The Children of the World. Paul Heyse

the marble statue of the king and the Louise island, where a few weeks before he had developed his best thoughts for the prize essay, he threw himself upon the grass in the dense shade of the huge beeches and closed his eyes, that undisturbed he might devote himself to his hopeless love dream.

      Despite his twenty-nine years, his feelings were precisely similar to those which fall to the lot of every one when attacked by his first schoolboy love: the sensation of yielding to violence, of quite forgetting self, and of being borne away on a flood-tide of passion, is so strong and so delightful, that it swallows up all other emotions and impulses, and the thought of possession, or even the desire for a responsive feeling, can scarcely arise,--or, if at all, not in the first stages, and in such a virgin soul as that of our philosopher. The very unexpectedness, aimlessness, and unreasonableness of this event, was to him, o'erwearied with arduous toil over abstruse thoughts, like bathing in a shoreless sea, where, floating, he suffered the waves to buoy him above the fathomless depths.

      A hoarse hand-organ close by, which suddenly began to play the "Prince of Arcadia," roused him rudely from the reverie in which time and place were both forgotten. He sprang to his feet, and sought some escape from the intrusive, soulless sounds. In a modest restaurant, where only a few plain citizens were drinking coffee, he hurriedly ate his dinner, and then as the seats were beginning to fill with afternoon guests, he hastily departed, whither he did not himself know; he was only vaguely conscious of a repugnance to appearing in broad daylight, in so helpless a condition, before the brother to whom the preceding night he had frankly confessed his state of mind.

      So glancing about him, he walked diagonally through the shrubbery, without any definite purpose, until he entered a broader avenue, when he suddenly stood still, and with a cry of joyful astonishment gazed at some distant object. It was at nothing more remarkable than a red and white striped summer waistcoat, which, as the sun was shining full upon it, was plainly visible. But it contained a little figure that he readily recognized; a boy about fourteen years old, who wore a high collar, a stiff cravat, a leather-colored livery jacket, and knee-breeches of the same material. The youngster was sitting on a bench in a droll old-fashioned attitude; he had placed his shining oil-skin hat beside him, and was engaged in smoothing his light hair with a little brush, glancing from time to time into a small hand-glass.

      Edwin would have recognized this boy among a crowd of miniature lackeys, but he had not time to look at him long. Just as he took a few paces forward, fully determined to question him concerning his mistress, a slender figure in a light summer dress and broad Florentine straw hat rose from the next bench, which was concealed by a drooping branch, glanced over her shoulder at the boy, and then holding in one hand the book she had been reading, and carrying a parasol lightly over her shoulder, she walked rapidly toward the main avenue which runs from the Brandebourg gate directly through the Zoölogical Garden.

      Her motions were so rapid that the little fellow in the large gaiters found it difficult to overtake her, and even Edwin was compelled to take long strides. As he passed the bench where she had been sitting, he saw a ribbon lying on the ground, which, in her hasty departure, she seemed to have lost. He picked it up; it was a white satin book-mark, the ends trimmed with gold fringe, and somewhat clumsily embroidered in blue and black beads with the well-known symbols of faith, hope, and charity. This discovery detained him a moment. Meantime its owner had already reached an elegant carriage, which had been waiting for her outside, the little page had opened the door, the lady entered without his assistance, the horses started, and the light equipage rolled toward the city at a rapid pace.

      But today Edwin had not only better fortune than on the day previous, but also the presence of mind necessary to seize his opportunity. An empty droschky was moving lazily down the road; he threw himself into it and promised the driver a double fare, if he would overtake the carriage and not lose sight of it.

      They drove through the gate, down Unter den Linden, turned to the right into Friedrichstrasse, and then to the left into the Jägerstrasse, where the equipage stopped before a pretty new house. The little servant climbed down from the box like a monkey, opened the door, and followed the lady, who had sprung lightly out, into the house, the carriage driving off at once.

      Edwin dismissed his droschky at the corner of the street, and now with a throbbing heart walked past the house several times on the opposite side of the street, gazing at the open windows to see whether the charming face would not appear at one of them. But there was nothing to be seen, except in one of the rooms on the second story a flower-stand containing magnificent palms and other broad-leaved plants, and at the window near by a large bird-cage with glittering gilded wires. Here, then, was where she lived. He had in his pocket the best possible excuse for introducing himself, and yet for a long time he could not summon up courage to enter the house and mount the stairs.

      When he at last nerved himself to this, he lingered a few moments at the door, trying to recall his somewhat rusty French, in case she really should not understand German. Then he felt ashamed of his boyish timidity and pulled the bell so vigorously, that it pealed loudly through the silent house.

      The door was instantly opened, the striped waistcoat appeared, and its owner stared at the noisy visitor, with a disapproving expression in his round, watery blue eyes.

      "Be kind enough, my little fellow," said Edwin, "to inform your mistress that some one desires to speak to her, and to return something she has lost."

      "Whom have I the honor--?" asked the well-trained dwarf.

      "The name is of no consequence. Do as I have told you."

      The boy disappeared, but returned in a short time, during which Edwin heard no French spoken, and said: "The young lady begs you to walk in here a moment."

      As he spoke he opened the door of a small ante-room, furnished only with a few elegant cane chairs and a dainty marble table, on which lay a book and fan.

      "What is your name, my boy?" Edwin asked the little fellow, as he seated himself with much apparent self-possession.

      "My real name is Hans Jacob, but my mistress calls me Jean."

      "Isn't this your first place, little Jean Jacques? You seem to be a precocious genius."

      "My first service was with a baron; then I learned to ride, and I had the reins to hold when he got out of the cabriolet, for he drove, himself. Here there is only a hired coachman."

      "And how long have you lived with this young lady?"

      "Just a fortnight. It's a very easy place, I have every Sunday to myself; there is a chambermaid too."

      "Can you speak French, Jean Jacques?"

      The boy blushed. Edwin seemed to have wounded his pride.

      "The young lady speaks German," he replied. "But there is her bell. I must go."

      Edwin mechanically took up the book that lay upon the little table. "Balzac!" said he. "'Père Goriot.' After all, she is probably a wandering Pole or Russian; they speak all languages, and drink in Balzac, with their mother's milk."

      He rose and glanced into the adjoining room. The little salon, into which the light struggled, through heavy crimson curtains, was rendered still darker by the wide spreading leaves of the palms. Before the mirror a parrot was swinging in a ring, without uttering a sound. The walls were dark, the ceiling wainscoted with brown wood, and on the black marble mantlepiece stood a heavy verde antique clock. The brightness and spaciousness of the next apartment, into which he could obtain but a partial glimpse through the open door, seemed greatly enhanced in comparison with this. Tent-like hangings with gilded rods, a portion of a dainty buffet with glittering silverware, and directly opposite to the door a little table covered with dishes, but, so far as he could see, furnished with but one plate. Besides these things, he noticed the constant chirping and fluttering of the birds in the great cage.

      Edwin had had ample opportunity, while teaching the young members of noble families, to compare the furnishing of the "tun" with the luxurious arrangements of city houses. Hitherto the contrast had never been painful to him. To-day, for the first time, he seemed to himself as he chanced to glance into the mirror, like the