Chapter V: Goethe

With the earliest beams of morning Goethe awoke. "Alide" was his first thought, and he sprang from his bed and began hastily to dress himself, that he might go into the open air and see her in the broad, dewy light of the young day. But now he was indeed horrified at the absurd wardrobe which he had so wantonly selected: the farther he advanced in his toilet, the meaner it seemed in his eyes, for everything had been calculated for just this effect. His hair could easily be managed; but when he forced himself into the shabby gray coat, and saw himself reflected in the little mirror piece by piece, first the short, threadbare sleeves, then the ill-fitting jacket, and then the ridiculous breeches, he fell into despair. He looked at Waldstein's fine clothes as they hung over the chair, and gladly would he have carried them off and left his accursed husk behind, for Max was sufficiently good-humored to have put himself readily into his friend's costume, and so the tale would have found a merry ending early in the morning. But Waldstein was so much shorter and stouter than himself that this attire would give him as ridiculous an appearance as his own. While he was standing with a perplexed, dejected countenance, summoning all his powers of invention, he heard a low, smothered laugh issuing from under the silken bed-quilt. He turned quickly and saw Max peering mischievously out upon him. "No, it is true," exclaimed Max, "you do look most cursedly!"

"And I know what I will do!" cried Goethe, impetuously. "Good-by, and make my excuses."

Waldstein sprang from the bed and tried to detain him. "Are you mad?" he called out. But it was too late, for his friend was already out of the door, down the stairs, out of the house and yard, and off to the tavern.

Now that he felt himself in safety, the cheerful sunlight and the cool breath of morning somewhat restored his quiet. He walked rapidly across the meadows to the Drusenheim inn, mounted his horse, which he had left there the evening before, and rode leisurely towards Strasburg, with the intention, of changing his toilet, taking a fresh horse, and returning to the parsonage in time for dinner, or at the latest for dessert, and making his apologies and explanations. As he recalled the evening which he had spent with the Durocs, the pleasant incidents that had occurred, and the delicious emotions he had experienced, his vexation at his own folly, and his impatience to see again the beloved face of Alide, grew wellnigh intolerable. He was just about to clap spurs into his steed and gallop into the city, when a sudden thought flashed upon him, and, turning the animal about, he rode back towards Drusenheim. He entered the court-yard of the tavern, and inquired for the landlord's son, whom he had remarked as a likely lad yesterday afternoon. Master Fritz, a well-made, good-looking youth, of somewhat the same figure and height as Goethe, soon made his appearance. In a few words Wolfgang proposed that the young man should exchange clothes with him, as he had something merry on foot at the parsonage.

"Capital!" cried Fritz; "you must be a good fellow, to make sport for the mam'selles; they are such excellent people, especially Mam'selle Alide; and the old folks, too, are fond of having everything go on pleasantly." He looked critically at Goethe's shabby costume, evidently taking him for a poor enough starveling, but he was honest-hearted and amiable, and, besides, Wolfgang was to leave his good horse in the stable; so, without any ado, he consented to the bargain, adding, complacently, "If you wish to insinuate yourself, this is the right way."

Goethe soon stood smart enough in the court-yard, and his new friend looked with much satisfaction at the counterpart. "Topp! Mr. Brother," he cried, giving his hand, which Wolfgang grasped heartily, "don't come too near my girl; she might make a mistake."

"Let me go in with you a moment," said Goethe, "that I may dress my hair like yours." "Since my intentions are enigmatical," he thought, "I will make myself an external riddle also." In a short time his soft brown locks were knotted jauntily on top, and with the help of a burnt cork his delicate arched eyebrows were thickened and darkened, and made to meet over his nose like those of the innkeeper's son. Then, taking the gayly-beribboned hat, he said, "Now, have you not something or other to be done at the parsonage, that I might announce myself there in a natural manner?"

"Good," said the lad; "but in that case you must wait a couple of hours yet. There is a woman confined at our house. I will offer to take the cake to the parson's wife, and you may carry it over. Pride must pay its penalty, and so must a joke."

His first device to beguile the tedious time was to order breakfast. He sat at the table familiarly with Fritz, and proposed to loiter an hour or so at the meal; but his exercise in the bracing air had added such zest to his appetite that when he had satisfied his hunger he found, to his surprise, but twenty minutes sped of his two hours' penance. Fritz suggested that Goethe, being an apt and amiable fellow, should go with him to the farmyard and stables and superintend the household arrangements for the day, and perhaps lend here and there a helping hand. Goethe was just the man to have interested himself deeply at any other moment in all the particulars of this active, healthy life, these varied duties, this genial, pleasant occupation which Fritz was to inherit and in which he already performed a large share of the work. Besides, the open-hearted peasant took the stranger into his confidence, and imparted various perplexities of his love-affairs, which just now were in rather an embarrassing condition. It was Lotte who held him to some foolish pledge of his boyhood, and it was Minna of the parsonage who possessed his heart. But Goethe was haunted by the vision of Alide, and burning with impatience to realize his dream: so he lent but an abstracted and unsympathetic ear to the prosy details of crops and marketings and tavern-profits, curiously interspersed with the idyllic complications of the peasant's personal history.

Meanwhile, at the parsonage, Alide also had risen betimes, and, as the events of the past evening recurred to her, her heart beat with unwonted excitement at the thought of meeting again this strange young man and penetrating his mystery. This searching daylight, she said to herself, would reveal all; it was only the dimness of lamplight and moonlight that had made her fancy such sudden, subtle changes in his countenance. Yet it was not his appearance only that had altered. How thoroughly self-possessed she found him when she had advanced, in compassion for his embarrassment, to ask him to touch the harpsichord! And what did Herr Waldstein mean by interrupting that, burst of eloquence at the supper-table? Never before had she heard a man talk like that; she could not raise her eyes while he spoke. Ah! had she seen him at such a moment, she would have divined who and what he was. When she did look, it was too late; the curtain had been again drawn.

Hitherto, when she had been in doubt about a stranger, she had never failed to appeal to her mother's decision, with unquestioning faith in the infallibility of that wise, deliberate judgment. Now, however, she did not dream of turning to any one for counsel; no one suspected the hidden treasure of which she had caught a glimpse. Her mother seemed grave, and even displeased, when Dr. Steck had spoken so eloquently at the table, and Rahel had no eyes for any one else while Max was with her. She would discover everything for herself, and then present to them all her prince in disguise, and he should know that never for an instant had she been deceived by the shabby surface.

She looked more like a child than yesterday, as she sprang down-stairs into the open air, for she had left her plaited hair hanging down her back, and replaced her coronet of braids with a snood of pale-blue ribbon. But the serious eyes held something more suggestive of the perfect flowering of maidenhood than any light they possessed before they had fallen upon Goethe's face.

The family were just seating themselves at the breakfast-table when the door opened, and Alide, who had glanced up eagerly, saw, with a chill of disappointment, Herr Waldstein enter alone. Before the pastor could inquire about his new guest, Max said, with some constraint, "My friend begs me to tell you all, with a great many apologies for his apparent rudeness, and many more thanks for your kindness to him, that he has been obliged to return in haste to Strasburg."

"I am sorry for that," said the pastor; "I flatter myself that I can judge character pretty accurately, and that youth pleased me amazingly: he was a fine, ingenuous fellow. Well, I doubt not but he will turn up again."

"Oh, you may be sure of that!" said Max, who could not refrain from a furtive glance at Alide. "He was delighted with his evening here, and he pulled a wry face at having to return to the city."

"It seems strange that he was obliged to leave so suddenly," said Madame Duroc: "he certainly could not have received news from town so early."

"No, madame," stammered Max; "but last night--no, not last night--in fact, though he is a good fellow, to tell you the truth, he is something of a madcap. Indeed, he is only a boy in years, and he rode over here for a holiday, without remembering an important business engagement for this morning in town. I am quite sure he will return soon and make you his own excuses."

No further attention was paid to the freak so naturally accounted for, while the family conversation flowed on in its ordinary channels. How intolerably flat it was to poor Alide! Her little romance was shattered to bits by this unexpected incident; she was sure he would never come back. Now, more than ever, he was a prince in disguise, and, since he had been with her the greater part of the evening, the modest girl accused herself of a thousand blunders that must have driven him away. How she had bored him with her foolish confidences about her dull village circle! how ungainly he must have found her rustic appearance and manner! She choked a sigh, and tried to interest herself again in the trivial events of her home-life. After breakfast Rahel proposed a walk, and the two sisters fetched their hats and strolled with Waldstein across the meadows. Alide almost forgot to be melancholy in the sunshine of the autumn fields. Ah, how easily at this early period could she have succeeded in what seemed to her the heroic endeavor to banish all recollection of the wonderful stranger! She called Goetz from his kennel, and in a little while she was bounding with the dog, laughing and singing, far ahead of Max and Rahel, or gayly chatting alongside of them.

There are women who especially please us in a room; others who look better in the open air. Alide belonged to the latter. Her whole nature, her form, never appeared more charming than when she moved along an elevated footpath. The grace of her deportment seemed to vie with the flowery earth, and the indestructible cheerfulness of her countenance with the blue sky. In walks she floated about, an animating spirit, and knew how to supply the gaps which might arise here and there. The lightness of her movements we have already commended, and she was most graceful when she ran. As the deer seems just to fulfil its destination when it lightly flies over the sprouting corn, so did her peculiar nature seem most plainly to express itself when she ran with light steps over mead and furrow, to seek something which had been lost, to summon a distant couple, or to order something necessary. On these occasions she was never out of breath, and always kept her equilibrium.

"Who is this coming towards us with a white thing in his hands?" asked Max.

"Oh, that is Fritz, the innkeeper's son," said Rahel, drawing her eyelids together coquettishly. "But what can he be running across the meadows with?"

As he drew near, Alide called out, "Fritz, what are you bringing there?"

He took off his hat in such a manner that it entirely concealed his face, and, without speaking, held up a loaded napkin high in the air.

"A christening-cake!" cried Alide. "How is your sister?"

"Well," replied he, shortly.

"Carry it to the house," said Rahel. "If you do not find my mother, give it to the maid. Rut wait for us; we shall soon be back. Do you hear? That will give him a chance with Minna," she added, kindly, as they continued their walk.

With a joyous feeling of hope, Goethe in his new disguise hastened along the path, and soon reached the parsonage. He found nobody either in the house or the kitchen, and, taking it for granted that the pastor was engaged in the study, he seated himself on a bench in the porch, with his cake beside him, and pressed down his hat over his brows. It was indeed a delightful sensation which he now experienced; to sit again on this threshold over which a short time before he had blundered out in despair, to have seen her already again, to have heard again her dear voice so soon after his chagrin had pictured to him a long separation, and every moment to be expecting herself and a discovery at which his heart throbbed, and yet a discovery without shame, for surely love never prompted a merrier prank.

But the maid came stepping out of the barn. "Did the cakes turn out well?" cried she. "And how is your sister?"

"All right," replied Goethe, and pointed to the cake without looking up.

She raised the napkin and muttered, "Now, what's the matter with you to-day again? Has Lotte been looking at somebody else? Don't let us suffer for that; you will make a happy couple if you carry on so."

As she spoke rather loud, the pastor came to the window and asked what was the matter. She showed him the supposed Fritz, who rose and turned towards him, but kept the hat well over his face.

"Good-morning, Fritz," said the pastor; "I am glad to hear you say your sister is getting along nicely. You may go round to the kitchen and say a word to Minna."

With these friendly words the pastor turned into the room again, and Goethe was moving towards the garden, when he heard the voice of Madame Duroc, who was just entering the court-yard, calling him. He was obliged to meet her with the sun shining full in his face, but he still availed himself of the advantage which his hat afforded him, and greeted her by scraping a leg.

"How are you, Fritz?" said she, kindly. "Go to the kitchen, and be sure not to return home without taking some breakfast." And she re-entered the house.

Goethe walked up and down the garden, congratulating himself on his unexpected luck, and breathing hard at the thought that he should so soon see again the young people. Lost in his reflections, he did not hear a step approach, and, raising his head suddenly, he found Madame Duroc directly in front of him. "Fritz," she began, and then, for the first time looking him full in the face, the words died away upon her lips. He saw that it was useless to try to conceal himself any longer, and, doffing his hat, he stood before her in the sunshine, with his eyes cast to the ground and his face covered with blushes.

After a pause she exclaimed, with displeasure, "I am looking for Fritz, and whom do I find? Is it you, young sir? How many forms have you, then?"

He raised his eyes and looked at her so honestly and respectfully that her anger was appeased. "In earnest, only one," he replied, gravely; and then added, with a merry smile, "but in sport, as many as you like."

"Which sport I will not spoil," said she, graciously, smiling in her turn. "Go out behind the garden into the meadow until it strikes twelve, then come back, and I shall already have contrived the joke."

He obeyed, and, after passing beyond the hedges of the village gardens, he was embarrassed by seeing some country-people advancing towards him along the footpath. By his side was a hill crowned by a small wood, and, springing up the elevation, he plunged into the grove, in order to conceal himself till the appointed time. He found himself at once in a little sylvan paradise. The soft turf was mottled with broken sunlight and strewn with the first fall of leaves; patches of the deep-blue sky were shining between the restless foliage and waving branches, and on every side a heaven-bright picture, set in a bushy frame, opened before him. Below, was the lively village, and at no great distance, as seen from this point, stood the gray parsonage, embosomed in its prosperous fields. Beyond, lay Drusenheim, with its old-fashioned inn, and its glittering tiled roof that caught the sunlight, while far away rose into sight the steeple of Strasburg Minster. He could catch between the trees a glimpse of the flowing shimmer of the Rhine, and could distinguish in the hazy distance its woody islands, with their magical tints of yellow and russet and green. In the opposite direction waved the noble outlines of the Vosges, their purple hollows and dazzling light-green pasture-slopes streaked with shifting shadows.

It was evident that he had not been the first to appreciate this rare combination of lovely vistas, for benches had been placed around, so that one could admire at leisure from every point. Seating himself upon one of these, under a tall elm, he saw fastened on the trunk an oblong little board with the inscription, "Alide's Rest." His heart beat violently at the sudden recollection. A light footstep startled him from his reverie, and, looking around, he saw Alide, who, aglow with youth and beauty, "most highly realized his fair dream."

"Why, Fritz, what are you doing here?" she cried, from below the hill.

"Not Fritz," exclaimed Goethe, running to meet her, "but one who craves forgiveness of you a thousand times."

She looked at him in wonder, almost in alarm, and fetched her breath quickly; but, endeavoring to conceal her emotion with a laugh, she said, "You wicked man! how you frighten me!"

"The first disguise has led me into the second," cried he; "the former would have been unpardonable had I but known, in any degree, to whom I was coming. But this one you will certainly forgive, for it is the shape of persons whom you treat so kindly."

She colored deeply, but walked up the hill with him, and answered, "At any rate, you will not fare worse than Fritz. Let us sit down; for I confess the fright has gone into my limbs."

Goethe was even more agitated than herself as they entered the grove and took their seats. So many conventional necessities come to the aid of a woman that Alide, whose heart was thrilled with joy at finding him thus again, was able to speak with perfect composure. "We know everything already, up to this morning, from your friend," said she; "now do you tell us the rest."

"What! you know that I am Goethe, and you pardon my boldness, my presumption, in deceiving you as I did! But you cannot imagine my horror this morning in thinking that I must again appear before you in such a guise as to excite nothing but ridicule and disgust. I thought of all your genial household, but above all, one face was always before me, hospitable, gentle, even as it is now, but with that terrible smile lurking behind it. Then Max, who was watching me, broke out into a laugh. It was too much. I rushed from the house in despair, to Strasburg, as I intended; but the happy idea occurred to me that I might borrow something presentable of Fritz,--anything to appear human in your sight, to throw myself at your feet and implore your forgiveness for my folly."

She laughed low and graciously at his vehemence, and answered, good-humoredly, "How can I help forgiving one who has suffered so grievously?"

"Ah, mademoiselle," he went on, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, "it seems a light thing to suffer in that way, I know; but it is something deeper than vanity that is wounded when one makes a false step in entering a home like yours. My first glance at you, as you stood under the doorway, told me, There is a woman whose friendship, whose affection, would be worth a lifetime to win. And before I had spoken I had forfeited them forever." He paused, not daring to look her in the face.

"Surely," said she, in her even quiet tones, "the friendship of a woman who would attach a serious construction to so harmless a joke would scarcely be worth striving for."

He looked up with joyful assurance. "Then you forgive me!" he cried. "Ah, you are too generous! But I knew you were like that. Last night, when you sang for me in the porch, when we walked together in that heavenly moonlight, I could find no words to offer you. What could you have thought of me, as I stood dull and taciturn by your side? But no, Fraulein Alide, surely you guessed what was passing within me. And now that you know who I am, I feel as if I must give vent in speech to this great emotion. I must thank you for your incredible goodness to me. Again and again I must ask you to forgive me the alarm I have caused you."

She made no answer, and he took her hand and imprinted a kiss upon its dainty whiteness. She did not withdraw it, but suffered it to remain in his. "And to think," said he, "that this morning I fancied myself eternally separated from you! How little do we repose upon the inexhaustible beneficence of the gods! Now I sit by your side, I look into your eyes, I press to my lips your dear hand,--and an hour ago there was a gulf between us. What does this mean, save that they will bless us, they in whose guidance and support, like little children, we confide?" And he bowed his stately head with simple reverence as he spoke.

It would have been impossible to doubt the sincerity of that appeal. This was not as her father spoke of Heaven, but Alide felt none the less that the words came from the young man's inmost heart. While he talked, he did not seem to have remarked how meditative and silent she had become. She looked at him while his glance was bent away from her, and a sudden glow overspread her face, and her eyes rested upon him with such wonderful tenderness that he might have fancied their liquid depths were filling with tears. He raised his head abruptly, and, noting her agitation, he threw aside his grave air, and once more impetuously craved her pardon.

"Alide! Alide!" It was the voice of her sister calling her. Immediately she recovered her composure, together with her perfect cheerfulness. "That will be a pretty story," said she. "She is coming hither on my side." And she bent forward so as half to conceal Goethe. "Turn yourself away, so that you may not be recognized at once."

As he did so, Rahel and Waldstein entered the grove, and both stood still as if petrified.

"What is this? what is this?" cried Rahel, with the rapidity of one who is frightened. "You hand in hand with Fritz,--how am I to understand this?"

"Dear sister," said Alide, "the poor fellow is begging something of me, and he has something to beg of you too; but you must forgive him beforehand."

"I do not understand," said her sister, shaking her head and looking at Max, who stood by and contemplated the scene without any kind of expression.

Alide arose and drew Goethe after her. "No hesitating," cried she,--"pardon begged and granted."

"Now do," said he, stepping near Rahel. "I have need of pardon."

She drew back, gave a loud shriek, and was covered with blushes. She then threw herself down on the grass and laughed immoderately. Waldstein smiled, and exclaimed, "You are a rare youth!" and he shook Goethe's hand. He was not usually liberal of his caresses, and his shake of the hand was hearty and cordial.

Rahel arose, and they all set out on their return to the parsonage. Mutual explanations ensued, and Goethe learned that Alide had only parted from the promenaders in order to rest in her little nook for a moment before dinner; and when the others returned to the house, the mother had sent them to call her, for dinner was ready.

"This is indeed too delightful!" cried Rahel, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. "So mamma has discovered the secret, you say. Now we have still to deceive papa, and Otto, and Minna, and Hans."

Amid a great deal of merriment, they mystified the servant-man and the maid, and all four in high spirits entered the dining-room. The table was covered, and the pastor was already waiting in the room. Rahel paused on the threshold and called out, "Papa, have you any objection to Fritz dining with us to-day? But you must let him keep his hat on."

"With all my heart," said the old man. "But why such an unusual thing? has he hurt himself?"

"No," replied Rahel, leading Goethe forward, "but he has a bird-cage under it, and the birds will fly out and make a terrible fuss, for they are nothing but wild ones." So saying, she pulled off Goethe's hat and bade him make his curtsy.

The pastor looked at him, but did not lose his priestly self-possession. "Ay, ay, Mr. Candidate!" he exclaimed, raising a threatening finger, "you have changed saddles very quickly, and in the night I have lost an assistant who yesterday promised me so faithfully that he would often mount my pulpit on week-days. Well, you are welcome in any guise." And they all seated themselves at the table.

During the meal Otto came in, and, slapping Goethe on the shoulder, said, "Good dinner to you, Fritz."

"Many thanks, squire," cried Goethe. The strange voice and the strange face startled him.

"What do you say," asked Rahel,--"does he not look like his brother?"

"Yes, from behind, like all folks," said Otto, who would not acknowledge himself surprised; and he did not look at Goethe again, but busied himself with zealously devouring the dishes to make up for lost time. At dessert the real Fritz came in; they began to banter him, but he was modest and clever enough, and in a half-confused manner mixed up himself, his sweetheart, his counterpart, and the mam'selles to such a degree that no one could tell about whom he was talking, and they were only too glad to let him consume in peace a glass of wine and a bit of his own cake.

After dinner the young people assembled in the porch to decide how best to take advantage of the serene afternoon. Their spirits were subdued by a deep and tranquil happiness, and only quiet amusements were proposed. A walk was objected to, as it would have been awkward for Goethe to meet any of the neighboring country-folk in his borrowed clothes, and finally Max suggested that as Wolfgang was the obstacle to their ordinary pastimes, the entertainment of the company should devolve upon him.

"The fellow has any quantity of rhymes and fairy-tales in his valise," said Waldstein, "and he can fetch some of them now and read to us in the open air. What is the use of having a poet among us if we must divert ourselves in as commonplace a way as other people?"

The proposition was hailed with delight, and Goethe was dispatched to his room for his manuscripts. "How I wish all the family could enjoy such a treat!" said Rahel; "but what is the use of calling them? I know papa has gone for his nap, and mamma is always busy. Where shall we go for our entertainment?"

"Why not to Fräulein Alide's 'Rest'?" asked Goethe, who had rejoined them.

"No," said Alide, hurriedly, "that is too far; we will go into the summer-house by the orchard."

"Excellent!" cried Max; "that is the very place. Wolf must pose as a mediæval minnesinger, improvising his verses amidst beautiful damsels in the open air."

"No," modestly replied Goethe, with a laugh; "no more _poses_ for me. After my misadventure yesterday, I am content to be simply Wolfgang Goethe with these young ladies,--neither meistersinger, nor doctor, nor peasant,--and if I can but redeem that name in their sight I shall be grateful. Besides, I am not going to inflict any rhymes upon you; it will be plain prose, and no very lofty flight of imagination, either."

They took their seats in the arbor, with the sunlight flickering down on them through the red vine-leaves; Goethe in the centre, and Alide directly in front of him, with her chin resting on her hand, reflecting in her upturned face the inspiration and excitement of the countenance upon which her eyes were riveted. Rahel busied her restless fingers with a piece of scarlet needlework, and Max as usual took a low seat near her feet, whence he could admire the little downcast chestnut head. For more than two hours the young magician held his circle enchanted, not so much by the charm of the story, though that also exercised a powerful attraction, as by the masterly modulations of his voice, the grace of his unstudied attitude and occasional gestures, the infinite play of expression upon his face,--in a word, by the irresistible influence of his personality.

He succeeded in awakening curiosity, in fixing the attention, in provoking over-hasty solutions of impenetrable riddles, in deceiving expectations, in confusing by the more wonderful which came into the place of the wonderful, in arousing sympathy and fear, in causing anxiety, in moving, and at last, by the change of what was apparently earnest into an ingenious and cheerful jest, in satisfying, the mind, and leaving the imagination materials for new images, and the understanding, materials for further reflection.

When it was over, there was a short pause. Then Max broke out, "Bravo, bravo! it is beyond expectation!"

"How singular, how wonderful, it is!" echoed Rahel. "But you must let us have a copy of it, that we may read it often among ourselves and show it to our friends."

"To think that it is over now!" said Alide, wistfully, with a little sigh. "Yes, Herr Goethe, you will promise what my sister asks, will you not? It is not very long, and I am sure you could easily make a fair copy of the whole, and leave it with us as a memento of this happy afternoon."

"Most willingly," replied Goethe; "I will bring it to you from the city as soon as I can transcribe it. But such a day as this has been for me should indeed, as you say, leave something substantial in our possession. Have I compensated sufficiently as Goethe for the follies of Dr. Steck, to ask something from you, Fräulein Alide?"

"Is it in my power to grant?" asked she.

"It is the rose in your hair."

"Oh, is that all?" said she, simply. "I had forgotten it was there,--it can scarcely be fresh now." And she untwisted the stem of the white flower from her snood and threw it playfully into his hands.

"The day has already come to a close for us," said Waldstein, with a significant glance at his friend. "You know, Wolfgang, I must be back in Strasburg to-morrow morning."

"Well, then, our holiday is over," assented Goethe, with a sigh. "We will go to the house and take leave of all our kind entertainers."

As they were returning to the parsonage, he found occasion to whisper to Alide, "Your wonderful goodness to me prompts me to one question more: May I interpret as I please your generosity about the rose?"

"It means only one thing," said Alide, in a tremulous and almost inaudible voice, while her face grew deadly pale, and she laid her hand upon his arm. He seized it in his own, and kissed it passionately without speaking.

Two hours later, he and his friend, after a silent walk across the meadows, entered their quarters for the night, at the Drusenheim inn.