Prince Feodor Stratimojeff crushed the perfumed imperial note in his hand, and muttered through his set teeth: "She has sacrificed me to an Orloff! She wishes to send me away, that she may more securely play this new farce of love. Very well; I will go, but not to return to be deceived anew by her vows of love and glances of favor. No! let this breach be eternal. Catharine shall feel that, although an empress, she is a woman whom I despise. Therefore let there be no word of farewell, not even the smallest request. She bids me go, and I go. And would it not seem as if Fate pointed out to me the way I am to go? Is it not a strange chance that Catharine should choose me for this mission to Germany?"

It was indeed a singular accident that the empress unintentionally should have sent back her discharged favorite to the only woman whom he had ever loved. He was sent as ambassador extraordinary to Berlin, to press more urgently her claims on a Prussian banker, to bring up before the Prussian department for foreign affairs the merchant John Gotzkowsky with regard to her demand for two millions of dollars; and, in case he refused to pay it, to try in a diplomatic way whether Prussia could not he induced to support this demand of the empress, and procure immediate payment.

This was the mission which Catharine had confided to Prince Stratimojeff, who, when he determined to undertake it, said to himself: "I will take vengeance on this proud woman who thinks to cast me off like a toy of which she has tired; I will show her that my heart is unmoved by her infidelity; I will present to her my young wife, whose beauty, youth, and innocence will cause her to blush for shame."

Never had he been so fascinating and lively, so brilliant and sparkling with wit, as on the evening preceding his departure. His jests were the boldest and freest; they made even the empress blush, and sent her blood hot and bounding through her veins. The court, that would have been delighted to have seen the long-envied and hated favorite now abashed and humbled before his newly-declared successor, remarked with astonishment and bitter mortification that the humiliation was changed into a triumph; for the empress, charmed by his amiability and wit, seemed to turn her heart again toward him, and to entreat him with the tenderest looks to forgive her faithlessness. She had already forgotten the unfortunate embassy which was to remove Feodor from her court, when he himself came to remind her of it.

While all countenances were still beaming with delight over a precious bon mot which Feodor had just perpetrated, and at which the empress herself had laughed aloud, he stepped up to her and requested her blessing on his voyage to Germany, which he was going to commence that night.

Catharine felt almost inclined to withdraw her orders and request him to remain, but she was woman enough to be able to read pride and defiance in his face. She therefore contented herself with wishing him a speedy return to his duty. Publicly, in the presence of the whole court and her new favorite, she afforded Prince Stratimojeff a fresh triumph: she bade him kneel, and taking a golden chain to which her portrait was attached, she threw the links around his neck. Kissing him gently on the forehead, with a gracious smile full of promise, she said to him only, "Au revoir!"

* * * * *



CHAPTER IX.

OLD LOVE—NEW SORROW.

Elise was in her room. Her face expressed a quiet, silent resignation, and her large dark eyes had a dreamy but bright look. She sat in an easy-chair, reading, and whoever had seen her with her high, open forehead and calm looks, would have thought her one of those happy and fortunate beings whom Heaven had blessed with eternal rest and cheerful composure, who was unacquainted with the corroding poison of passionate grief. No trace of the storm which had raged through her life could be seen on her countenance. Her grief had eaten inwardly, and only her heart and the spirit of her youth had died; her face had remained young and handsome. The vigor of her youth had overcome the grief of her spirit, and her cheeks, although colorless and transparent in their paleness, were still free from that sallow, sickly pallor, which is the herald of approaching dissolution. She was apparently healthy and young, and only sick and cold at heart. Perhaps she only needed some sunbeams to warm up again her chilled heart, only some gleam of hope to make her soul young again, and strong and ready once more to love and to suffer. She had never forgotten, never ceased to think of the past, nor of him whom she had loved so unspeakably, whom her soul could not let go.

The memories of the past were the life of the present to her. The tree in the garden which he had admired, the flowers he had loved and which since then had four times renewed their bloom, the rustling of the fir-trees which sounded from the wall, all spoke of him, and caused her heart to beat, she knew not whether with anger or with pain. Even now, as she sat in her room, her thoughts and fancies were busy with him. She had been reading, but the book dropped from her hand. From the love-scenes which were described in it her thoughts roamed far and wide, and awakened the dreams and hopes of the past.

But Elise did not like to give herself up to these reveries, and at times had a silent horror even of her own thoughts. She did not like to confess to herself that she still hoped in the man who had betrayed her. She had, as it were, a sympathizing pity with herself; she threw a veil over her heart, to hide from herself that it still quivered with pain and love. Only at times, in the quiet and solitude of her chamber, she ventured to draw aside the veil, to look down into the depths of her soul, and, in agonizing delight, in one dream blend together the present and the past. She leaned back in her chair, her large dark eyes fixed on vacancy. Some passage in the book had reminded her of her own sad love, had struck on her heart like the hammer of a bell, and in response it had returned but one single note, the word "Feodor."

"Ah, Feodor!" she whispered to herself, but with a shudder at the name, and a blush suffused her otherwise pale cheeks for a moment. "It is the first time my lips have spoken his name, but my heart is constantly repeating it in hopeless grief, and in my dreams he still lives. I have accepted my fate; to the world I have separated from him; to myself, never! Oh, how mysterious is the heart! I hate and yet I love him." She covered her face with her hands, and sat long silent and motionless. A noise at the door aroused her. It was only Marianne, her maid, who came to announce that a strange gentleman was outside, who earnestly requested to speak to her. Elise trembled, she knew not why. A prophetic dread seized her soul, and in a voice scarcely audible she asked the name of her visitor.

"He will not give his name," answered the maid. "He says the name is of no consequence. He had a letter to deliver from the Countess Lodoiska, of St. Petersburg."

Elise uttered a cry, and sprang from her seat—she knew all. Her heart told her that he was near. It must be himself. She felt as if she must hasten to her father for protection and safety; but her feet refused to carry her. She trembled so, that she was obliged to hold on to the arm of a chair to keep herself from falling. She motioned with her hand to deny him admittance, but Marianne did not understand her; for, opening the door, she invited the stranger in, and then left him.

And now they stood in presence of each other, silent and breathless—Elise trembling with excitement and bitter feeling, wrestling with her own emotion, and deeply abashed by the meeting. Both uttered an inward prayer—but how different were their two aspirations!

"Now, God or devil!" thought Feodor, "give my words power, lend enchantment to my tongue, that I may win Elise!"

Elise prayed to herself: "Have mercy on me, O God! Take this love from me, or let me die."

In sad silence these two, so long separated, stood opposite to each other—both hesitating, he knowing that he was guilty, she ashamed of the consciousness of her love. But finally he succeeded in breaking the silence. He whispered her name, and as she, alarmed and shuddering, looked up at him, he stretched out his arms imploringly toward her. And then she felt, thought, knew nothing but him. She uttered a cry, and rushed forward to throw herself in his arms. But suddenly she stopped. Her dream was at an end, and now awaking from the first ecstasy of seeing him again, she collected herself, and stood before him in the whole pride and dignity of her offended honor. She found courage to sacrifice her own heart, and, with cold, constrained manner, bowing to him, she asked, "Colonel von Brenda, whom do you wish to see?"

The prince sighed deeply, and let his arms drop. "It is over," said he; "she no longer loves me!"

Low as these words had been spoken, Elise had seized their purport, and they touched her to the quick. "What do you wish?" she continued.

"Nothing!" said he, despondently. "I have made a mistake. I expected to find a faithful heart, a woman like an angel, ready in the hour of meeting to forget all else, and take refuge in this heart; to forgive, and, with her blessing, to wipe out the curse of my existence. This is what I sought. But God is just, and I did not deserve such happiness. I submit."

"Oh, my God!" said Elise to herself, "it is the same voice which once charmed me." She no longer found strength in herself to bid him go. She would have given her life blood to be able always to be thus near him.

"This time, young lady," said Feodor, "I come only as a messenger, the executor of the will of one who is dead." He took a letter from his bosom and handed it to Elise. "I bring you," he said solemnly, "the last will of my wife, Countess Lodoiska."

"She is no longer alive?" cried Elise, and involuntarily an almost joyful tone pervaded her voice.

This did not escape the prince. "I will win her," said he to himself. His eyes shone brighter, his countenance looked prouder, and his heart beat higher with triumphant joy. Elise had taken the letter, and still held it in her hand. "Will you not read it?" asked he, gently, and her heart trembled at the pleading tone of his voice.

"Yes, I will read it," she answered, as if awaking from a dream, and breaking the seal hastily.

The prince fixed his sharp, piercing eyes on her, and seemed to wish to read in her looks her inmost thoughts, and feeling them favorable to him, he approached still closer to her.

The letter was short and hastily written, but every word entered her soul and brought tears to her eyes. It ran thus:

"My dear Elise, when you receive this letter I shall be no more, and the heart which has suffered so much will be at rest. But when I have found repose in the grave, do you fulfil my trust. I leave you the dearest legacy that I possess. I give you back your property, the heart and love of Feodor, which never ceased to belong to you. I never have been able to win this love to myself. He gave me his hand, his heart remains yours, and that is killing me. Take it then, it is my legacy to you; and if you accept it my purified spirit will bless your reunion.

LODOISKA."

The letter dropped from her hand; completely overpowered by deep and solemn emotions, she sank in her chair, and hid her tears with her hands. Feodor felt that she was again his, that he had regained his sway over her. He rushed toward her, falling at her feet, and passionately snatching her hands from her face, he exclaimed, "Elise! in this moment her spirit is hovering over us. She blesses this love which she has already forgiven. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered for you, you would, at least, not be angry with me. You would pardon me for the sake of what I have undergone."

"Have I then not suffered also?" she asked, turning her face, covered with tears, toward him.

"Oh! leave me here at your feet," he continued. "Look upon me as a poor pilgrim who has wandered to the holy Sepulchre in order to cleanse his heart of its sins at the sanctuary by sincere repentance and prayers for forgiveness. You are my sanctuary, to you my heart bends; the poor pilgrim has come to you to confess and be shrived before he dies. Will you, my Madonna, hear him? May I tell you what I have endured, how much I have suffered?"

"Speak," she said, half conscious, but eagerly listening to the music of his voice. "Tell me what you have suffered, that I may forget my own sufferings when I gave you up."

"Oh!" he continued, with a shudder, "I shall never forget that fearful moment when I became aware of the deception, and discovered that it was not you, but Lodoiska, whom I held in my arms. A raving madness seized me, which threatened my own life. Lodoiska turned aside the dagger, and pronounced your name. That name recalled me to life, to the knowledge of my crime. I submitted to the punishment which I had merited, and which you had imposed upon me. I led Lodoiska to the altar, at which I had hoped to see you. I made her my wife, and my heart pronounced your name, while my lips bound me to her. It was a terrible hour, a fearful agony raged within me, and it has never left me since. It was there, when Lodoiska pressed me to her heart. It was present in the tumult of battle. Then, however, when death raged around me, when destruction thundered from the enemy's cannon, then I became cheerful, and the pang left me as I rushed amid the enemy's ranks. But even death itself retreated before me—I found on the battle-field only honor and fame, but not the object for which I fought, not death. I lived to suffer and to expiate my crime toward you, Elise. But one hope sustained me, the hope one day to fall at your feet, to clasp your knees, and to sue for forgiveness."

Completely overcome by his own passionate description, he bowed his head on her knees, and wept aloud. He had succeeded in rousing his own sympathy; he believed in his own grief. He had so feelingly played the part of a repentant sinner, an ardent lover, that for a moment probability and reality had become blended in one, and he felt himself thoroughly possessed by crushing repentance.

But Elise believed in him. His voice sounded like music in her ear, and every fibre of her heart thrilled and quivered. The past with its griefs and sorrows was gone forever, he was once more there, with no stranger to come between them, and she only felt that she loved him without bounds.

He embraced her knees, looking pleadingly up in her face. "Elise, forgive me," cried he; "say but one word, 'Pardon,' and I will go away in silence, and never again dare to approach you."

Elise had no longer power to withstand him. She opened her arms, and threw them with passionate tenderness around his neck. "Feodor, love does not forgive, it loves," she cried with unspeakable rapture, and tears of delight burst from her eyes.

Feodor uttered a cry of joy, and sprang up to draw her to his breast, to cover her face with kisses, to whisper words of delight, of tenderness, of passionate love, in her listening ear. "Oh! now all is right again—now you are again mine. These four years are as if they had not been. It was all a mournful dream—and we are now awake. Now we know that we love each other, that we belong to each other, forever. Come, Elise, it is the same hour which then called us to the altar. Come, the priest waits. For four long years have I hoped for this hour. Come, my beloved."

He threw his strong arm around her and raised her to his breast to draw her forth with him. As Elise drew herself gently back, he continued still more passionately: "I will not let you go, for you are mine. You have betrothed yourself to me for life or death. Come, the priest is waiting, and to-day shall you be my wife. This time no unfriendly hand shall impose itself between us, and Lodoiska no longer lives."

"But my father lives," said Elise, as earnestly and proudly she freed herself from Feodor's arms. "Without his consent I do not leave this threshold. It was for that the Lord punished us. My father's blessing was not upon our love, and I had sinned grievously against him. Now, it is expiated, and Fate is appeased. Let us go hand in hand to my father, and ask his blessing on our love, that love which has remained undiminished through so many years of grief."

"I submit to you. I will obey your will in every thing. But will not your father reject me? I feel that he must hate me for the tears I have caused you to shed."

"He will love you when he sees that you have taught me to smile once more," said she gently. "Come to my father."

She wished to draw him along with her. But his consciousness of guilt held him back. He wanted the daring courage to face this man whom he had been sent to ruin; and involuntarily he shrank back from his own deeds. "I dare not go before him so suddenly and unprepared," said he hesitatingly.

"Then allow me to prepare him for your presence."

"And if he denies his sanction?"

"He will not do it."

"He has sworn never to allow you to marry a Russian."

"Oh, that was long ago," said she, smiling, "when Russia was our enemy. Now we are at peace. The bloody streams of discord are dried up, and an angel of peace rules over all countries. Even my father will feel his influence, and make peace with you and me."

Feodor did not answer immediately. He stood thoughtful and contemplative, weighing the necessary and unavoidable, and considering what he should do. One thing only was clear. Neither Elise nor Gotzkowsky must be allowed to suspect on what extraordinary mission his empress had sent him thither. Only when Elise was irrevocably bound to him, when she was his without recall, when Gotzkowsky had given his consent to their union, then would he dare to disclose it to him. It was necessary, above all, to postpone the negotiations about the Russian demands for a day, and therefore he only gave his agents his instructions, and imposed on them silence and inactivity for a day longer. The principal thing, however, was to convince Elise and her father that their union should suffer no delay, because he was only allowed to remain a few hours. He put his arm around Elise's slender waist and pressed her to his heart. "Listen to me, my beloved; my time has been but sparingly dealt out to me. I have come on with courier horses, so as to allow me more leisure on my return with you. But to-day we must leave, for the army is on the frontier, equipped and ready for war. Only out of special favor did the empress allow me a short leave of absence, to fetch my wife. In her clemency she has done what she was able to do, and I must now obey her orders to return speedily, if I do not wish to bring her anger down upon me. That nothing might prevent or delay us, I have brought a chaplain of our Church with me, to bless our union. You see, my beloved, that every thing is ready, and all that is wanting is the wreath of myrtle in your hair."

"And the blessing of my father," she replied solemnly.

Feeder's brow darkened and an angry expression flashed across his countenance. Elise did not perceive it, for, in her noble forgetfulness of self, she had leaned her head on his breast, and all doubt and distrust were alien to her free and confiding love. The love of a woman is of divine nature; it forgives all, it suffers all; it is as strong in giving as in forgiving. Every woman when she loves is an inspired poetess; the divine frenzy has seized her, and poetic utterances of ecstasy issue from her trembling lips. This poor girl, too, had become inspired. Confidingly happy, she reposed on the breast of the man whom she had never ceased to love, whom she had blest in the midst of her bitterest tears, whom she had prayed for, earnestly entreating God to have mercy on him.

"Do you go to your father," said Feodor, after a pause. "Pray for his consent and his blessing on both of us—I hasten to prepare every thing. Tell your father that my whole life shall be spent in the endeavor to redeem every tear you have shed for me with a smile; that I will love him as a son to whom he has given the dearest treasure of life, his Elise."

He pressed her to his heart and kissed her forehead. Elise raised her face from his breast, and smiled on him with loving emotion. But he placed his hands over her eyes; he was not callous enough to be able to bear those innocent, yielding, tender looks.

"I must be gone," he said. "But this shall be our last separation, and when I return, it shall be to lead you to the altar. In an hour, dearest, you must be ready. At the end of that time, I will come to take you to St. Petersburg, and present you at the empress's court as my bride, the Princess Stratimojeff."

He looked down at her with an air of triumph, to see what impression his words would have on her. He had expected to prepare a pleasurable surprise for her with the princely title—to see her blush with proud satisfaction. But Elise felt neither elevated nor honored by the high rank. What did she care whether Feodor was a prince or a poor officer, so that he only loved her, and would never again forsake her?

She replied, with some surprise, "Princess Stratimojeff! What does that mean?"

"For three months," said he with a proud smile, "I have been Prince Stratimojeff. The empress gave me this title. The world calls me prince, but you—you will call me your Feodor?"

"Oh," said she feelingly, "my heart called you so when you did not hear me."

"Well, then, go wind the wreath of myrtle in your hair, and wait for me. In an hour I will return."

He hastened to the door, but on the threshold he turned to send a farewell greeting to her. Their eyes met and rested on each other, and suddenly a deep, indescribable feeling of grief came over him. It seemed to him as if he would never see her again; as if the threshold once crossed, Elise was lost to him forever. Once again he returned, and folded her passionately in his arms, and, completely overpowered by his painful presentiments, he bowed his head on her shoulder, and wept bitterly. He then tore himself loose. "Farewell!" he cried, but his voice sounded hoarse and rough—"farewell! in an hour I will return for you. Be prepared, do not keep me waiting in vain. Farewell!"

* * * * *



CHAPTER X.

THE MAGISTRACY OF BERLIN.

Gotzkowsky had conquered his proud heart; he had left his house to apply to those whom he had benefited and saved in the days of their need and distress, and who had then avowed him everlasting gratitude. He resolved now, reluctantly and with deep humiliation, rather to remind them of those days than to ask of them any favors or assistance beyond the payment of their debts to him.

First he went to the ober-burgomaster, President Kircheisen; to the man whom he had saved from death, who had clung to him, and, when he had found his speech again, had vowed with tears that he would be forever grateful to him, and would bless the arrival of the hour in which he could prove it to him by deeds.

This hour had now arrived, but Herr von Kircheisen did not bless it; on the contrary, he cursed it. He was standing at the window of his ground floor when Gotzkowsky passed by. Their eyes met. Gotzkowsky's were clear and penetrating; Kircheisen's were cast down, as he stepped back from the window. He only had time to tell the servants that he was not at home for any one, whoever it might be, when the bell rang, and Gotzkowsky inquired for Herr von Kircheisen.

"Not at home, sir."

"Not at home! but I saw him just this moment standing at the window."

"It must have been a mistake, sir. The president has just gone to the Council-chamber."

"Very well. I will go to the town-hall," said Gotzkowsky, as he left the house.

Passing by the window he looked in again. This time, however, Kircheisen was not standing before the sashes, but at the side, ensconced behind the curtain, he was spying Gotzkowsky through the window. As he saw him passing by, pale of countenance, but erect and unbent, he felt involuntarily a feeling of remorse, and his conscience warned him of his unpaid debt toward the only man who came to his rescue. But he would not listen to his conscience, and with a dark frown he threw back his head with contempt.

"He is a bankrupt—I have nothing to do with him!" So saying, he retired to his study, and in obedience to a natural instinct, he opened his strong box, and refreshed himself with a look at the thousands which he had earned from Gotzkowsky as "detective and informer." And now his conscience no longer reproached him; the sight of the shining money lulled it into a gentle slumber.

In the meanwhile Gotzkowsky continued his toilsome and humiliating journey. He met men who formerly bent humbly to the earth before him, yet who scarcely greeted him now. Others, again, as they passed him, whispered, with a malicious smile, "Bankrupt!" As he came to the corner of a street, he met the valiant editor of the Vossian Gazette, who was coming round from the other side. As they met, he jostled Gotzkowsky rather roughly, yet Mr. Kretschmer did not think it worth while to excuse himself, but pulling his hat over his face he walked on with a dark and scornful look. As Gotzkowsky passed the houses, he could hear the windows rattle, and he knew that it was his former good friends, who were drawing back when they saw him coming, and who, after he had passed, opened the windows again to look after him, to laugh at and mock him. It was an intellectual running of the gantlet, and Gotzkowsky's heart bled from the blows, and his feet were tired to death. What had he then done to burden himself with the cruelty and contumely of the world? Had he not been benevolent and kind, full of pity and humanity, obliging to every one? Had he not always shown himself ready to serve every one, and never requested nor desired services in return? Therein lay his fault and his crime.

He had been independent. He had never sought the favor of any man, but, trusting solely to himself, had always relied on his own strength. And now mankind wished to make him feel that he had mortified them by his self-sufficiency—for small natures never forgive one who dares to be independent of others, and finds his source of honor in himself. And this crime Gotzkowsky had been guilty of. What he was, he had made himself. He had owed nothing to protection, nothing to hypocrisy or flattery, eye-service, or cringing. Only by the strength and power of his own genius had he elevated himself above the world which he ruled.

And now that he was down, it was but natural that the world should fall upon him, tear him to pieces with its venomous fangs, to enjoy his torture, and joyfully to witness the lowering of pride and independence. Gotzkowsky arrived at the town-hall and slowly ascended the steps. How often had he gone this same road in answer to the pressing cry for help which the magistrate would utter in his distress! How often had he mounted those steps to give his advice, to lend his energy, his money, and his credit to these gentlemen of the Council!

This day the doors were not thrown open to him the beadle did not bow down to the earth before him, but proudly and with erect head stepped up to him and bade him wait in the antechamber until he had announced him to the assembled Council. He had to wait long, but finally the doors opened and he was admitted. There sat the aldermen and councillors, and the burgomaster, just as they had when, in their need and distress, they had appealed to Gotzkowsky for advice and assistance—just as they had when, in solemn session, they determined to present him with a silver laurel-wreath as an honorable testimonial.

Only the chief burgomaster was absent. Herr von Kircheisen was at home, enjoying the sight of the money he had won from Gotzkowsky. This day they did not receive him as a counsellor or friend, but more like a delinquent. No one rose to greet him—no one offered him a seat! They knew that he came to ask for something. Why, then, should they be polite to him, as he was only a petitioner like all other poor people? In the mean time Gotzkowsky did not seem to be aware of the alteration. Smiling, and with a firm, proud step he walked to a chair and sat down.

After a pause the burgomaster asked him churlishly what his business was. He drew out a parcel of papers, and laying them on the table, said, "I have brought my accounts."

A panic seized the worshipful gentlemen of the Council, and they sat petrified in their seats.

"Your worships have forgotten my claims," said Gotzkowsky quickly. "However, that I can easily understand, as the accounts are somewhat old. It is now four years since I have had the honor of having the Council of Berlin as my debtor; since I thrice performed the perilous journey to Koenigsberg and Warsaw in order to negotiate the war contribution in the name of the town. At that time, too, I was obliged, in the service of the Council, to take with me many valuable presents. I may enumerate among them the diamond-set staff for General von Fermore, and the snuff-box, with the portrait of the empress, surrounded by brilliants, which I delivered to the General Field-Marshal Count Butterlin, in the name of the magistracy and town of Berlin. But, gentlemen, you will find the accounts of all these things here."

The gentlemen of the Council did not answer him; they seized upon the papers hastily, and turned them over, and looked into them with stern and sullen eyes. Not a word was said, and nothing was heard but the rustling of the papers, and the low muttering of one of the senators adding the numbers, and verifying the calculation. Gotzkowsky rose, and walked to the window. Raising his looks to heaven, his countenance expressed all the pain and bitterness to which his soul almost succumbed. Ah! he could have torn the papers out of the hand of this miserable, calculating, reckoning senator, and with pride and contempt have thrown them in his face. But he thought of his daughter, and the honor of his name. He had to wait it out, and bend his head in submission.

At last the burgomaster laid the papers aside, and turned scowlingly toward Gotzkowsky. The latter stepped up to the table with a smile, making a vow to himself that he would remain quiet and patient.

"Have you read them, gentlemen?" he asked.

"We have read them," answered the burgomaster roughly, "but the Council cannot admit that it owes you any thing."

"No?" cried Gotzkowsky; and then, allowing himself to be overcome by a feeling of bitterness—"I believe you. Those in authority seldom take cognizance of what they owe, only what is owing to them."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said the first councillor with solemn dignity, "we know very well that we owe you thanks for the great services you have rendered the town."

Gotzkowsky broke out into a loud, ironical laugh. "Do you remember that? I am glad that you have not forgotten it."

"It is true," continued the councillor, in a tone of conciliation, "at the request of the magistracy you took charge of the affairs of the town. You travelled to St. Petersburg to see the empress; twice did you go to Warsaw to see General Fermore, and twice to Saxony to visit the king. You see the Council knows how much it is indebted to you."

"And we are cheerfully willing to be grateful to you," interrupted the burgomaster, "and to serve you when and in what manner we can, but these debts we cannot acknowledge."

Gotzkowsky looked at him in dismay, and a deep glow suffused his cheek. "You refuse to pay them?" he asked, faintly.

"It pains us deeply that we cannot recognize these claims. You must abate somewhat from them if we are to pay them," answered the burgomaster rudely.

"Do you dare to propose this to me?" cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flashing, his countenance burning with anger and indignation. "Is this the way you insult the man to whom four years ago on this very spot you swore eternal gratitude? In those days I sacrificed to you my repose, the sleep of my nights; for, when the town was threatened with danger and alarm, there was no Council, no authority in existence, for you were base cowards, and abjectly begged for my good offices. With tears did you entreat me to save you. I left my house, my family, my business, to serve you. At the risk of my life, in the depth of winter, I undertook these journeys. You did not consider that Russian bayonets threatened me, that I risked health and life. You thought only of yourselves. I have not put down in the account the sleepless nights, the trouble and anxiety, the privation and hardships which I suffered. I do not ask any money or recompense for my services. I only ask that I may be paid back what I actually expended; and you have the assurance to refuse it?"

"No, we do not," said the burgomaster, quite unmoved by Gotzkowsky's noble excitement. "We do not refuse payment; we only desire a reduction of the amounts."

"You wish to cheapen and bargain with me," said Gotzkowsky with a hoarse laugh. "You take me for a chapman, who measures out his life and services by the yard; and you wish to pay me for mine by the same measure. Go, most sapient gentlemen; I carry on a wholesale trade, and do not cut off yards. That I leave to shopkeepers, to souls like yours."

The burgomaster rose up proud and threateningly from his seat. "Do you dare to insult the Council?"

"No, the Council of Berlin insult themselves by their own deeds. They dare to chaffer with me!"

"And they have a right to do so," cried the burgomaster, quite beside himself with rage. "Who asked you to play the great lord in our name, and distribute royal presents—diamonds and gold snuff-boxes? You could have done it much more cheaply. The Russian is not so high-priced. But it was your pleasure to be magnificent at our expense, and to strut about as a bountiful gentleman."

"Silence!" cried Gotzkowsky, in such a commanding tone that the burgomaster was struck dumb, and sank back in his chair. Gotzkowsky said no more. He took the accounts from the table, and, casting a look of anger and contempt on the worthy gentlemen, tore the papers in pieces, and threw the scraps at their feet. "I am paid!" he said, proudly, and turned to leave the room.

One of the town councillors hastened after him, and held him back. "You are too hasty: we may yet agree."

"No!" said Gotzkowsky, striving to free himself. "I do not chaffer and bargain for my right."

The other held him tight. "But the Council are not averse to paying you, if you—"

"If I will only traffic with you, is it not so?" interrupted Gotzkowsky. "Let me go; we have done with each other."

"You will regret having repulsed the Council," said the burgomaster, threateningly.

"I never regret an action when my honor is satisfied," said Gotzkowsky, with proud contempt; and then, without honoring the worthy gentlemen with another look, he left the hall, and returned into the street.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XI.

THE JEWS OF THE MINT.

Herr Itzig was a very pious and devout Jew. He kept the Sabbath strictly after the custom of his ancestors. He was charitable to the poor; and no Jew beggar ever left his door without a gift.

He sat in his room, performing his morning devotions, and so deeply was he immersed therein, that he did not hear a repeated knocking at the door until a low, gentle voice whispered, "Good-morning, Herr Itzig!"

Itzig first finished his prayer; for all the world he would not have broken off before the end of it: "Be gracious and merciful to us, Jehovah, and incline us to be compassionate and helpful to all who approach us with supplication, even as we desire that thou shouldst be to us." And now the pious Jew closed his prayer-book, and turned slowly around.

That pale, bent man, who greeted him with a sorrowful smile—could it possibly be—could it be John Gotzkowsky, the celebrated banker, the honored and bright hero of the Exchange, the money-king before whom all Europe bowed down?

An expression of malicious joy stole over Itzig's face; but he suppressed it immediately, for the last words of his prayer still floated around his lips, and somewhat purified them. "Ah!" said he, in a friendly tone, as he stepped toward Gotzkowsky, stretching out both his hands to him, "the great and powerful John Gotzkowsky does me the honor to visit me. What joy for my humble house!"

Gotzkowsky did not allow himself to be misled by this seeming politeness. He observed him with sharp and penetrating eyes, and then proudly said: "Listen, Itzig; let us be candid with each other. You know the reports which are current about me in the city and on the Bourse."

"I know them, but do not believe them," cried Itzig, with an altered, earnest mien. "Yes, I know these reports, and I know too what they are worth. They are a speculation of Ephraim, that your notes may be depreciated, that he may buy them in at a low rate. I know that Gotzkowsky is a rich man; and a rich man has judgment, and whoever has judgment is prudent—does not venture much, nor stand security for other people."

"I have perhaps less of this judgment than you think," said Gotzkowsky. "It may be that I have stood security."

"Then you will certainly know how to pay?" said Itzig, with a forced laugh.

"But how if I cannot pay?" said Gotzkowsky, sadly.

Itzig stepped back, and gazed at him horrified.

"If I cannot pay," continued Gotzkowsky, impressively; "if I am unable to pay half a million for Leipsic, another half million for the Russian claims, after having lost the same amount yesterday by the new treasury ordinance—what would you say to that, Itzig?"

Itzig listened to him with increasing terror, and gradually his features assumed an expression of hatred and savage rage. When Gotzkowsky had finished, he raised his clasped hands to heaven, as if imploring the wrath of God on the head of the sinner. "My God! sir, are you, then, going to fail?"

Gotzkowsky seized his hand, and looked into his quivering face with an expression of intense anxiety. "Listen to me, Itzig. I may yet be saved; every thing depends upon my obtaining a delay, that my credit may not be shaken. You are rich—"

"No, I am poor," interrupted Itzig, vehemently. "I am perfectly poor; I have nothing but what I earn."

"But you can earn a great deal," said Gotzkowsky, with a faint smile. "I wish to effect a loan from you. Take my word of honor as security."

"Your word of honor!" cried Itzig, thrusting back his hand. "What can I do with your word of honor? I cannot advance any money on it."

"Consider! the honor of my name is concerned—and this, till now, I have kept unsullied before God and man!" cried Gotzkowsky, imploringly.

"And if my own honor was concerned," exclaimed Itzig, "I would rather part with it than my money. Money makes me a man. I am a Jew. I have nothing but money—it is my life, my honor! I cannot part with any of it."

But Gotzkowsky did not allow himself to be repulsed. It seemed to him that his future, his honor, his whole life hung upon this moment. He felt like a gambler who has staked his last hope upon one throw of the dice. If this fails, all hope is gone; no future, no life is left, nothing but the grave awaits him. With impetuous violence he seized the hand of the rich Itzig. "Oh!" said he, "remember the time when you swore eternal gratitude to me."

"I never would have sworn it," cried Itzig—"no, by the Eternal, I never would have done it, if I had thought you would ever have needed it!"

"The honor of my name is at stake!" cried Gotzkowsky, in a tone of heart-rending agony. "Do you not understand that this is to me my life? Remember your vow! Let your heart for once feel sympathy—act as a man toward his fellow-man. Advance me money upon my word of honor. No, not on that alone—on my house, on all that belongs to me. Lend me the sum I need. Oh! I will repay it in a princely manner. Help me over only these shoals, and my gratitude to you will be without bounds. You have a heart—take pity on me!"

Itzig looked with a malicious smile into his pale, agitated face. "So the rich, the great Christian banker, in the hour of his trouble, thinks that the poor derided Jew has a heart; I admit that I have a heart—but what has that to do with money? When business begins, there the heart stops. No, I have no heart to lend you money!"

Gotzkowsky did not answer immediately. He stood for an instant motionless, as if paralyzed in his inmost being. His soul was crushed, and he scarcely felt his grief. He only felt and knew that he was a lost man, and that the proud edifice of his fortune was crumbling under him, and would bury him in its ruins. He folded his hands and raised his disconsolate looks on high; he murmured: You see my suffering, O God! I have done my utmost! I have humbled myself to begging—to pitiful complaining. My God! my God! will no helping hand stretch itself once more to me out of the cloud?"

"You should have prayed before to God," said Itzig, with cruel mockery. "You should have begged Him for prudence and foresight."

Gotzkowsky did not heed him. He fought and struggled with his immense suffering, and, being a noble and a brave man, he at length conquered it. For a moment he had been cowed and downcast, but now he recovered all the power of his energetic nature. He raised again his bowed head, and his look was once more determined and defiant. "Well, then, I have tried every thing; now I accept my fate. Listen, then, Herr Itzig, I am going to suspend payment; my house must fail!"

Itzig shuddered with a sudden terror. "My God!" cried he, "only yesterday I bought a draft of yours. You will not pay it?"

"I will not do it, because I cannot; and I would not do it, if I could. I have humbled myself before you in the dust, and you have stretched out no hand to raise me. Farewell, and may that now happen which you would not prevent when you could! You punish yourself. Farewell!"

Itzig held him convulsively back, and cried, in a voice drowned by rage, "You will pay my draft?"

"I will not," said Gotzkowsky. "You have judged; take now your reward." He threw Itzig's hands from him, and hastened from the spot.

Behind him sounded the wailing and raging of Itzig, who implored Heaven and hell to punish the criminal who had cheated him of his money.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XII.

THE LEIPSIC MERCHANT.

Exhausted and weary, Gotzkowsky returned to his house, and retired to his room, to give himself up to the sad and terrible thoughts which tortured him. He could not conceal from himself that the sword above his head was only suspended by two thin threads. If De Neufville did not return from Amsterdam, and if the courier did not bring a relief from Leipsic, then was he lost without redemption, and the deadly sword must fall. For the first time did he think of death; for the first time did the thought of it flash like lightning through his brain, and make him almost cheerful and happy.

He could die; it was not necessary that he should bear the pain and humiliation of life. He could take refuge in the quiet, silent grave under the turf, which would soon be decked with flowers over his agonized breast. He had worked much; his feet were sore, and his heart weary, from his walk through life. Why should he not lay himself down in the grave to rest, to dream, or to sink in the arms of eternal, dreamless sleep?

But this enticing thought he cast forcibly from him. He had not yet lost all hope. His anticipations rose as the door opened, and the servant handed him a large sealed letter, which the courier from Leipsic had just brought. With hasty hand he seized the letter, and motioned to Peter to retire. But as soon as he was alone, and was about to break the seal, he drew back and hesitated. This letter might, indeed, contain his salvation; but it might also contain his death-sentence. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, and muttered to himself: "It is as light as a feather, and yet its contents may be heavy enough to hurl me down the abyss. But this is foolish," he exclaimed aloud, drawing himself up proudly. "At least I will know my fate, and see clearly into the future."

With a firm hand he broke the seal. But as he read, horror and dismay were depicted in his countenance, and his whole frame shook. Violently he flung the paper on the ground. "This, then, this is my reward—reproaches, accusations, instead of thanks; scorn and malice, instead of compassion. Reproaches, because I assisted them; accusations, that I had offered to help them; only because without me it would have been impossible for the King of Prussia to raise so much money. Without my mediation, they say, they would not have paid, but at the utmost would have had to endure a somewhat longer imprisonment, which would have been more tolerable than the loss of such immense sums."

He paced impatiently up and down, and as he came to the letter he spurned it with his foot, like a poisonous adder, too loathsome to touch. "I have deserved this punishment," cried he, laughing aloud from inward pain.

"Who bade me love mankind? who bade me help them, instead of like a highwayman falling upon and plundering them, when they were defenceless? Fool that I was to give to life any other interpretation, any other end!" He threw himself in a chair, and was soon buried in thought. Once more he reviewed his whole past, and as he made up the accounts of his life, he had to confess that the total of his hours of happiness was but small, while that of his years of misery and toil was heavy enough to bear him down. But there was still one hope, and as long as he could expect De Neufville's arrival all was not lost, and he must still wait in patience, still struggle with the worm that gnawed at his heart. With such painful thoughts as these was he busied when the door opened, and Elise entered with a glowing countenance.

She was so happy, that in her selfishness she did not perceived his troubled and care-worn looks. "Oh" said she, kissing his hand, "I am so happy at last to find you alone at home. Several times have I sought you here."

"With letters for me?" asked he, hurriedly, for he had not observed Elise's excited countenance. Both were so occupied with their own thoughts and feelings, that they took note of nothing else. "Have not letters arrived?" asked he once more.

"No letters have arrived," said she, smiling joyously, "but happiness has come."

"De Neufville is here, then!" cried Gotzkowsky, anxiously, hurrying toward the door.

"What has De Neufville to do with it?" asked Elise, with surprise holding him back.

Gotzkowsky stared for a moment, terrified at her bright face, and then a sad smile stole across his own. "Poor fool that I am!" he muttered; "I complain of the egotism of men, while I am selfish enough to think only of myself." He drew Elise toward him, and looking at her with infinite tenderness, said, "Well, my child, speak: what happiness has arrived?"

"Look at me," said she, playfully; "can you read nothing in my looks?"

Sadly he looked down deep into her large bright eyes. "Oh, your eyes shine as bright as two stars of hope, the last that are left me!"

Elise threw both her arms around his neck, and kissed him, then drew him with gentle force toward the ottoman, and, as she forced him down on the cushions, she took her own seat, smiling, on the stool at his feet. "How often, my father, have you sat here and cared for me! Ah! I know well how much sorrow I have caused you in these last four sad years, I could not command my heart to forget. You knew this, and yet you have been considerate and gentle as a mother, and kind as the best of fathers. You were never angry with me on account of my grief; you knew of it, and yet you allowed me to weep." She took his hand in hers, and for a moment covered her hot, burning face with it, then looked cheerfully up in his face. "See," she said, "I do not shed any more tears, or, if I do, they are tears of joy. My father, I come to ask your blessing. Feodor is again here; he has come to ask me of you for his wife. Oh, forgive him, and grant your blessing to a love which till now has been the anguish of my life, but which hereafter will be its chief happiness!"

Blushing and with maiden modesty she nestled in her father's breast. Gotzkowsky felt himself paralyzed with terror. He pressed his child's head warmly to his breast, saying to himself, "And this, too, my God! you try me sorely. This is the greatest sacrifice you have demanded of me yet; but my pride is gone. This offering, too, will I make."

"Well, my father, you do not answer?" asked Elise, still leaning on his breast. "All is right, is it not? and you will give us your fatherly blessing, and forgive Feodor the errors of former years, and receive him as a son?"

Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised to heaven, moved his lips in silent prayer. At last, after a long, painful pause, he said solemnly: "Well, let it be so; I give my consent."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, and, amidst tears of unalloyed delight, kissed him, as smiling, and often interrupted by her own deep emotion, she narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lodoiska's death, and the letter she had written to her. "Oh, how delightful this hour would be," continued she, after finishing her narrative, "if I could only remain with you! Love bids me go, and yet it keeps me here! I have promised Feodor to go with him, but I did it in my haste, seeing only him and listening only to his prayers. Now I see you, my father, and it seems to me as if I could not leave you to-day."

"To-day!" cried Gotzkowsky, and a ray of joy shone from his face. He arose, and, with folded arms, paced the room. His soul was full of gratitude to God, to whom he had prayed in his despair. Was this not a sign that God was with him, even if men forsook him?—that God had pity on him, even if all others were pitiless. This day his child wished to leave him, to enter on a brilliant destiny. He had, therefore, no longer any need to be anxious about her fate; and, as she was going to leave at once, he would be spared the torture of having her as a witness to his disgrace and degradation. He took her to his breast, and kissed her with heartfelt fervor. "Farewell, my child, my only happiness; you wish to leave me. I will be alone, but I will have time to think of and pray for you." He then cast her from him almost roughly, for he felt as if his grief would unman him. "Go," he cried, "your bridegroom is waiting for you; go, then, and order your bridal ornaments."

Elise smiled. "Yes, I will adorn myself; but you, father, will place the wreath of myrtle on my head, will you not? That is the sacred and last office of love with which a mother sends a daughter from her arms. I have no mother. You are both father and mother to me. Will you not crown me with the myrtle-wreath?"

"Yes," said he, with a sigh, "I will place the myrtle on your brow, and God grant it may not turn to a crown of thorns! Go now, my child, adorn thyself, and leave me alone to pray for you."

He greeted her smilingly, and accompanied her to the door. But when she had left the room he felt indescribably lonesome, and, pressing his hands against his breast to suppress the cry which choked him, he muttered in a low tone, "I have lost her—she is mine no longer. Every thing forsakes me. The unfortunate is ever alone!"

Once more a knocking, repeated at his door, awakened him from his reverie. Peter his servant entered, and announced Herr Ephraim.

A ray of joyful astonishment flashed across him, and, as he stepped hastily toward the rich Jew of the mint, he said to himself: "Is it possible that this man comes to have pity on me in my distress? Will he be more magnanimous than Itzig? Will he assist me?"

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIII.

EPHRAIM THE TEMPTER.

"You seek me?" asked Gotzkowsky, as Ephraim entered and saluted him in silence.

Gotzkowsky's sharp glance had detected in his insolent hearing and contracted features that it was not pity or sympathy which had brought the Jew to him, but only a desire to gloat over the sufferings of his victim. "He shall not enjoy his triumph. He shall find me collected and determined, and shall not suspect my grief." Thus thinking, he forced his features into a cheerful expression, and handing a chair to the still silent Ephraim, said laughingly: "Indeed, I must be in a dangerous plight, if the birds of prey are already settling around me. Do you already scent my death, Herr Ephraim? By Heaven! that would be a dainty morsel for you!"

"You are angry with me," said Ephraim, shaking his head slowly; "but you shall know how much injustice you do me. I bring you an important and fearful piece of news."

"It must be fearful, indeed," interrupted Gotzkowsky, "as you do yourself the pleasure of bringing it to me in person."

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and abruptly replied, "De Neufville has failed!"

A cry of horror escaped Gotzkowsky's lips; he staggered, and was obliged to support himself by a chair to keep himself from falling. This was the last, decisive blow, and it had wounded him mortally. "De Neufville has failed!" he muttered low to himself.

"Yes, he is bankrupt!" said Ephraim with scarcely suppressed malice. "The proud Christian merchant, whose greatest pleasure it was to look down with contempt upon the Jew Ephraim, he is bankrupt. The Jew stands firm, but the Christian merchant is broken." And as he spoke, he broke into a scornful laugh, which brought back to Gotzkowsky his composure and self-possession.

"You triumph!" he said, "and on your brow is marked your rejoicing over our fall. Yes! you have conquered, for De Neufville's failure is your deed. It was you who persecuted him so long, and by cunning suspicions and calumny undermined his credit until it was destroyed, and the whole edifice of his honorable industry fell together."

"It is my work," cried Ephraim exultingly, "for he stood in my way, and I have pushed him out of it—what more? Life is but a combat; whoever is the strongest—that is, has the most money—is conqueror."

"De Neufville has fallen—that is a hard blow," muttered Gotzkowsky; and as his wandering eye met Ephraim's, he added with an expression of complete prostration: "Enjoy my suffering; you have succeeded—I am hurt unto death!"

"Listen to me, Gotzkowsky," said Ephraim, approaching nearer to him; "I mean well by you."

"Oh, yes!" said Gotzkowsky, bitterly; "after you have hastened my downfall, you condescend to love me. Yes, indeed! I believe in your friendship; for none but a friend would have had the heart to bring such a Job's message."

Ephraim shook his head. "Listen to me," said he; "I will be quite candid with you. Formerly I hated you, it is true, for you were more powerful and richer than I was; you were renowned for being honest and punctual, and that hurt me. If a large bargain was to be made, they were not satisfied unless Gotzkowsky was concerned in it, and if your name stood at the bottom of a contract, every one was pleased. Your name was as good as gold, and that vexed me."

"And for that reason you wished to overthrow me, and worked unceasingly for my downfall; because you knew that I expected this remittance of light money from Hamburg!"

"I procured the decision that the light money should be declared uncurrent, that is true. I succeeded. From this hour I am more powerful and richer than you. You shall see that I only hated your house, not yourself; I have come to help you. You must indeed fail; that I am aware of, and that if you were to put forth all your power, you could not stand this blow, You must and will fail, and that this very day."

Gotzkowsky muttered some unintelligible words, and covered his face with his hands. "Yes," he cried, piteously, "I and all my hopes have suffered shipwreck."

Ephraim laid his hand suddenly upon his shoulder. "Seek, then, to save some plank from the wreck, on which you may swim. You can no longer save your creditors; save yourself."

Gotzkowsky removed his hands slowly from his face, and looked at him with astonishment and wonder.

Ephraim met his look with a smiling and mysterious expression, and bending down to Gotzkowsky's ear, whispered: "I think you will not be such a fool as to give up all you have to your creditors, and to go out of your house a poor man. Intrust me with your important papers, and all that you possess of money and valuables, and I will preserve them for you. You do not answer. Come, be reasonable; do not allow the world the pleasure of pitying you; it does not deserve it. Believe me, mankind is bad; and he is a fool who strives to be better than his fellows." He stopped, and directed an inquiring look toward Gotzkowsky.

The latter regarded him proudly and with contempt. "This, then, is your friendship for me? You wish to make me a cheat!"

"Every man cheats his neighbor," cried Ephraim, shrugging his shoulders; "why should you alone be honest?"

"Because I do not wish to be ashamed of myself. It is the fault of others that I fall to-day. It shall not be said that Gotzkowsky is guilty of any crime of his own."

"It will be said, nevertheless," interrupted Ephraim; "for whoever is unfortunate, is in the wrong, in the eyes of men. And if he can help himself at the expense of others, and does not do it, do you think men will admire him for it? No! believe me, they will only laugh at him. I have often been sorry for you, Gotzkowsky; for, with all your good sense, your whole life through has been a miscalculation—"

"Or rather say," said Gotzkowsky, sadly, "I have not calculated enough, and from all the experiences of my life I have not drawn the sum total."

"You miscalculated," said Ephraim, "for you calculated on gratitude. That is a bad investment which does not bear interest. Mankind cannot be grateful, and when any one tries to be so he must sink, for others are not so. Whoever wishes to succeed in this world, must think only of himself, and keep his own interest in sight."

"You wise men of the world are right!" cried Gotzkowsky, with a hoarse laugh.

Unhindered by Gotzkowsky's vehement and scornful bearing, Ephraim continued: "If I had thought as you did, I would not have been able to operate against you, nor could I have brought the mint ordinance to bear on you. Then, to be sure, I would have been grateful, but it would not have been business-like. Therefore I thought first of my own welfare, and after that I came here to serve you, and show you my gratitude."

"I do not desire any gratitude. Let me go my way—you go yours."

Ephraim looked at him almost pityingly. "Be reasonable, Gotzkowsky; take good advice. The world does not thank you for being honorable. Mankind has not deserved the pleasure of laughing at you. And they will laugh!"

"Leave me, I tell you!" cried Gotzkowsky; "you shall not deprive me of my last possession, my conscience!"

"Conscience!" sneered Ephraim. "You will starve on that capital."

Gotzkowsky sighed deeply and dropped his head on his breast. At this moment there were heard from without loud hurrahs and jubilant sounds, mingled with the tones of martial music.

King Frederick II. was returning this day to Berlin, after a long absence, and the happy and delighted Berliners had prepared for him a pompous and brilliant entry. They had built triumphal arches, and the guilds had gone forth to accompany him into the city, now adorned for festivity. The procession had to pass by Gotzkowsky's house, and already were heard the sounds of the approaching music, while the shouts and cries of the people became louder and shriller.

Ephraim stepped to the window, opened it, and pointing down into the street, he said, with a mocking laugh: "Just look, Gotzkowsky! There is the true test of your beautiful, high-toned principles. How often has Berlin not called you her benefactor, and yet she is overjoyed on the very day you are going to ruin! The whole town of Berlin knows that Gotzkowsky fails to-day, and yet they pass by your house with merry music, and no one thinks of you."

"He is right," murmured Gotzkowsky, as the huzzas sounded under his window. "He is right! I was a fool to love mankind."

Ephraim pointed down into the street again. "See," said he, "there comes Count Salm, whom you saved from death when the Russians were here. He does not look up here. Ah, there goes the banker, Splittyerber, whose factories in Neustadt Eberswald you saved at the same time. He, too, does not look up. Oh! yes, he does, and laughs. Look there! There goes the king with his staff. You have caused his majesty much pleasure. You accomplished his favorite wish—you founded the porcelain factory. You travelled at your own expense into Italy, and bought pictures for him. You preserved his capital from pillage by the Austrians and Russians. The Dutch ambassador, who at that time interfered in favor of Berlin with the Austrians, him has the king in his gratitude created a count. What has he done for you? What Verelse did was but a trifle in comparison with your services, yet he, forsooth, is made a count. What has the king done for you? See, the king and his staff has passed by, and not one of them has looked up here. Yesterday they would have done so, for yesterday you were rich; but to-day they have forgotten you already: for to-day you are poor, and the memory of the people is very short for the poor. Ah! look down again, Gotzkowsky—so many gentlemen, so many high-born people are passing! Not one looks up!"

Against his will Gotzkowsky had been drawn to the window, and, enticed by Ephraim's words, he had looked down anxiously and mournfully at the brilliant procession which was passing by. How much would he not have given if only one of the many who had formerly called themselves his friends had looked up at him, had greeted him cordially? But Ephraim was right. No one did so. No one thought of him who, with a broken heart, was leaning beside the window, asking of mankind no longer assistance or help, but a little love and sympathy. But, as he looked down into the street again, his countenance suddenly brightened up. He laid his hand hastily on Ephraim's shoulder, and pointed to the procession.

"You are right," said he; "the respectable people do not look up here, but here comes the end of the procession, the common people, the poor and lowly, the workmen. Look at them! See how they are gazing at me. Ah, they see me, they greet me, they wave their hats! There, one of them is putting his hand to his face. He is a day-laborer who formerly worked in my factory. This man is weeping, and because he knows that I have been unfortunate. See! here come others—poor people in ragged clothes—women with nurslings in their arms—tottering old men—they all bend dewy eyes on me. Do you see? they smile at me. Even the children stretch up their arms. Ah, they love me, although I am no longer rich."

And turning with a beaming face and eyes moistened with tears toward Ephraim, he exclaimed: "You tell me that I have miscalculated. No! you are mistaken. I calculated on the kernel of humanity, not on the degenerate shell. And this noble kernel of humanity resides in the people, the workmen, and the poor. I trusted in these, and they have not betrayed my confidence."

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders. "The people are weathercocks; they will stone to-morrow the same men whom they bless to-day. Only wait until public opinion has condemned you, and the people, too, will forsake you. Protect yourself, then, against men. When you were rich, every one partook of your liberality; now that you are poor, no one will be willing to share your misfortune. Therefore save yourself, I tell you. Collect whatever papers and valuables you may have. Give them to me. By the God of my fathers I will preserve them faithfully and honestly for you!"

Gotzkowsky repulsed him with scorn, and indignant anger flashed from his countenance. "Back from me, tempter!" cried he, proudly. "It is true you possess the wisdom of the world, but one thing is wanting in your wisdom—the spirit of honor. I know that this does not trouble you much, but to me it is every thing. You are right: I will be a beggar, and men will point at me with their finger, and laugh me to scorn. But I will pass them by proudly, nor will I bend my head before them, for my dignity and honor as a man are unconnected with gold or property. These are my own, and when I die, on my tomb will be written—'He died in poverty, but he was an honorable man.'"

"Fool that you are!" exclaimed Ephraim, laughing in contempt. "You are speculating on your epitaph, while the fortune of your life slips away from you. Take my advice: there is yet time to secure your future."

"Never, if it is to be accomplished by frauds!"

"Think of your daughter."

A painful quivering flitted across Gotzkowsky's face. "Who gives you a right to remind me of her?" asked he angrily. "Do not soil her name by pronouncing it. I have nothing in common with you."

"Yes, you have, though," said Ephraim with a wicked smile. "You have done me a good deed, and I am thankful. That is something in common."

Gotzkowsky did not answer him. He crossed the room hastily, and stepped to his writing-table, out of a secret drawer of which he drew a dark-red case. He opened it and snatched out the diamond ring that was contained in it.

"I do not wish your gratitude," said he, turning to Ephraim, anger flashing from his countenance—"and if you could offer me all the treasures of the world, I would throw them to the earth, as I do this ring!" And he cast down the costly jewel at Ephraim's feet.

The latter raised it coolly from the ground and examined it carefully. He then broke out into a loud, scornful laugh. "This is the ring which the Jews presented to you when you procured our exemption from the war-tax. You give it to me?"

"I give it to you, and with it a curse on the tempter of my honor!"

"You repulse me, then? You will have none of my gratitude?"

"Yes; if your hand could save me from the abyss, I would reject it!"

"Let it be so, then," said Ephraim; and his face assumed an expression of hatred and malice—for now it could be perceived that the rich Ephraim was again overcome by Gotzkowsky, although the latter was a poor and shattered man. His sympathy and his help had only met with a proud refusal from him whom he had not succeeded in humbling and dragging down to the dust.

"Let it be so, then!" he repeated, gnashing his teeth. "You will not have it otherwise. I take the ring," and looking at Gotzkowsky maliciously, he continued: "With this ring I will buy you a place in the churchyard, that the dishonored bankrupt may, at least, find an honorable grave, and not be shovelled in like De Neufville the suicide!"

"What do you say—De Neufville is dead?" cried Gotzkowsky, hurrying after him as he neared the door, and seizing him violently by the arm. "Say it once more—De Neufville is dead?"

Ephraim enjoyed for a moment, in silence, Gotzkowsky's terrible grief. He then freed himself from his grasp and opened the door. But turning round once more, and looking in Gotzkowsky's face with a devilish grin, he slowly added, "De Neufville killed himself because he could not survive disgrace." And then, with a loud laugh, he slammed the door behind him.

Gotzkowsky stared after him, and his soul was full of inexpressible grief. He had lost in De Neufville not only a friend whom he loved, and on whose fidelity he could count, but his own future and his last hope were buried in his grave. But his own tormenting thoughts left him no leisure to mourn over his deceased friend. It was the kind of death that De Neufville had chosen which occupied his mind.

"He came to his death by his own hand; he did not wish to survive his disgrace. He has done right—for when disgrace begins, life ends—and shall I live," asked he aloud, as almost angrily he threw his head back, "an existence without honor, an existence of ignominy and misery? I repeat it, De Neufville has done right. Well, then, I dare not do wrong; my friend has shown me the way. Shall I follow him? Let me consider it."

He cast a wild, searching look around the room, as if he feared some eye might be looking at him, and read desperate thoughts in the quivering of his face. "Yes! I will consider it," whispered he, uneasily. "But not here—there in my cabinet, where every thing is so silent and solitary, no one will disturb me. I will think of it, I say." And with a dismal smile he hurried into his study, and closed the door behind him.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIV.

ELISE.

The bridal costume was completed, and with a bright face, smiling and weeping for sheer happiness, Elise stood looking at herself in a large Venetian mirror. Not from vanity, nor to enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, but to convince herself that all this was not a dream, only truth, delightful truth. The maiden, with blushing cheeks, stood and looked in the glass, in her white dress, till she smiled back again; so like a bride, that she shouted aloud for joy, kissed her hand to herself, in the fulness of her mirth, as she greeted and smiled again to her image in the mirror. "I salute you, happy bride!" said she, in the exuberance of her joy. "I see in your eyes that you are happy, and so may God bless you! Go forth into the world and teach it by your example, that for a woman there is no happiness but love, no bliss but that of resting in the arms of her lover. But am I not too simply clad?" cried she, interrupting herself suddenly, and examining herself critically in the glass. "Yes, indeed, that simple, silly child is not worthy of such a handsome and splendid cavalier: a white silk dress and nothing else! How thoughtless and foolish has happiness made me! My Heaven! I forgot that he comes from the land of diamonds, and that he is a prince. Oh! I will adorn myself for my prince." And she took from her desk the costly set of diamonds, the legacy of her mother, and fastened the glittering brilliants in her ears, on her arms, and the necklace set with diamonds and emeralds around her snow-white neck.

"Now that looks splendid," said she, as she surveyed herself again. "Now perhaps I may please him. But the last ornament is still wanting—my myrtle-wreath—but that my father shall put on." Looking at the wreath, she continued, in a more serious and sad tone: "Crown of love and of death! it is woven in the maiden's hair when she dies as a maiden, whether it be to arise again as a wife or as a purified spirit." And raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she exclaimed: "I thank Thee, O God, for granting me all this happiness. My whole life, my whole future, shall evince but gratitude toward Thee, who art the God of love."

Soon, however, it became too close and solitary in this silent chamber. She wished to go to her father, to throw herself on his breast, to pour out to him all her happiness, her affection, her joy, in words of thankfulness, of tender child-like love. How the white satin dress rustled and shone! how the diamonds sparkled and glittered, as, meteor-like, they flitted down the dark corridor! With a bright, happy smile, holding the wreath in her hand, she stepped into her father's room. But the apartment was empty. She crossed it in haste to seek him in his study. The doors were locked and no one answered her loud calls. She supposed he had gone out, and would doubtless soon return. She sat down to await him, and soon sank into deep thought and reverie. What sweet and precious dreams played around her, and greeted her with happy bodings of the future!

The door opened, and she started up to meet her father. But it was not her father—it was Bertram. And how altered—how pale and troubled he looked! He hardly noticed her, and his eye gleamed on her without seeing her. What was it that had so changed him? Perhaps he already knew that she was to be married to-day, and that her lover, so long mourned, had returned to her. She asked confusedly and anxiously for her father.

"My God! is he not here, then?" asked Bertram in reply. "I must speak to him, for I have things of the greatest importance to tell him."

Elise looked at him with inquiring astonishment. She had never seen him so intensely excited in his whole being, and unwillingly she asked the cause of his trouble and anxiety.

Bertram denied feeling any anxiety, and yet his eye wandered around searchingly and uneasily, and his whole frame was restless and anxious. This only made Elise the more eager to find out the cause of his trouble. She became more pressing, and Bertram again assured her that nothing had happened.

Elise shook her head distrustfully. "And yet I do not deceive myself! Misfortune stands written on your brow." Then, turning pale with terror, she asked, "Do you bring my father bad news?"

Bertram did not answer, but cast his eyes on the ground to escape her searching gaze. There awoke in her breast all the anxiety and care of a loving daughter, and she trembled violently as she implored him to inform her of the danger that threatened her father. He could withstand her no longer. "She must learn it some time; it is better she should hear it from me," muttered he to himself. He took her hand, led her to the sofa, and, sitting down by her side, imparted to her slowly and carefully, always endeavoring to spare her feelings, the terrible troubles and misfortunes of her father. But Elise was little acquainted with the material cares of life. She, who had never known any extreme distress, any real want, could not understand how happiness and honor could depend on money. When Bertram had finished, she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some oppressive anxiety. "How you have frightened me!" said she, smiling. "Is that all the trouble—we are to be poor? Well, my father does not care much about money."

"But he does about his honor," said Bertram.

"Oh, the honor of my father cannot stand in any danger," cried Elise, with noble pride.

Bertram shook his head. "But it is in danger, and though we are convinced of his innocence, the world will not believe it. It will forget all his noble deeds, all his high-mindedness and liberality, it will obliterate all his past, and only remember that this day, for the first time in his life, he has it not in his power to fulfil his word. It will condemn him as if he were a common cheat, and brand him with the disgraceful name of bankrupt." With increasing dismay Elise had watched his countenance as he spoke. Now, for the first time, the whole extent of the misfortune which was about to befall her father seemed to enter her mind, and she felt trembling and crushed. She could feel or think of nothing now but the evil which was rushing in upon her parent, and with clasped hands and tears in her eyes she asked Bertram if there was no more hope; if there was no one who could avert this evil from her father.

Bertram shook his head sadly. "His credit is gone—no one comes to his assistance."

"No one?" asked Elise, putting her hand with an indescribable expression on his shoulder. "And you, my brother?"

"Ah, I have tried every thing," said he; and even in this moment her very touch darted through him like a flash of delight. "I have implored him with tears in my eyes to accept the little I possess, to allow me the sacred right of a son. But he refused me. He will not, he says, allow a stranger to sacrifice himself for his sake. He calls me a stranger! I know that my fortune cannot save him, but it may delay his fall, or at least cancel a portion of his debt, and he refuses me. He says that if I were his son, he would consent to what he now denies me. Elise," he continued, putting aside, in the pressure of the moment, all consideration and all hesitation, "I have asked him for your hand, my sister, that I may in reality become his son. I know that you do not love, but you might esteem me; for the love I bear your father, you might, as a sacrifice to your duty as a daughter, accept my hand and become my bride."

He ceased, and looked anxiously and timidly at the young girl, who sat blushing and trembling by his side. She felt that she owed him an answer; and as she raised her eyes to him, and looked into his noble, faithful face, which had never changed, never altered—as she thought that Bertram had always loved her with the same fidelity, the same self-sacrifice—with a love which desired nothing, wished for nothing but her happiness and contentment, she was deeply moved; and, for the first time, she felt real and painful remorse. Freely and gracefully she offered him her hand.

"Bertram," she said, "of all the men whom I know, you are the most noble! As my soul honors you, so would my heart love you, if it were mine."

Bertram bent over her hand and kissed it; but as he looked at her, his eye accidentally caught sight of the sparkling jewels which adorned her arms and neck, and aware for the first time of her unusually brilliant toilet, he asked in surprise the occasion for it.

"Oh, do not look at it," cried Elise; "tell me about my father. What did he answer you when you asked him for my hand?"

"That he would never accept such a sacrifice from his daughter, even to save himself from death."

"And is his fall unavoidable?" asked Elise thoughtfully.

"I almost fear it is. This morning already reports to that effect were current in the town, and your father himself told me that if Russia insisted on payment, he was lost irretrievably. Judge, then, of my horror, when I have just received from a friend in St. Petersburg the certain intelligence that the empress has already sent a special envoy to settle this business with the most stringent measures. This half a million must be of great importance to the empress, when, for the purpose of collecting it, she sends her well-known favorite, Prince Stratimojeff!"

Elise started from her seat in horror, and stared at Bertram. "Whom did she send?"

"Her favorite, Stratimojeff," repeated Bertram, calmly.

Elise shuddered; her eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks burned. "Who has given you the right to insult the Prince Stratimojeff, that you call him the favorite of the adulterous empress?"

Bertram looked at her in astonishment. "What is Prince Stratimojeff to you?" said he. "The whole world knows that he is the favorite of Catharine. Read, then, what my correspondent writes me on the subject." He drew forth a letter, and let Elise read those passages which alluded especially to the mission of the imperial favorite.

Elise uttered a scream, and fell back fainting on the sofa; every thing swam before her; her blood rushed to her heart; and she muttered faintly, "I am dying—oh, I am dying!" But this momentary swoon soon passed over, and Elise awoke to full consciousness and a perception of her situation. She understood every thing—she knew every thing. With a feeling of bitter contempt she surveyed all the circumstances—her entire, pitiable, sorrowful misfortune. "Therefore, then," said she to herself, almost laughing in scorn, "therefore this hasty wedding, this written consent of the empress—I was to be the cloak of this criminal intercourse. Coming from her arms, he was anxious to present me to the world. 'Look! you calumniate me! this is my wife, and the empress is as pure as an angel!'" She sprang up, and paced the room with hasty steps and rapid breathing. Her whole being was in a state of excitement and agitation. She shuddered at the depth of pitiable meanness she had discovered in this man, who not only wished to cheat and delude her, but was about, as if in mockery of all human feeling, to make herself the scapegoat of her imperial rival.

She did not notice that Bertram was looking at her in all astonishment, and in vain seeking a clew to her conduct. "This is too much!" cried she, half soliloquizing. "Love cannot stand this! Love! away with the word—I would despise myself if I could find a spark of this love in my heart!" She pressed her hands to her breast, as if she wished thereby to extinguish the flames which were consuming her "Oh!" she cried, "it burns fearfully, but it is not love! Hate, too, has its fires. I hate him! I know it now—I hate him, and I will have vengeance on the traitor! I will show him that I scorn him!" Like an infuriated tigress she darted at the myrtle-wreath which lay on the table. "The bond of love is broken, and I will destroy it as I do this wreath!" she exclaimed, wildly; but suddenly a gentle hand was laid upon her extended arm, and Bertram's soft and sympathizing voice sounded in her ear.

What he said, what words he used—he who now understood all, and perceived the fulness of her grief—with what sincere, heart-born words he sought to comfort her, she neither knew nor understood. But she heard his voice; she knew that a sympathizing friend stood at her side, ready to offer a helping hand to save her from misery, and faithfully to draw her to his breast. She would have been lost, she would have gone crazy, if Bertram had not stood at her side. She felt it—she knew it. Whenever she had been threatened with calamity, he was always near, to watch and shield, to afford her peace and comfort.

"Bertram! Bertram!" she cried, trembling in every limb, "protect me. Do not shut me out from your heart! have pity on me!" She leaned her head on his breast and wept aloud. Now, in her sorrow, she felt it to be a blessing that he was present, and for the first time she had a clear consciousness that God had sent him to her to be a helping friend, a guardian angel.

The illusions and errors of her whole life fell from before her eyes like a veil, and she saw in a clear light both herself and Bertram. And now, as she leaned her head upon his breast, her thoughts became prayers, and her tears thank-offerings. "I have entertained an angel unawares," said she, remembering, unintentionally, the language of Holy Writ. When Bertram asked the meaning of her words, she answered, "They mean that an erring heart has found the right road home."

She wiped away her tears with her long locks. She would no longer weep, nor shed a single tear for the false, intriguing traitor, the degenerate scion of a degenerate race. He was not worthy of a sigh of revenge, not even of a reproach. A mystery had slept in her breast, and she thought to have found the true solution in the word "Feodor!" but she was mistaken, and God had allowed this long-mourned, long-desired man to return to her, that she might be allowed to read anew the riddle of her heart more correctly, to find out its deceitful nature, its stubborn pride, and to conquer them. Thus thinking, she raised her head from Bertram's breast, and looked at him "You asked my father for my hand. Do you still love me?"

Bertram smiled. This question seemed so strange and singular! "Do I love you?" asked he. "Can he ever cease to love who has once loved?"

"Do you still love me?" she repeated.

"Faithfully and honorably," said he, with feeling.

"Faithfully and honorably!" cried Elise, deeply moved. "Oh those are words as strong as rocks, and like the shipwrecked sailor, I will cling to them to save myself from sinking. Oh, Bertram, how good you are! You love my father, and desire to be his son, only for the sake of helping him."

"And if need be, to work for him, to give up my life for him!"

With her bright eyes she looked deeply into his, and held out her hand to him. "Give me your hand, Bertram," said she, softly. "You were a better son to my father than I have been a daughter. I will learn from you. Will you be my teacher?"

Bertram gazed at her astonished and inquiringly. She replied to this look with a sweet smile, and like lightning it shot through his heart, and a happy anticipation pervaded his entire soul. "My God! my God! is it possible?" murmured he, "is the day of suffering, indeed, past? Will—"

He felt Elise suddenly shudder, and pressing his hand significantly, she whispered, "Silence, Bertram, look there!"

Bertram followed the direction of her eyes, and saw Gotzkowsky, who had opened the door of his study, and was entering the room, his features pale and distorted, and his gaze fixed. "He does not see us," whispered Elise. "He is talking to himself. Do not disturb him."

In silence she pointed to the curtains just behind them, concealing a recess, in the middle of which stood a costly vase. "Let us conceal ourselves," said she, and, unnoticed by Gotzkowsky, they glided behind the curtains.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XV.

THE RESCUE.

Gotzkowsky had closed with life and earthly affairs. He had signed the document declaring him a bankrupt, and he had delivered over all his property to his creditors. The die had been cast. He had been powerful and great through money, but his power and greatness had now gone from him, for he was poor. The same men who yesterday had bowed down to the ground before him, had to-day passed him by in pride and scorn; and those who had vowed him eternal gratitude, had turned him from their door like a beggar. Why should he continue to bear the burdens of a life which had no longer any allurements, and whose most precious jewel, his honor, he had lost?

De Neufville had done right, and only a coward would still cling to life after all that was worth living for had disappeared. They should not point scornfully at him as he went along the streets. He would not be condemned to hear whispered after him, "Look! there goes Gotzkowsky the bankrupt." No, this fearful word should never wound his ears or pierce his heart.

Once more only would he pass through those streets, which had so often seen him in his glory—once more, not poor, nor as the laughing-stock of children, but so that those who now derided him should bow down before him, and honor him as the mourning emblem of departed honor: only his body should pass by these men who had broken his heart. He had determined to quit this miserable existence, to leave a world which had proved itself to him only a gulf of wickedness and malice, and his freed spirit would wing its way to regions of light and knowledge.

With such thoughts he entered the room which was to be the scene of his last hours. But he would not go down to the grave without bearing witness to the wickedness and malice of the world. His death should be a monument of its disgrace and ingratitude.

For this purpose he had sought this room, for in it was the costly etagere on which stood the silver pitcher presented to him by the Council of Leipsic as a token of their gratitude, and from it he would drink his fatal draught. He took it and emptied into it a small white powder, that looked so innocent and light, and yet was strong enough to drag him down with leaden weight into the grave. He then took the water-goblet and poured water on it. The draught was ready; all that was necessary was for him to put it to his lips to imbibe eternal rest, eternal oblivion.

Elise saw it all—understood it all. She folded her hands and prayed; her teeth chattered together, and all that she could feel and know was, that she must save him, or follow him to the grave. "When he raises the pitcher to his lips, I will rush out," she whispered to Bertram, softly, and opened the curtains a little in order to watch him.

Gotzkowsky had returned to the etagere. He took the silver-oaken wreath, the civic crown presented to him by the city of Berlin, and looked at it with a bitter, scornful smile. "I earned this," he said, half aloud—"I will take it with me to the grave. They shall find my corpse crowned with this wreath, and when they turn away in shame, the broken bankrupt, John Gotzkowsky, will enjoy his last triumph over a degenerate world." And as if in a dream, in the feverish delirium of grief, he placed the wreath on his brow, then for a moment stood with his head bent in deep thought.

It was a strange picture to see his proud, tall figure, his pale, nervous face, crowned with the silver wreath, and opposite to him, looking through the curtains, his daughter, whose glowing eyes were eagerly watching her father.

And now Gotzkowsky seized the silver pitcher, raised it on high—it had already touched his lips—but suddenly he staggered back. A dearly-loved voice had called his name. Ah, it was the voice of his daughter, whom he had forgotten in the bitterness of his grief. He had believed his heart dead to all feeling, but love still lived in him, and love called him back to life. Like an electric shock it flew through his whole frame.

He put the pitcher down, and covering his face with his hands, cried, "Oh, unnatural father! I forgot my child!"

Behind him stood Elise, praying to God eagerly and fervently. She wished to appear quite composed, quite unsuspicious, that her father might not have even an inkling of her knowledge of his dark design. Her voice dare not tremble, her eye must remain clear and calm, and a smile play about her lips, which yet quivered with the anxious prayers she had just offered to God. "My father!" she said, in a low but quiet voice—"my father, I come to beg your blessing. And here is the myrtle wreath with which you were to adorn me."

Gotzkowsky still kept his face covered, but his whole frame trembled. "I thank Thee, O my God! I thank Thee! the voice of my child has saved me." And turning round suddenly, he stretched out both arms toward her, exclaiming aloud: "Elise, my child, come to my heart, and comfort your father."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, rushed into his arms, and nestled close to his heart. She whispered in his ear words of fervent love, of warmest affection. They fell on Gotzkowsky's heart like soothing balm; they forced tears of mingled joy and repentance from his eyes.

A long while did they remain locked in each other's arms. Their lips were silent, but their hearts spoke, and they understood each other without words. Then Elise raised herself from her father's embrace, and, again offering him the myrtle-wreath, said with a smile, "And now, my father, bless your daughter."

"I will," said Gotzkowsky, drying his eyes. "Yes, from my whole soul will I bless you. But where is the bridegroom?"

Elise looked at him inquiringly. "Will you bid him, also, welcome?"

"That I will with all my heart!"

Elise approached the curtain, drew it back, and taking Bertram's hand, led him to her father, saying, with indescribable grace: "My father, bless your children."

"This is your bridegroom?" asked Gotzkowsky, and for the first time a sunbeam seemed to flash across his face.

Bertram with a cry of delight drew Elise to his heart. She clung to him, and said warmly: "I will rest on your breast, Bertram. I will be as true and as faithful as yourself. You shall reconcile me to mankind. You will make us both happy again. My father and I put our hope in you, and we both know it will not be in vain. Is it not so, my father?" She extended her hand to Gotzkowsky.

He took it, but was too much affected to speak. He pressed it to his eyes and his breast, and then looked with a smile into the countenance of his daughter.

Elise continued: "Look, father, life is still worth something. It gives you a son, who is happy to share your unhappiness with you. It gives you a daughter, who looks upon every tear of yours as a jewel in your crown; who would be proud to go as a beggar with her father from place to place, and say to all the world, 'Gotzkowsky is a beggar because he was rich in love toward his fellow-men; he has become poor because he was a noble man, who had faith in mankind.'" And as she drew her father into her own and Bertram's embrace, she asked him, smiling through her tears, "My father, do you still wish to leave your children?"

"No, I will live—live for you!" cried Gotzkowsky, as, almost overcome with emotion and pleasure, he threw his arms around their necks, and kissed them both warmly and lovingly. "A new life is to begin for us," said he, cheerfully. "We will seek refuge in a quiet cottage, and take with us none of the show and luxury for which men work and sell their souls—none of the tawdriness of life. Will you not be content, Elise, to be poor, and purchase the honor of your father with the loss of this vain splendor?"

Elise leaned her head on his shoulder. "I was poor," she said, "when the world called me rich. Now I am rich when it will call me poor. Give up every thing that we possess, father, that no one may say Gotzkowsky owes him any thing, and has not kept his word." With ready haste she loosened the necklace from her throat, the bracelets from her arms, and the drops from her ears. "Take these, too," said she, smiling. "Add them to the rest. We will keep nothing but honor, and the consciousness of our probity."

"Now I am your son, father," cried Bertram, with beaming eyes. "Now I have a right to serve you. You dare no longer refuse to accept all that is mine for your own. We will save the honor of our house, and pay all our creditors."

"That we will do," exclaimed Gotzkowsky; "I accept your offering, my son." And joining Elise and Bertram's hands together, he cast grateful looks to heaven, saying: "From this day forward we are poor, and yet far richer than many thousands of rich people; for we are of sound health, and have strong arms to work. We have good consciences, and that proud contentment which God gives to those only who trust in His help."