permit or deny.”

After this brief exchange, a peculiar expression appeared on both their faces and in their behavior. Mariane felt ashamed of the outburst with which she had defended her rightful boundaries, while Arnold, for his part, was struck by the unusual assertiveness from the otherwise quiet, reserved girl—and, almost against his will, found himself more drawn to her than ever. He watched her silently from the side and tried to initiate a conversation in a modest and conciliatory manner, while she responded with a kind but shy demeanor.

Observing the two closely, Lusard experienced what often happens when one watches a pantomime without having read the program: he drew from the visual cues a conclusion entirely opposite to the truth and believed he was witnessing a little love scene striving to conceal itself beneath a veil of secrecy. Many thoughts and reflections crossed his mind at this supposed discovery.

The lady noticed his distraction. “I sit here quietly enjoying,” he said, “the younger part of my new family. You yourself are still so beautiful and youthful and already have such a grown-up daughter. It is a pleasant sight to see these two young girls together.”

The lady laughed. “You are too kind. It’s nonsense to say that either of them is beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t call them classical beauties,” replied Lusard, “but I would call them charming, delightful girls. The younger is still only half developed, but one is cheered by the sight of her fresh youth, which sparkles with life and health. And the elder is so delicate, so ethereal, that one might almost fear she, like the nymph Echo, could fade away and turn into a voice—especially as she also possesses an exceptionally clear and soft, remarkably moving voice, which indeed, contrary to Echo’s, does not merely echo but receives a response in the human heart. I had the pleasure the other day of hearing her and her young sister sing, and their song—if I may continue the metaphor—still reverberates in my mind.”

The lady laughed loudly. “Then their singing must truly be without any formal training and not worth listening to. I cannot fathom what pleases you so much about our Maren.”

“Maren?” repeated Lusard in surprise. “But her name is Mariane.”

“We call her Maren.”

“That name could not possibly suit her less.”

“No, forgive me, it suits her perfectly. She’s an insignificant little girl and a bit of a sulky one, with no figure. And my own daughter Colette, who really promised to be beautiful, is now getting so tall and big that one might expect she’ll eventually be fit for the grenadiers.”

Dalund, sitting nearby, smiled and said, “What the lady here observes about her daughter is actually a merit nowadays, since such stature perfectly fits current fashion. Anyone can notice, regarding the newer generation, that women are growing continually taller and men continually smaller. It must be related to the much-discussed female emancipation.”

Lusard said, “As little Colette is, and as she sits there, she pleases my eyes and, together with her sister, forms a lovely tableau.”

Dalund turned to the lady and said with his ironic smile, “One can tell with Lusard that French blood runs in his veins, for he always knows how to say something pleasing to everyone; and since the whole world knows that nothing flatters a mother more than to hear her daughters praised, he intends to insinuate himself…”

The lady interrupted him with an annoyed look: “No, Mr. Councillor! You must excuse me, for I am truly free of that weakness. Thank God, I can judge my children fairly. My own are still small, and Colette is, unfortunately, for the moment an unpleasant child. But my two youngest little girls are charming and exceptionally gifted by nature. No one who knows them would deny that.”

Sensing that the conversation had taken an unfortunate turn, Lusard now steered it in another direction, taking the opportunity to express his delight at the many advances in both utility and beauty that his hometown had made during the thirty years he had been away. He said, “Thirty years is a long time for an individual, but for humanity it is very short, and one cannot help but marvel when considering the discoveries in the sciences, the inventions for the ease and enjoyment of life that have occurred during this period. Who in earlier times could have dreamt of steamships, of railways that seem aimed at consoling mankind for the lack of wings? And these new enterprises, this industry on all sides—how much opportunity for earnings has it provided to the working class, how much more tasteful and pleasant domestic life now appears! With great pleasure I have witnessed in recent days the lively folk life here. I have wandered around the surroundings and greatly enjoyed visiting the beautified places of amusement that seem to have sprung up from the ground. Tivoli, for example, pleases me immensely. The many people from various classes gathered there, united in the same goal—to enjoy themselves in an innocent and decent manner—is a lovely sight for both the eyes and the mind.”

A gentleman replied, “I cannot fully agree with this opinion. The obsession with amusement, which spreads more and more like an epidemic, is a ruin for families’ prosperity, for domestic life, and thereby for morality. I know families who live in their homes with—one could frankly say—an indecent stinginess, who let children and servants lack life’s genuine necessities in order to satisfy their craving for entertainment and their vanity. The weak have far too many temptations. The doors to misuse are far too open.”

“What cannot be misused?” Lusard responded. “Those who lack the strength to stand on their own feet will always stumble, whether over one thing or another. I cannot help but call it a good thing that someone who has worked during the day can in the evening find a place where, for a couple of hours, they can refresh themselves in a tasteful and respectable way—and do so unnoticed among the crowd.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Dalund, “unnoticed among the crowd! With that addition, you are absolutely right. The one who comes with this intention usually comes to relax and refresh himself, whether it be at Tivoli, in the Deer Park, or other such places. The quiet bourgeois family, which has worked during the day or the week and then in the evening or on Sunday, in their modest dress, walks, rides, or sails out to refresh themselves—everyone should greet them with respectful goodwill. But what is to be criticized in this, as in many other directions, is the foolish vanity that causes the majority, especially women and young men, not to go for the enjoyment itself but to be seen. When I, as happens incessantly, encounter these women and girls from the simplest middle class, in their overdecorated costumes, which for the most part reveal rather than conceal that these ladies are not actually ‘ladies,’ I am not far from agreeing with the view that the many opportunities to show oneself, to seek all one’s joy outside of home life, nourish this prevalent need for display, which is surely both ridiculous and demoralizing.”

Lusard said, “These tasteless habits and this lack of decorum could indeed be best corrected by having more refined society mingle with the less refined and improve it.”

“Truly refined people are very rare,” said Dalund, “and, as the saying goes, they are not to be found on the street.”

An older gentleman said, “Regardless of what one may say about the present age and its vanity, no one who has lived through an earlier era can deny that it was far more immoral than the present. Before, during, and for some time after the French Revolution, vice walked with head held high. Mockery of the sacred, illicit love affairs—they were the order of the day and brought shame to no one. The most renowned writers—Voltaire, Wieland, and others—praised libertinism as something charming. Rousseau, who did so almost against his will and with enchanting sentimentality, made it even worse. And more than one among us followed those examples. Today, no one would dare openly scorn religion and morality. Marriage is now honorable and faithful, and worship is held in esteem.”

Dalund said in a voice that started quietly but grew steadily louder and more rapid, “I am an old man. It is therefore forgivable if I look back with a bit too much affection on the years when I too lived in life’s Arcadia. I will never defend the morals and the tone that spread over the world from the French courts, nor the brutality with which the French Revolution struck at the holiest institutions. I was not swept away by those torrents when they raged. Nor will I deny that much has already been gained simply by people in our time outwardly showing respect for the sacred and the inviolable, and thus, whether willingly or not, bowing to what is good.

“But despite all this, I still dare to claim that these same vices and errors walk among us as living dark spirits, merely under different masks and guises. God forbid that I should say they have taken root everywhere; naturally, I speak generally, not about the exceptions that—thank God—exist at all times and places. You say religion is honored. I answer: not sincerely. Both here and elsewhere, there is a faction that publicly declares: Christianity is outdated; the Gospel is a myth. And as for those among us who do attend worship—how many of them, sad as it is to say, use their piety merely as a form of social vanity? How few are those who, quietly reflecting on the words they’ve heard, apply them to their own lives, examine their inner selves, and return home like the tax collector in the Gospel—justified, more righteous than when they entered!

“Wouldn’t it also be part of religious feeling to honor that which is of God in other people—the great, the noble? To acknowledge something in others before which one ought to bow? To believe that in some matters, one may rightly accept the authority of others? To have enough national feeling to be always ready to chivalrously defend those who have contributed to the nation’s honor and its culture? Do we do that? Let a man have dedicated his life to bringing a ray of heaven down to earth—let his contribution to the homeland be so great that everyone, knowingly or unknowingly, has benefited from it. But because his work has been in the invisible realm of the spirit—unlike Thorvaldsen’s works, which can be seen with the eyes and touched with the hands—let such a man once express a conviction that, rightly or wrongly, opposes the tastes of the time, and see then how scandalous ridicule and contempt gather as the little birds swarm around Minerva’s owl, trying to pluck its great feathers—feathers none of them could ever possess. Is this not a lack of reverence for what should be sacred to us?

“And now our morals! Family life! Is it held together by a single bond, the bond of love? Far be it from me to deny that nowadays it is rarer than it was half a century ago to find a married woman who has a lover, but in place of that offense, flirtation has become fashionable. Is that so very much better?”

“Yes,” replied the aforementioned gentleman, “in its consequences it is less harmful, and in itself also less ignoble.”

“That depends on how one looks at it. In the bygone times that we compare with the present, love was a great power. It has been dethroned, like so many other mighty sovereigns. It now belongs, as I once read, to the lost arts. But love, when it truly deserves that name, is in itself something noble and beautiful. One may indeed condemn it in its errors, but one cannot despise it. Flirtation, however, is nothing but contemptible. Love’s faults are human; flirtation’s could be called demonic, for they are like phantoms, like shadows that are empty and soulless in themselves.”

“But what do you mean by flirtation? Do you mean a forgivable feminine vanity that delights in pleasing? In my view, it can often enhance a young woman’s charm, and even if it sometimes goes a little too far, it cannot be compared to the unscrupulousness that leads a wife to forget the fidelity she vowed before God, a crime that often brings ruin upon her household and children.”

“I mean by flirtation the treacherous play with forbidden fruit—the little love affairs that neither involve the soul nor the heart, nor even any sound human feeling, but whose existence is nonetheless kept secret from husband and parents as long as they last, and afterward can be denied, even to oneself, like explaining away an empty dream. This makes it possible to preserve a Pharisaical righteousness and boast before God and man of a virtue that has never truly been tested. For our young gentlemen are by no means passionate or romantic lovers; their pursuit of a lady’s favor is not undertaken in earnest. Both they and the ladies seek only a triumph of vanity, the reputation of being irresistible, and a distraction to fill tedious time. But—I see that the lawyer in me still haunts my mind and that I dream I stand at the bar as a defender of the bygone century.”

“Or as a prosecutor of the present one,” noted the aforementioned gentleman.

“Yes, yes,” answered Dalund with a good-natured smile. “In either case, it is far too easy for words to run away with themselves.”

Despite the intensity of this debate, Dalund had not spoken so loudly as to prevent the rest of the gathering from continuing their conversations in small groups, undisturbed by the discussion that only the immediate circle was following. Madam Valler, who was among them, said quietly to Lusard, “It’s a good thing that long sermon came to an end. That Dalund is truly an unbearable man. As old as he is, he is still immoral. His own history isn’t exactly edifying. I won’t get into the details, but one doesn’t even need to look beyond this house or this family to find scandals from the times he defends that are hardly fit to be spoken of.”

Lusard remained silent but thought to himself, “Either this woman is completely ignorant of my parents’ history, or she has dreadful manners. I’ll assume the former.”

After coffee was served, the lady of the house, at the request of several guests, sat down at the piano and performed a large and difficult composition with considerable skill. Lusard listened in admiration to the mastery with which the technical challenges were overcome, but as the musical enjoyment went on exceedingly long, he felt quite grateful when it finally ended and was pleased to add his share to the chorus of thanks and praise offered from all sides.

As some other ladies and gentlemen also took part in the musical entertainment, Lusard quietly slipped into an adjoining cabinet, where he saw Dalund sitting alone.

“I sit here,” said Dalund, “in quiet reflection on the silent, solemn language with which lifeless things speak to us. It seems to me as if the walls of this room were saying, ‘Do you remember, old friend, how often you sat in this same place and looked through this same open door at gatherings of which only you remain? How here you heard singing and music of a different kind than this? Do you remember how one day you sat here alone, just as now, and heard the beautiful Claudine sing a romance that echoed in your soul like a tender, melancholy premonition? And how afterward you saw her, unaware of your presence, dance playfully across the floor in there?’ Yes, strange indeed is this illusion of a sympathy we seem to assume in lifeless things—while in our later years, it almost never occurs to us to imagine such sympathy in our fellow human beings.”

Then I assure you, replied Lusard, that I have already sympathized with you in similar thoughts. Just today, with melancholy recollection, I lived myself back into a day I spent here in these very rooms some thirty years ago, which, like ourselves, no longer resemble what they were, but yet are still the same. The old grand-uncle was so enlivened by my parents’ presence; he didn’t know what more he could do to erase every trace of former misunderstanding through countless attentions. My parents were both so cheerful; they appeared to me so young and beautiful.

“Yes, they were indeed,” Dalund said. “Once during that same time, I was in an intimate conversation with your lovely mother, and truly, I thought I was constantly seeing the young, beautiful Claudine from my own happy days, even though she had brought her eighteen-year-old son to her former home. Never have I seen a married couple whose inner happiness seemed to me so beyond doubt as your parents.”

“Yes, they were happy—and so was I. My childhood home still stands in my memory like paradise. A peace, a tranquility, a beauty that no words can describe was spread over our lives. An indescribable love, a deep inner joy filled us. Our cheerful, hospitable home was a gathering place for cultivated people, who came both from the surrounding area and distant places, enlivening us and themselves with their presence. And the sorrowful, those in need of help and comfort, never left without leaving behind a blessing over our roof.”

“Yes, there is a blessing in the presence of such people. The year and a half your parents spent here in this city became like a turning point in my then melancholy state, which for many years returned again and again in longer or shorter periods, during which I almost shunned all human company. But the companionship of those old friends, the sight of their happiness, the intimate sharing of their past hardships, the long-missed joy of pouring out my own heart to proven friends who knew and understood me—all of this unexpected good refreshed my weary soul and soothed my sorrow. They returned home with joy and cheerful plans, but I missed them beyond words.”

“The cheerful plans with which we left Copenhagen did not come to pass, and the cheerful mood of our house also suffered a considerable interruption for a time. You surely know that my father’s plan to visit his homeland with my mother and me was disrupted, just as all of Europe’s situation was changed after the Battle of Leipzig and Napoleon’s exile to Elba. These events, which occurred shortly after our return home, weighed deeply on my father’s heart. The proud homeland, humiliated and overrun by the enemies it had so often defeated; so much noble blood—his own as well—spilled, which he believed in vain—all of this was too heavy for him to bear with patience. He had so often said that Denmark was now his homeland, had so often harshly criticized the Emperor’s lack of respect for other nations’ rights and national identity. But in the moment of misfortune, the old love for the former leader awoke; the enthusiasm for the tricolored flag gained such power that when Napoleon returned from Elba, nothing could stop him from deciding immediately to go to France and join his old comrades in arms, whose fate and victory he felt it his duty to share in such a moment. He inspired me with his enthusiasm; the tones of the Marseillaise echoed in my soul from my childhood memories, and I begged him with youthful tears for permission to follow him. Everything was prepared for our journey.”

“My God! What did your mother say?”

“I believe she suffered much anxiety and worry, yet she did not oppose my father’s will, but only earnestly pleaded to be allowed to travel with us.”

“Yes, in that, as in so much else, I recognize the young Claudine.”

“But her good angel, I believe, intervened in our affairs. My father suffered occasionally from gout, a consequence of his wounds and hardships in the war; this ailment now attacked him suddenly with greater severity than ever before. His impatience worsened his condition, and the so-called Hundred Days passed before any thought of traveling could resume. He grieved deeply over the fate of his country and his Emperor. Napoleon’s downfall elevated this hero in his eyes to a near-divine figure. Only with the July Revolution did he find comfort and felt his spirit light again. He then traveled with my mother and me to Paris, and we spent a whole, very pleasant year there.”

Dalund sat silent for a moment, then said, “When one has become as old as I am, one ought to feel joy in thinking of the beloved who have already entered the harbor where one soon shall also arrive. But I confess that I can only think with pain of your parents being gone, lost to the earth where I still remain. The happy companionship that was bought with so many years of hardship and perseverance seems to me far too brief. And I have especially thought of it as an injustice of fate that your mother had to outlive the man to whom she had sacrificed her youth with such great fidelity and love.”

“Ah, it was indeed only a short time, not even a year, that she had to be without him.”

“How did she bear his loss?”

“Quietly and gently, as she had always borne both adversity and prosperity. I was not prepared for the misfortune of losing her so soon, even though I noticed that she seemed to fade day by day. But I consoled myself with the thought that her indescribable love for me—which had never for a moment failed—would bind her to life.”

Lusard’s emotion at these memories was so great that for a few moments it choked his voice. However, he composed himself and said after a pause, “I am strongly inclined to believe that those who have gone before still stand in some inexplicable relation to us. At the moment of my mother’s death, it truly seemed as though her beloved husband carried her away in his arms. She lay as if in a quiet slumber; suddenly she opened her eyes, smiled, stretched out her arms, and said in a loud voice, ‘Lusard!’—and with that name on her lips, she left me and the earth, as it seemed, without struggle or pain.”

Dalund exclaimed, “Oh, blessed is he who, as a reward for his love, sees in the moment of death the face that has never ceased to live in his heart, who is led by the beloved hand down the dark path, which thus is no longer dark! Ah, who dares to hope…”

He broke off, and they both sat silent.

Meanwhile, the music in the adjoining room had ceased, and toward the end of the above conversation, Arnold had seated himself behind the open door leading into the cabinet. Without intending to eavesdrop, he had nevertheless listened to their words. Now the lady of the house entered, leaning on the arm of the chamberlain, and Arnold stopped them and said softly, “I’ve been sitting here and amusing myself divinely, being a hidden witness to a truly incomparable, sentimental, and romantic conversation between those two old fellows in there. Sit here with me behind this door—it makes the finest screen. Maybe there will be more of the same sort.”

He and the chamberlain each took one of the lady’s hands and drew her down between them onto the little sofa where Arnold was sitting. The lady said, “Oh, I have no interest in hearing what that old rag, that Dalund, is babbling about.”

“Your distinguished cousin,” replied Arnold, “was equally touching in every way.”

“Oh, leave my distinguished cousin alone. He’s neither old nor a fool, as you like to say—he’s exactly a man comme il faut.”

“One can’t deny,” said the chamberlain, “that the man is still remarkably handsome. And it’s said that he takes after very beautiful parents. My father, who knew his late mother in his younger days, still goes into ecstasies when he speaks of her beauty and charm.”

“Oh, nonsense! Her beauty was probably like her virtue—fashionable for that time.”

“Well, all the better for me,” said Arnold. “It’s good that you find so much delight in this Mr. Montalbert, since he might possibly be thinking of becoming your son-in-law. Yes, you’re looking at me as if I said the moon had fallen from the sky, but one thing is certain: the same gentleman sat at the table today looking at little Mariane as though he intended to buy her.”

The lady burst out laughing. “Good heavens! You must be seeing things. Maren—the Cinderella!”

“Yes, yes! And Cinderella made a better match than marrying some country squire from Jutland.”

The chamberlain said with a self-satisfied smile, “Miss Valler is certainly a pretty little girl, but of course, next to her stepmother, she pales—but then, who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who,” exclaimed the lady. “That girl from Østergade who caught your eye and your heart…”

“What’s this story again? Must I hear that once more? I’ve assured you that I went into the shop because I caught sight of a shawl like one you’d mentioned wanting, and because I dared to hope…”

The lady stood up. “Well, now I’m going to join my French cousin, because thank God Dalund has finally left him, and I see he’s walking around looking at the pictures on the wall.”

“Allow me,” said Lusard as the lady entered, “to ask you about a very beautiful painting—a portrait of your husband’s first stepmother, which I miss in this cabinet. It was still hanging here when I used to visit this house as a student.”

“That portrait? Did you really find it so beautiful? Well, I must admit that I swept it out of the house long ago. Once I quietly became aware of the original’s secret history, you can imagine I didn’t want it in my room or to let my daughters grow up with that lady looking down on them.”

“I confess,” replied Lusard, “that I hear this with astonishment, for by everything I know, this lady’s memory ought to be sacred and dear to your husband, as she was like a mother to him.”

“Yes, and he was grumpy because I put it into the storeroom, but when Dalund raged to have it, it was given to him—he was, after all, the most entitled to it.”

“But my dear cousin! Since you insist on such cloister-like strictness, how do you explain to your young daughters these pictures that have taken its place? Leda and the Swan, Jupiter and Io—those are rather tricky stories to tell young girls.”

“Really? Well, I don’t know those stories, so I’m not scandalized by them.”

“You really don’t know them?”

“Yes, I remember that a few years ago there was a play at the theater called The Swan Cloak, and there was some long-winded chatter in it about a Leda and a swan and more of that nonsense—but those are just old fairy tales, and no one I know understands the least bit about them, which is why the play didn’t succeed; most people didn’t get it.”

“That proves the author must have been too much of a swan himself to swim anywhere beyond a puddle.”

“I don’t know what you mean, but if this story about Leda is indecent, then it’s good that we women don’t understand it. But to return to the old councilor Dalund—do you know what his own nephew, the supreme court advocate he lives with, told Valler in my presence? He said his uncle idolizes that old portrait we were speaking about. That he looks up at it every morning and evening as if to greet it, saying goodnight and good morning. Often he sits there lost in thought, staring at it until tears come to his eyes. It was something the advocate had spied on, since the uncle probably couldn’t stand for him to notice. And if you had seen how both the advocate and my good husband take that foolish story so seriously and emotionally, I’m sure you would have done as I did—burst out laughing.”

“No, I don’t think so. I too would have found it moving, for such faithful devotion ennobles a love that, considering the circumstances, one might call improper. But its deep foundation, proven by its triumph over time and death, reconciles and sanctifies it. Moreover, the charming character of the lady in question was spoken of by everyone who knew her and is still remembered by the younger generation as a cherished tradition.”

“So perhaps you’re of the same opinion as Dalund—that a married woman can have a lover without prejudice to her admirable character?”

“No, on the contrary! I hold the opinion—which is not new—that purity and chastity are to a woman what courage and honor are to a man: virtues whose absence none of the other virtues can compensate for. But I also confess that if I were fortunate enough to possess a beloved wife, the fidelity I would certainly demand would still mean nothing to me unless it was united with a higher, more spiritual fidelity. And I would no more wish to do without from my wife the loyalty I require from an intimate friend than I would forgo the irreproachability a husband has the right to expect.”

The lady looked at him in surprise. “What you say is not entirely clear to me, but I am pleased that you condemn Dalund’s behavior in my father-in-law’s house.”

“Oh no! Condemn him I certainly do not. Anyone who has felt the power of passion knows how hard it is to resist it.”

“But one must not let one’s feelings become passions.”

“Yes, that is the great task. You are certainly right in that, but it is precisely at that point where the difficulty lies.”

“It is not so difficult. One should not hold oneself up as an example, but to you, as our friend and relative, one may speak frankly. You see, I was married at nineteen to a man who could have been my father. He was a widower, a good man, but one may safely say without offending him that he was neither handsome nor particularly lovable. I can say outright—since it is well known—that wherever I appeared, whether in society or here at home, I was immensely feted and courted, but no matter how deeply this one or that one loved me, I never entered into any relationship that could not stand before the tribunal of morality. I sought my comfort in my love for my little children and in the pursuit of the fine arts. Now I think, what is possible for me is not impossible for others, and so I admit that I wholeheartedly despise and condemn those women who behave like the one whose portrait you miss, as well as the shameless times when nothing was held sacred.”

Lusard felt a certain embarrassment at this speech. He realized the lady must be expecting a flattering reply to her confession, but it was impossible for him to get such words over his lips. He was silent for a moment and then said, “I must, to some extent, agree with the gentleman who at dinner contradicted Dalund, insofar as I consider it progress that the frivolous world no longer dares to mock the duties it still tramples underfoot in secret; this shows a greater purity in public opinion, and…”

He paused, unable to find the words for what he really wanted to say. The lady looked at him with a scornful smile, and after a pause, they returned to the rest of the company, without their previous conversation having raised them in each other’s esteem.

Meanwhile, Lusard confided to Dalund the plans that had brought him to Copenhagen. “In the Valler family,” he said, “I hoped to find a son and heir. Both my parents found hospitality and friendship in this house. I recently visited the country estate where the late merchant Valler received and cared for my wounded father with such rare kindness. The place is now in other hands, but I walked around the house and looked at the windows of the rooms my mother showed me when we made a pilgrimage together to this shrine of her and my father’s memories. I visited the bridge by the shore, where she stood anxiously watching for the boat bringing her wounded lover, and it seemed clear to me that the Valler house, more than any other, has a claim to my gratitude, and that I, in a way, have a debt inherited from my father to repay here. My cousin Valler has received me with such unmistakable goodwill.”

“Yes, Valler is a good man,” said Dalund, “but he is weak. He lacks his father’s strong character and also his luck. He was oppressed in his youth by overly harsh treatment. He lost his good angel when he lost his first stepmother. From his earliest days, he has held a lasting affection for me. He always confides in me, regularly invites me to family occasions, and I come, even though I cannot stand his wife. I would sincerely wish you could brighten his dreary life with a great, unexpected joy, but how could you find a son and heir in his house? He has no son.”

Lusard replied, “When we were there together the other day, an idea occurred to me that might possibly lead me to my goal. I like his eldest daughter very much; I would be greatly mistaken if she is not an excellent girl. And I would also be a poor observer if there were not some more or less declared love affair between her and the young Arnold. They sat together at the table, and their quiet, secretive conversation, which I spied with my eyes, surely wasn’t about trivial matters. Moreover, there is something in that girl’s eyes that signals a loving and anxious soul. Arnold is a handsome young man; otherwise, I know nothing of him. But if she loves him, it speaks in his favor, and perhaps in him and her I could find what I seek.”

Dalund shook his head. “I would be sorry if Mariane loved that man. He’s a fop, nothing more.”

“He is young, and the love of a good and virtuous girl has cured worse faults than a bit of youthful vanity. I would feel great joy in seeing that girl happy and in securing her daily companionship.”

“I will not,” repeated Dalund, “argue strictly against this matter, for I truly believe that one of Valler’s greatest wishes is to see this daughter well married. She is his jewel and has no pleasant home in her stepmother’s house. But consider well before you make any decision, for I cannot imagine that Mariane would be in love with that empty fellow.”

My original intention, continued Lusard, when I traveled here to the city, was indeed to seek out a descendant of my mother’s brotherly and always dear friend Ferdinand Valler. But there is only one left of his line, and that one, as I hear, isn’t of much use and, God knows, is somewhere out in the world.

“The young Bergland, you mean? He is, as far as I know, settled in Switzerland, where he has family on his mother’s side. But it’s unfair to say he’s of no use. On the contrary, he is a person of exceptional talents, but nonetheless unlikely to easily find his proper place in the real world, as he is someone who seeks the philosopher’s stone in every art and science, wandering like a comet through all systems, so that a small eternity would be needed to condense his nebulous core into a solid planet. However, I believe that on these drifting journeys he never returns without some gain for his knowledge. But by such an unstable path, he will never achieve what is needed to sustain life.”

“And his character?”

“A bit proud, but good and upright.”

“But Valler suggests that the young man has repaid his kindness with ingratitude.”

“That is one of Valler’s mistaken notions. Bergland had, on a couple of occasions, submitted some purely scientific articles to one of our newspapers. Now it happened that in that same paper there was a very pointed notice about Valler, mentioning a misunderstanding between him and another man in town — a matter which, by coincidence, had taken on a hated and rather ridiculous appearance. This issue had been privately settled, and both parties kept it secret. But fate would have it that young Bergland, and no one else, had been entrusted with the story. So when this matter appeared in the paper to which he had previously contributed, his uncle immediately suspected him. All his assurances of innocence were in vain. Valler, in great bitterness, cut all ties with him and forbade him from his house. But the truth, which I already suspected then, has now been clearly confirmed to me through the confidence of one of the editors — and I believe I can convince Valler without compromising his wife, for no one but she is to blame. The man forgot that he had told her about the incident, and she, finding it piquant, couldn’t resist telling it to a friend who was connected to one of those so-called witty figures of modern times. Through that channel, the story, with many additions and embellishments, became public.”

“Everything you tell me only sharpens my desire to track down this young man. Do you not know his address?”

“No, I don’t think anyone here at home does. He is said, I believe, to be somewhere in the countryside near Geneva, staying with a family he traveled with in Germany. It’s been a year and a half since he left here, and if he has somewhere managed to secure his daily bread — which is precisely the hardest thing for someone with his way of thinking and acting — then it is best for him to remain undisturbed in that position. Besides, he is undoubtedly married; at least one of his friends confided to me that he was secretly engaged to a niece on his mother’s side, whose family, as you know, lives in Switzerland.”

Some time passed. Lusard visited the Valler household daily without reaching any resolution regarding his plan concerning Mariane and Arnold. Arnold felt uneasy in his presence; he became sullen and quiet whenever the celebrated relative entered and often remarked to the lady of the house that this mixture of a Frenchman and a Jutland farmer — a gentleman and a country bumpkin — ruined the house’s freedom and cheerfulness.

Mariane, on the other hand, grew dearer to Lusard each day, and the attention he showed the young girl — who, unaccustomed to such distinction, developed a childlike affection for him — became so noticeable that soon it was said among the household’s social circle that Mr. Montalbert harbored serious intentions toward the Valler family.

The lady of the house heard this rumor with mockery and laughter. Arnold was bitter about it, without really knowing why. The merchant was as delighted as if it were a gift from heaven. Only Lusard and Mariane themselves remained entirely outside these speculations.

One day Colette said to her sister, “Oh, Mariane! I pin all my future happiness on you and the blessed hope that you couldn’t possibly be so desperate as to say no to the noble, handsome, charming Mr. Lusard de Montalbert, who is courting you. You make big eyes as if you didn’t know he loves you. Dearest Mariane, you will marry him, won’t you? And take me with you to your beautiful manor in Jutland? You’ll make me happy and good with you. Yes, I’ll be so good and so cheerful!”

Mariane interrupted her with laughter. “Are you out of your senses, Colette? Mr. Lusard courting me! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry over your fantasies.”

A couple of months passed this way, without Lusard being able to find clarity about the people and circumstances to which he wished to bind his future fate. This uncertainty was troubling to him until finally, a single day — with events hardly noticed by others — led him onto a completely different path.

It was a Sunday. He went to church, and as he left with the rest of the congregation, he encountered Mrs. Valler, who had also attended the service. Naturally, he greeted her, and since she was alone, he accompanied her home. On the way, they shared their pleasure over the beautiful sermon they had heard, and Lusard said, “One cannot help but sadly reflect that people must, by their nature, be hard-hearted — which is precisely what they have the least right to be — since from the beginning of Christianity until today, they have been preached to about forbearance and love, and yet it seems that these virtues are less part of everyday life now than ever before.”

The lady fully agreed with him and expressed that the sermon they had just heard would resonate within her for a long time like a sweet melody. Lusard took his leave at the gate of her house but promised, according to a prior agreement, to return for dinner, which he indeed did.

As he entered the living room, he heard from an adjacent room a loud conversation, seemingly a heated argument between the master and mistress of the house. He therefore directed his steps to the dining room, where he noticed the two young girls standing alone together. Colette was in the liveliest mood and laughed heartily. When he asked the reason for her good spirits, she replied, “Thank goodness you call my cheerfulness delightful! You are always so kind and always in a good mood, but Mariane stands here saying that I rejoice when things go badly…”

“How so? Badly? Surely nothing unpleasant has happened?”

“Oh yes, but it is unspeakably funny and comical. We can easily tell the whole story to our excellent uncle. Now listen. When Mother returned from church today, right on the stairs outside the entrance door, she caught our cook, who is a pretty young girl, in the arms of our noble family friend, Mr. Chamberlain, who was passionately embracing and kissing her. Mother does not tolerate jokes like that; she said to the girl: ‘You will look for another position at once, for eight days from now, on the first of the month, you will leave my house.’ That’s the sad end of the story, but now comes the funny part. Mother then opened the door for the Chamberlain and invited him in. The scene was incomparable. You should have seen the gentleman! He looked as if he were standing in open confession, ready to crawl on his knees in a Catholic church, and something of the sort actually happened. I was sitting in a corner of the room, but they didn’t care in their furious zeal. Mother was so angry, her face was burning red, and she really let the Chamberlain have it. You should have heard! He tried to excuse both the girl and himself; he said it was an innocent joke, that he absolutely did not love the girl or even know her well. But Mother replied that this made it no better, for love in itself is a good thing, though perhaps condemnable, but flirtation must be despised; it is something demonic, a shadow, a ghost. You are smiling so knowingly, dear uncle. Do you understand these words? I don’t, but I had the greatest joy in watching the Chamberlain, for I saw clearly that he was actually crying—wasn’t that delightful? He said, ‘I beg your forgiveness on my knees,’ and then he fell to the hard floor with such force that he tore Mother’s dress. Now, I thought, things will only get worse. But no! Mercy prevailed over justice. He received absolution for all his sins and, as a sign of it, was allowed to kiss Mother’s foot. The whole thing was pricelessly funny.”

Lusard assumed the most serious expression he could manage and replied, “Undoubtedly, the young gentleman is wrong not to respect a house that has so hospitably opened to him, and that the lady of the house takes it badly—no one can blame your mother for that, little Colette.”

The way Lusard said the words, “Your mother,” made Colette blush. She said bashfully, “I am not laughing at my mother but at the foolish Chamberlain.”

Mariane now spoke: “But the one suffering in this matter is the poor girl, who now weeps in despair. She insists that the young gentleman, whom she happened to meet on the stairs, seized her against her will, and I believe her. She has served us for a long time and always behaved well. She is engaged to an honest carpenter’s apprentice, and both he and her parents will suspect her conduct when she suddenly loses her position. Father has pity for her and is now trying to plead her case with Mother.”

Colette laughed. “Father pleading her case? Yes, that will surely help.”

Lusard now turned to Mariane and said, “Dear little cousin, since you care for the girl, she must indeed be a good girl. Tell her that if she would like to work at my estate in Jutland, I will write home and arrange for her to be received and given a position in my household. And if her fiancé is a capable carpenter, then there is also a place for him on my estate. The rest I shall settle with you. It shall all be done through your hands and according to your wishes.”

Mariane thanked him warmly and immediately went to bring such comforting news to the weeping girl. Colette whispered to her sister, “What did I tell you? If that man isn’t a lover, then what should one call all the other men?”

At the door, Mariane met her father, who said in passing, “I can’t help Grethe!”

“She is helped,” Mariane replied. “The good uncle is taking her into his service.”

The merchant was thoroughly pleased, especially because he saw in this yet another sign of Lusard’s affection for his daughter.

Meanwhile, a couple of other guests had arrived. They were staying in the sitting room with the lady of the house, and it seemed that there must have been something contentious in the air that day, for these two were already engaged in a lively dispute. One was Mr. Arnold, the other a somewhat older but still young military officer. They were so engaged in their discussion that they did not break the thread of their conversation even upon the entrance of Lusard and the merchant. The officer said to Arnold, “Then you will not dare to claim that he is a poor or even a mediocre poet? Can you really mean that?”

No, shouted Arnold, it isn’t, strictly speaking, my real conviction, but it is absolutely my conviction that I gladly lend a hand to overthrow him and anyone else who tries to usurp a larger or smaller throne on Parnassus, blocking the way for younger and fresher talents who cannot otherwise emerge.

“If they are any good, they will come forward just as well as their predecessors,” replied the officer, “and if they are not, then it is a genuine gain for someone to show them the way out of the Muses’ grove before it gets completely flooded.”

“In the Muses’ grove, there should at least be freedom, not respect for persons. This artistic aristocracy or literary aristocracy is no better than the kind we fight against in the state. These literary notabilities, clinging to the name they’ve once acquired, usurp not only the financial advantages in publishing and theater—advantages that could grant a young author a happy and comfortable youth—but worse still, the fame that is the goal of a young person’s striving and would give wings to their growth. Is that fair? Is that the freedom and equality the world has fought for so many years to achieve? I ask you, Mr. de Montalbert! Freedom and equality must surely be sacred ideas to you, since your late father gave his life and blood for them.”

“Since you ask me,” Lusard replied, “I must frankly admit that my father would—so to speak—turn in his grave if he heard that the freedom and equality for which he gave his life and blood meant denying merit its crown and the laborer his wages—cutting down the heads that rise above the crowd so that everyone could be equally small. Such equality is rejected by nature itself—or rather, by the higher power, the spirit that, according to a will we cannot fathom, assigns us our lot. It does not give everyone equal gifts; we are not born equal.”

“But assuming that the unconscious power we call nature is unjust and biased, shouldn’t humans strive not to be? Besides, the claim that we are not born equal could well be disputed. Great thinkers have claimed that all humans are born good and more or less with the same abilities, but that upbringing and access to opportunity suppress the good forces—and that is exactly what we should seek to prevent.”

“I believe,” said Lusard, “that truly good talents are not so easily suppressed, and the person who has genius will know what they owe to those who have shown them the way with their light.”

“I thought,” said Arnold, “that Mr. de Montalbert loved the ancients but not the outdated, like the school to which that aforementioned poet belongs.”

“But, good heavens!” the officer burst out, “you yourself admit that your criticism is not serious. And to want to tear down what you secretly admire, or to elevate what you secretly despise—that is, if I may put it that way, spiritually equivalent to what lawyers call fraud in matters of property.”

“No, it is a diplomatic method of gaining a legitimate advantage one cannot win in open battle. This intellectual arrogance, this dictator’s demeanor, does not fit with the fresh, youthful spirit of our time, which strives to break free from stiff forms and the useless, dusty learning that hinders the flight of the spirit. The new must live; the new forms must triumph in art as in the state. A fondness for everything outdated may be forgivable in our honored captain but does not suit Mr. de Montalbert, who comes from the country that has transformed the political and literary life of the world.”

“I admit,” said Lusard, “that I, too, in my younger days, burned with zeal for political movements and wished to sacrifice life and happiness for the welfare of humanity. And indeed, I would still be ready to do so if I could clearly see that my sacrifice was for the truth, not for illusions. But that is the great word: truth—the pure will to seek it. In our time, in France as everywhere, it seems most people ask, like Pilate, ‘What is truth?’ for in politics, literature, and even in life, reverence for truth appears to have vanished. And yet truth is the foundation that no feeling, no enterprise can do without. At all times, people have lied to themselves and others, but at least they were ashamed of it; nowadays, most people are not. This realization has gradually cooled my enthusiasm for many things that once inspired me in public life. There, as in the realm of art, falsehood seems to rule, and I must confess that I cannot help but look with contempt upon the great horde of poets, critics, and politicians—the many small retailers of literature—who glance enviously at the wholesalers and, as far as they are able, have adopted the old motto: ‘Peace to the huts, war on the palaces.’”

The merchant now spoke and said, “Such disputes have been held so often between our two friends here that there’s no hope of reconciliation. I won’t throw in my two cents on such matters; I’m no scholarly man.”

Arnold interrupted, laughing, “But at least you’re a bookkeeping man.”

“Well, it couldn’t very well be otherwise. But I was going to say: whenever I occasionally have the time and opportunity, it’s a great comfort for me to take—”

“A pinch of snuff,” Arnold interrupted again.

The merchant continued, unfazed, “—a good book, and it has often, when my mind was heavy, cheered and comforted me. And therefore, I believe one should be grateful to anyone who provides us with such a good hour.”

“No,” replied Arnold, “if the book is paid for, then you owe no thanks. But if you borrowed it, that’s another matter—especially if you happen to smoke tobacco while reading.”

The lady laughed and seemed to enjoy these last remarks. Lusard turned to her and said, “It’s a strange tone this young gentleman allows himself toward your husband.”

He said this quietly, but the lady exclaimed loudly with laughter, “Good heavens! Can’t you hear that it’s irony?”

“Irony?” repeated Lusard, surprised.

“What’s that?” asked Arnold. “Does Mr. Montalbert not understand irony? The kind I use, for example?”

“No, I must admit that this is a kind of irony I do not recognize, and I almost believe that neither Voltaire nor Lichtenberg would acknowledge it if they heard it.”

“Well, I couldn’t care less. Those gentlemen are outdated too, as far as I can see. In fact, I must confess that Lichtenberg is a name I hear for the first time, and as for Voltaire, I had enough of him just flipping through one of his tragedies. Whatever else he may have written, he can keep for himself and his admirers.”

The company was now called to the table, and Lusard said to himself, “Good night, my plan! Heaven preserve me from having that man in my daily company, even if I could win the delightful nightingale who, alas, sings in his cage. Ah! I see well enough that I shall return home just as poor as I came.”

At the table, Arnold said, “Speaking of literary matters! By chance, I was leafing through a catalog of books that are to be auctioned in the coming days, and my eyes fell on a piece titled ‘Primulae veris, Poems by F.C. Valler.’ Surely, Mr. Merchant, it wasn’t you who, in your youth, went picking primroses in the Muses’ recently mentioned grove?”

The merchant didn’t get a chance to answer because Lusard exclaimed, “You are doing me a real service with this information. That book has been sought in vain by both my parents and me, as a lost family heirloom. Please tell me where I can find the catalog, for I will make sure to be a wise man at the auction, and that book shall be mine, even if I have to pay ten times its value.”

“I hardly think it will be bid up against you,” said Arnold, laughing. “At least, I won’t be the one to do it.”

“Thank you for that,” replied Lusard.

The merchant said, “Yes, that book also disappeared from my father’s house. It’s as if it vanished from the face of the earth. The author, my late cousin Ferdinand Valler, also vanished from his friends and his homeland because of it.”

The master and mistress of the house left shortly after the meal for a country estate a mile outside the city, where they were to spend the evening. The guests went their separate ways. The two youngest children went with the maid to Tivoli, and the two eldest daughters, as usual, remained home alone.

The building adjacent to the merchant’s house was a hotel, where among other travelers there happened to be a foreigner lodging, an old acquaintance of Lusard. After spending a little time with the young girls, he left them to pay a visit to this gentleman. However, the gentleman wasn’t home; his door was locked. A hotel attendant assured Lusard that he was expected back in half an hour and suggested that Lusard spend the time in a garden pavilion adjoining the house. Lusard was tired and gladly accepted the offer to rest in the cool, fragrant arbor.

The garden was enclosed by a wooden fence that separated it from the courtyard of the neighboring house, but the pavilion was only separated from a similar one on the neighbor’s property by a thick hedge and a small fence. Lusard remembered from years past that the merchant’s property included a small garden. He peeked through a less dense spot in the otherwise thick hedge and recognized the old, tiny garden, which consisted only of the mentioned pavilion and a flower bed whose roses and mignonette sent their fragrance toward him, proving that this spot still had loving caretakers.

It was warm; Lusard had been bored at the luncheon, and he felt sluggish and tired. A pleasant silence prevailed around him, and without intending to, he fell asleep. He slept so soundly that although he was half-aware that someone was speaking nearby, he was unable to fully awaken until he distinctly heard his own name mentioned. He opened his eyes but saw no one nearby; it quickly became clear, however, that the voices came from the pavilion inside the merchant’s garden, and that one of the speakers was none other than Mariane, who said, “It’s an absurd rumor; I should know best. But even if Mr. Lusard were truly courting me, do you think that either he or anyone else in the world could persuade me to break the faith I have pledged to you?”

Lusard said to himself, “In truth? It seems that my good star has led me here to end my uncertainty.”

With the utmost care not to be discovered, he eagerly peered through the small opening between the leaves of the hedge. He saw Mariane sitting beside a young man. They both had their backs turned toward the pavilion where Lusard was hidden, and the foliage so completely concealed the man’s head that nothing could be seen of his person except that he was tall and that his left hand, which he rested on the back of the bench behind Mariane’s seat, was white and well-formed. On that hand, he wore a ring with a striking design—a stone engraved with a dolphin—so finely and clearly cut that even a less keen eye than Lusard’s would have noticed it at such a short distance. When this half-invisible figure began to speak after a brief pause, with an unusually deep and resonant voice, the voice was entirely unfamiliar to Lusard, and he realized this man was completely unknown to him.

The young lover—because he revealed himself as such immediately—said after a deep sigh, “Dearest Mariane! I asked you to meet me so that I could have one more confidential conversation with you. I will try to speak as calmly as possible, and I beg you also to listen calmly and not interrupt me until I have finished, because what I have to say takes all the strength I can muster to speak aloud.”

“You frighten me!” replied Mariane. “With a joy that has been almost foreign to me for so long, I came here tonight. Will you now turn it into sorrow?”

“Oh Mariane! Most lovable, noblest, best of all girls! I have no words to express how highly I value you, how fervent yet tender the love is that I have long borne for you. I know I will never find your equal, and you shall never find that I have given anyone else your place in my heart, no matter where my adverse fate may lead me. Saying this is both a need and a comfort to me. Do you not believe me?”

“I do believe you.”

“And I believe you too. You said earlier that no one would ever persuade you to break the faith you have pledged to me. Of that I am also convinced; I know your steadfast loyalty, which unites with feminine gentleness in your lovely soul. Oh, blessed is the man who can lead such a bride home! No misfortune should crush his spirit, no labor be too heavy for him. Ah, but I say this too late! For I must add: Such a talisman against life’s misery was mine, but I was not worthy of it and must let it slip from my trembling hand.”

“My God! What do you mean? What is the offense for which you accuse yourself?”

“I accuse myself of the one thing that causes all of life’s suffering: selfishness, which thinks only of its own immediate desires; pride, which refuses to submit to the law common to all fallen mankind: ‘By the sweat of your brow you shall eat your bread.’ He who is alone has the right to live like the poor bird who today finds a grain and tomorrow lies dead in the snow. But the man who has bound a beloved girl’s fate to his own must answer when her most beautiful years are wasted in disappointed hopes, when, in return for her sacrificed youth and joy of life, she gains a domestic existence embittered by financial worries. No, that shall not be your fate, my young rose, whose fresh bloom already bends its head in sorrow for me.”

“What do you mean? What is all this supposed to mean? Are we not both young? Is the world closed to you? Are you an ignorant, incapable man without knowledge? Doesn’t everyone agree on the opposite? Have you wasted your time in idleness?”

“Not in idleness, but wasted it nonetheless—wasted it for my future prospects, wasted the fortune I inherited a few years ago from my mother’s uncle. It wasn’t large, but I could have used it more wisely than on my travels and endless pursuits. I’ve told you before, my last journey was entirely unsuccessful. Everything failed. I own nothing more than what’s needed to carry out the decision I have made.”

“Now listen to me, Ferdinand! I am not one of those women who believe that a man should, out of love for them, sacrifice his pursuit of honor or his devotion to knowledge. It is not a man’s calling to live only thinking of a beloved being; he should not sacrifice what constitutes his worth as a man. It is, on the contrary, a woman’s calling to sweeten his burden with love and patience. I believe I have the strength for that. I will patiently wait for you and be happy to share your circumstances, whatever they may be, because they are yours.”

“Oh Mariane, stop! My heart breaks at your sweet words. But the more glorious you show yourself to me, the more I feel it is my duty not to misuse your goodness. For alas! I know—I have seen enough examples of lovers who spoke as you do now but who forgot life’s brevity, the power and instability of human destiny, and who bitterly regretted the ruined life and the misplaced trust in the eternity of their feelings. It would take far too long before I could dare to ask you to share my fate. The years pass heavily, yet so quickly. You have no pleasant home, no strong protector against your stepmother’s injustice and jealousy. To know you are in such a situation weighs on me like a heavy guilt. Therefore, I have sworn to act like a man and not to stray from what I believe to be my duty. You know my old friend and comrade, Lieutenant Volmer; I came here with him, and with his grandfather, the old commander, whose ship departs in a few days, I am sailing to South America, as I told you. Let the thought that a happy fate awaits you be like a good and comforting spirit that follows me. I believe I know from a reliable source that Mr. Lusard loves you, and how could a man like him see and know you and remain cold to your loveliness? I have never seen him, but he is not a stranger to me. You yourself say he is not young, but more handsome and charming than all the young gentlemen you know. I beg you, do not say no if he proposes to you; do not reject his honorable, protective hand. Think of the rich life that opens to you at his side, how much good you could do, how many blessings you could harvest!”

“And to do this good, should I begin with a bad deed? Oh Ferdinand! Is it you preaching this false virtue? If this man loved me and offered me his hand—which he surely never will—he would surely believe he was offering it to an innocent girl with a free heart, and should I give him mine as a deceiver?”

“No, no! Most innocent, purest of all girls! You would confide everything to him, tell him about this conversation of ours, and thus secure yourself even more in his esteem.”

“No, I will not do that. I would be happy to live with Lusard as a sister, as a daughter; I will shed heartfelt tears when this, my only protective friend, leaves us. But his wife I will not be. I am not worthy of it, since my heart is filled with the image of another. Is this your love, that you would thus give me away? You do not love me anymore, for otherwise, you would not forget my pain in your cruel words. No, you do not love me; you sacrifice me to your pride.”

“Oh Mariane! Must I drink the bitter cup of being misunderstood, misjudged by you?”

The young man sighed deeply. They were both silent. Finally, with visible effort, he said, “The future is in higher hands. There is an eternal justice; it will reward your quiet virtues—it cannot be otherwise. But I must not waste your beautiful life. It must be so. I have come to tell you this: You are free! I release you from all the bonds that tied you to me! Here is your ring! Give me mine back!”

Lusard saw the young man pull a small, simple ring from his right hand and hold it out to Mariane, who pushed his hand away and said with a voice clearly struggling against tears, “No, I will not take it back. I will not force myself upon a man who wishes to break our bond, but my ring I will never see again—you may throw it into the sea when the last shadow of our homeland’s coast disappears from your sight. Nor will I give yours back. Hidden, like my love, I have worn it for three years; it shall not leave me in the time I have left.”

She stood up. The young man seized her hand and asked, “Will you leave me like this?”

“I have nothing more to say.”

“But—one farewell! A heartfelt farewell! One last embrace before parting!”

She threw herself into his arms, weeping bitterly, then tore herself free and walked away without a word. The young man threw himself face-down on the bench and gave himself over to a grief he surely neither expected nor wanted witnesses to see. At last, he rose and left.

Lusard remained seated, astonished, moved, and thoughtful. It had grown twilight, and he quietly left, no longer thinking of the visit that had originally brought him there.

He hurried to Dalund and confided in his old friend the scene he had just witnessed. “Where,” he exclaimed, “shall I search for this unknown man? Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“I have a suspicion but no certainty,” Dalund replied. “I believe it must be a very handsome naval officer who, a couple of years ago, was frequently in the Valler household and whose love for Mariane was apparent to everyone. He has been away for some time, but I saw in the papers that he recently returned and has been redeployed—I don’t recall where or with which ship—but his words, as you’ve told me, seem to match perfectly. His name is Kremnitz.”

“And his first name?”

“That I don’t know. It starts with an ‘F,’ that much I remember from seeing it in the papers. I must say, I’m glad it’s not Arnold that Mariane loves.”

“But how shall I be certain that this officer truly is the right one? A misunderstanding here would be terrible. For my plan as a whole, a naval officer wouldn’t suit—he likely won’t abandon his career to become a landowner. But perhaps I can still secure Mariane’s future. That must at least be the benefit I take from this trip.”

“Try to sound out Colette,” Dalund replied. “She’s clever and might hold her sister’s confidence. Besides, she’s a little gossip who could turn into something very bad or very good, depending on the circumstances.”

State Councillor Dalund, however, was mistaken in assuming Colette’s lack of discretion, for despite Lusard’s most skillful attempts the following day to extract information from her regarding her sister’s situation, he gained not the slightest clue. Nevertheless, Mariane had not been able to conceal the reason for the emotional turmoil she had shown the previous evening from her sympathetic friend. Lusard decided, as a last resort, to address Mariane directly; but the poor girl was so pale, her appearance so sharply at odds with the composure she struggled to display, that he did not dare touch on the delicate matter and postponed it to a more suitable moment.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned book auction was in full swing. Lusard had already attended the opening session and returned in the afternoon, when the book he desired was likely to be sold. Shortly after his arrival in the auction hall, the book came up. It was placed on the table and announced for two marks. Those sitting nearest the auctioneer glanced at it, and some quietly remarked that it was unlikely to fetch any bids. Then Lusard quickly nodded to the auctioneer, who called out, “Two marks are bid.”

“Three!” came a voice, and Lusard noticed a young man standing directly across from him behind some seated people.

“Four marks, five, one rix-dollar,” the bids now alternated between the two, followed by, “Eight marks, ten marks, two rix-dollars.” Some proprietors of lending libraries began paying attention, thinking there must be something special about the seemingly insignificant piece. They also joined the bidding, following along until three rix-dollars, at which point they withdrew, while the two eager bidders continued with what seemed like a gambling frenzy.

Ten to twelve rix-dollars were already bid. The auctioneer could barely announce a bid before a higher one was made. Everyone present watched in astonishment as the two rivals’ fervor increased by the second. The book was passed around; everyone inspected it with curiosity, while the contenders continued overbidding one another, and everyone waited in tense anticipation to see how this would end. Finally, when the price had risen to 25 rix-dollars, the young man fell silent, and the book was awarded to Lusard, who, smiling, laid the money on the auctioneer’s table and seized the precious volume as his rightful property.

He now examined his rival more closely, who, with a somewhat melancholy expression, followed his movements as he opened the book and then tucked it away.

There was something noble and distinguished in this unknown man’s features and entire bearing that struck Lusard. He sought to engage him, and as they happened to leave the house at the same time, he approached him, greeted him, and said, “Allow me to walk a little way with you; we were such faithful companions at the auction.”

The young man tipped his hat without replying.

Lusard continued, “Although, for personal reasons, I was particularly pleased to become the owner of the book we drove each other up for—and would not have given it up for double the price—it nevertheless pains me that someone else, who must have had a similar interest, had to yield it to me.”

The stranger replied, in a voice Lusard thought he recognized, “It need not pain you, for frankly, it was foolish of me to engage in a bidding war that exceeded my means. But I had a childish—an almost superstitious—desire to own that book. Yes, why should I not call it a childlike love for it, since its author was my grandfather?”

“What do I hear? Are you Bergland? A grandson of Ferdinand Valler?”

“Yes, I am Ferdinand Bergland. Is my insignificant name known to you?”

“Indeed it is! You are my relative, whom I have long sought, as I consider you the closest to me of all my kin. My name is Lusard de Montalbert.”

The young man removed his hat and fixed his gaze on Lusard with an indescribable expression as Lusard continued, “My late parents honored and loved your grandfather as their dearest and most intimate friend. From my childhood, his name was spoken to me by loving, grateful lips. I myself remember seeing him and loving him with all the fullness of my childish heart. I ask you, dear cousin, come with me to my lodgings and grant me a conversation. I hope it will not be unpleasant for you.”

As soon as they entered the room, Lusard took out the book and handed it to Ferdinand, saying, “Take this book, which truly seems to play a mysterious role in our family. You are closer to it than I; it shall be yours. And now, I ask you, put aside your hat and gloves and sit here with me in friendly confidence, as befits honest kinsmen.”

As Ferdinand removed his gloves, Lusard seized his left hand and said with a smile, “This ring is precisely what I hoped to see. I recognize it.”

Ferdinand looked at him in surprise and replied, “It belonged to my mother’s uncle, a man who was kind to me.”

“My acquaintance with it is very recent,” said Lusard, “no older than last night, but it is a most welcome sign, confirming the suspicion your voice had already given me: that in you I find, doubly, something I have long sought and to which my highest hopes are tied. You are Ferdinand Valler’s grandson—and Mariane Valler’s lover. You look astonished. Do not fear, my young friend! I am not your rival, as you may think, though it is indeed one of my warmest wishes to bind your beloved’s fate close to mine. Let me solve this riddle for you. A coincidence—or rather, a higher providence, for which I bow in gratitude at this very moment—led me last night to a garden arbor right next to the one where you had arranged to meet Mariane. I recognized her; I had reasons to wish to learn her sentiments, and I was witness to your conversation.”

With visible embarrassment, the young man replied, “Ah! If that is so, I must fear that you find me hard and unloving. I myself have asked my conscience during a sleepless night whether I was. But God is my witness to the painful struggle it cost me.”

“Yes, I too was a witness to this pain,” Lusard answered, “and I too have asked myself whether you were to be praised or blamed. I confess to you honestly: in this particular case, I blame you; for a heart as sensitive as Mariane’s can bear the pressure of outward misfortune without breaking, but from the hand of a beloved, it receives only too easily a wound that cannot be healed. Has fresh hope, courage, and endurance so abandoned the youth of today that it no longer dares to try to lift life’s burdens? You are, I know, a man of many talents. Why must you leave your homeland and tear apart a bond that was precious to you?”

“Oh dear uncle! You are noble, wise, and experienced in the world. But there is one thing in which you are not experienced: you have never known the bitter humiliation with which the proud world oppresses the poor, those who have no social standing, no name that commands respect in its eyes. I am at fault for having wasted time and neglected the paths that lead to these indispensable goods—social esteem and a secure livelihood. But still, I am conscious that I have not wasted my time in idleness. On the contrary! A passion for finding light in nature and in the sciences—light that perhaps does not reveal itself to those who grasp at it too restlessly—that is my fault. But for that, I am no vagabond or loafer. Yet I know those are the honorable titles the world generally gives me, and my sense of honor cannot bear it. Therefore, I wanted to flee to the ends of the earth and seek the peace and bread I could not find here. Perhaps I am wrong in this, too. But I have felt so forsaken. Now I have found you. My heart bends toward you; it has been a long time since it felt drawn to anyone. Guide me—I will follow your will.”

“That is a word well spoken. I am alone, without wife or children; my life too has had its restless, wandering period. Yet there is one thing in which I have worked and sown seeds for the future: I own a large estate. The welfare of many people and the success of many useful undertakings depend on its management. I wish to leave it in capable and loving hands. I wish to sweeten my solitude and brighten my approaching old age in the happiness of family life. In short, I wish for a son and heir. To find such a one among my relatives, I traveled here from my home. I first thought of the children of my uncle Ferdinand. I searched in vain for the only one remaining of his line. I found the lovely Mariane. I wished to choose the one she had chosen with her heart. Unexpectedly, I find both my wishes united in you. My young friend, if you will be a father to my good countryfolk and a son to me, then give me your hand!”

Ferdinand seized his hand and pressed it to his lips, unable to speak.

“Then come,” said Lusard, “let me take you back to the house from which you were unjustly driven, and while you throw yourself at Mariane’s feet and obtain her forgiveness, I will speak with her father. And it shall be, as I hope, an easy task to win his consent and blessing.” – –

On a beautiful September day, toward sunset, the young Mariane Bergland sat in the magnificent garden of the beautiful manor house, where Lusard had recently triumphantly brought the happy young married couple, along with the cheerful Colette. Both sisters sat with their needlework in the arbor. They laughed and joked like happy children when Lusard entered with Ferdinand and said, “Both heaven and earth are so beautiful this evening. Let us truly enjoy this evening. I ask you, dearest Mariane, to have our supper set here in this arbor, to have it lit and adorned with fragrant flowers with which your and Colette’s kind hands can decorate this table around which we will gather. Ferdinand has promised to read a book that we are all interested in getting to know.”

After a couple of hours, they gathered as agreed. The lamps burned quietly in the still night, while the moon cast its bluish rays directly onto the table and flowers, as if to put the earthly lights to shame. And the stars high in the sky peeked with trembling curiosity through the foliage. Ferdinand now began, in his resonant voice, to read the youthful poems that had so powerfully influenced their author’s fate and the fate of the entire Valler family. He read them from beginning to end, for none in his audience wanted to miss a single page of these sacred “Primulae veris.”

When the reading was finished, Lusard exclaimed, “It is, as Ossian says, voices from a time that is no more.”

“It is to my ears a beautiful voice,” said Mariane, “a youthful voice that sounds from the depths of the heart, and even if it now and then strikes a false note, it still sings like the bird, simply to sing, from an honest, warm, and vibrant heart.”

“Very true,” replied Ferdinand. “But with all love and respect for my grandfather, it is certain that if these poems were published now, they would be considered insignificant, even though they were perfectly in tune with the political views of their time. It cannot be denied that our age, with its refined and elevated taste, stands far above that in which these poems first saw the light.”

“That is true,” said Lusard. “Our time would reject much, both in art and in life, that those earlier days were content with—and that indeed speaks for its refined taste.”

“Yes,” added Ferdinand, “and when one considers that it is only half a century since the time we are speaking of, is it not as if the world has become another place in so many respects during that span?”

“Ah!” said Lusard, “at the very moment you say this, I am struck by the thought that everything in life repeats itself so remarkably. Here we sit, on a September evening in the moonlight, in an arbor decorated with lights and flowers, reading this book—whose first appearance, according to my parents’ account, was celebrated by them in just such a way, in an arbor like this one, on an evening like this. And exactly as a repetition of that little celebration, my father commemorated his youthful memories with his long-lost friend in the very same arbor where we now sit, and there he learned for the first time from Ferdinand Valler about the existence of his son and the fate of his faithful beloved. Now we too have celebrated a repetition of those evenings so unforgettable for my parents, but—like everything in life—under a different form. And so it seems to me, in both great and small things, that everything repeats itself. I must admit that I do not believe in a new golden age here in our earthly existence, nor in a thousand-year reign in which all conflicting forces will be reconciled. Humanity remains fundamentally the same; the same passions, the same ideas return, but under altered forms.”

“But still,” exclaimed Ferdinand, “under more beautiful, clearer, and freer forms. I rejoice in living in an age that, despite its shortcomings, is making such mighty progress in so many directions. I profess the belief that humanity, though through oscillations, nevertheless steadily moves toward the goal of perfection conceivable for an earthly existence.”

“Amen!” said Lusard. “Yes, yes, let us hope so! Let us, like brave sailors, look with trust toward the mighty hand that steers the helm, even if we can only glimpse it through the fog, and let us hold fast to the anchor, even though the waves strike angrily against it and threaten to tear it from us.”