Essential Novelists - Paul Heyse. Paul Heyse

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 shepherd in the fairy tale, who wandered into a magic castle. Any attempt to improve his costume he gave up as hopeless, but he was about to draw from his coat pocket the gloves which he usually carried there, when the opposite door of the little ante-room unclosed, and the beautiful, bewitching creature entered, followed by the dwarf.

      She paused upon the threshold with an air of indignant surprise, then turning to the boy she seemed to give utterance to some reproof, from which he defended himself in a whisper. Thus Edwin had time to look at her, and to recover from his own embarrassment.

      Her beauty was really so remarkable, that she might have unsettled the brains of a far more discerning admirer of womankind than our philosopher. He had described her tolerably well to his brother the preceding night, but here in the broad light of day, she seemed to him to have assumed an entirely different appearance; her complexion was more brilliant, her eyes wore a more dreamy expression, and she seemed to possess a quiet, careless indifference, such as we see in children who, loving nothing and hating nothing, are troubled at nought. Moreover the light dress that enwrapped her like a cloud was particularly becoming, and her hair, with the familiar little curls on the neck, seemed darker from the contrast.

      She greeted the stranger with a scarcely perceptible bend of the head. "Herr—?" she began, and looked at him inquiringly.

      "Pardon me, Fräulein," he replied in an unconstrained manner, which he feigned with very tolerable skill, "I have been unable to deny myself the pleasure of taking advantage of a lucky chance, and of presenting myself in person as the honest finder of your property. Besides, I hoped I might not be entirely unknown to you."

      "You? To me?"

      "I had the pleasure last evening of sitting next you in a box at the opera-house during the first act of the ballet."

      A hasty glance from her wondering eyes scanned his face. "I do not remember it," she said curtly.

      "Well, I must endure the mortification," he replied smiling. He was really glad that she treated him so coldly. His pride, which had been intimidated by her beauty, suddenly awoke and aided him to recover his equanimity.

      "You have something to return to me?" she now said in a somewhat impatient tone. "I have not missed anything, but may I ask you, sir, to tell me—"

      He drew the white satin ribbon from his pocket, and held it out to her. A sudden change took place in her cold bearing. She approached him, and her eyes sparkled with childish delight. "Ah! that," she exclaimed, "yes, indeed, that does belong to me. I must have dropped it scarcely an hour ago, and so have had no time to miss it. Thanks—a thousand thanks. It is a keepsake."

      She took it from his hand, and in so doing vouchsafed him her first friendly glance, then with a bow which resembled a sign of dismissal, she moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless in the same spot.

      "You know, Fräulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to answer a question?"

      "What is it?"

      "Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"

      "Why do you wish to know that?"

      "From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You know, Fräulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge those who do not write books by some piece of handiwork."

      She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.

      "This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I should have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even pretty. But it is a present from my youngest sister, who put it in my hymn-book the day I was confirmed."

      "Strange!" he said, as if to himself.

      "What is strange?"

      "That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a hymn-book to Balzac!"

      "Balzac? How to you know—"

      "I beg your pardon, Fräulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"

      Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.

      "Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French literature; he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in Paris. His books recalled old memories."

      "And do you like them? 'Père Goriot,' for instance?"

      "He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and—the style is so good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters, who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them—it is horrible."

      "Thank you, Fräulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever author can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should refuse to associate with them. In books we submit to the most disagreeable society."

      She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a chambermaid entered and said a few words in a low tone.

      "I will come directly," answered her young mistress, and then turned to Edwin. "Excuse me, sir, I am called away. Accept my best thanks again. Jean, show the gentleman to the door."

      The lad instantly stepped forward, but Edwin did not seem to notice him.

      "I should like to ask one more question," said he.

      "Sir—?"

      "I obtained a glimpse of your charming rooms through the open doors. Everything that the most capricious fancy can desire seems to be supplied, with the exception of what is to me a necessity of life."

      "You mean—?"

      "A small library. Even the copy of Balzac, I see you have ordered from a circulating library. Pardon my frankness, Fräulein, but I do not understand how such beautiful fingers can touch a book which has already been on so many tables and passed through so many hands of doubtful cleanliness."

      He saw her blush and cast an almost startled glance at the book on the little marble table.

      "I have not been here long," she replied, "and as yet have given no thought to procuring books."

      "Then permit me to put my little stock at your disposal. True, it is not very rich in French literature, but if you have no aversion to German books—"