Lock and Key Library: Old Time English — Bourgonef, part 1

AT A TABLE D'HOTE

At the close of February, 1848, I was in Nuremberg.

My original intention had been to pass a couple of days there on my way to Munich, that being, I thought, as much time as could reasonably be spared for so small a city, beckoned as my footsteps were to the Bavarian Athens, of whose glories of ancient art and German Renaissance I had formed expectations the most exaggerated-- expectations fatal to any perfect enjoyment, and certain to be disappointed, however great the actual merit of Munich might be.

But after two days at Nuremberg I was so deeply interested in its antique sequestered life, the charms of which had not been deadened by previous anticipations, that I resolved to remain there until I had mastered every detail and knew the place by heart.

I have a story to tell which will move amidst tragic circumstances of too engrossing a nature to be disturbed by archaeological interests, and shall not, therefore, minutely describe here what I observed in Nuremberg, although no adequate description of that wonderful city has yet fallen in my way.

To readers unacquainted with this antique place, it will be enough to say that in it the old German life seems still to a great extent rescued from the all- devouring, all-equalizing tendencies of European civilization.

The houses are either of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, or are constructed after those ancient models.

The citizens have preserved much of the simple manners and customs of their ancestors.

The hurrying feet of commerce and curiosity pass rapidly by, leaving it sequestered from the agitations and the turmoils of metropolitan existence.

It is as quiet as a village.

During my stay there rose in its quiet streets the startled echoes of horror at a crime unparalleled in its annals, which, gathering increased horror from the very peacefulness and serenity of the scene, arrested the attention and the sympathy in a degree seldom experienced.

Before narrating that, it will be necessary to go back a little, that my own connection with it may be intelligible, especially in the fanciful weaving together of remote conjectures which strangely involved me in the story.

The table d'hote at the Bayerischer Hof had about thirty visitors-- all, with one exception, of that local commonplace which escapes remark.

Indeed this may almost always be said of tables d'hote;

though there is a current belief, which I cannot share, of a table d'hote being very delightful--of one being certain to meet pleasant people there."

It may be so.

For many years I believed it was so.

The general verdict received my assent.

I had never met those delightful people, but was always expecting to meet them.

Hitherto they had been conspicuous by their absence.

According to my experience in Spain, France, and Germany, such dinners had been dreary or noisy and vapid.

If the guests were English, they were chillingly silent, or surlily monosyllabic: to their neighbors they were frigid; amongst each other they spoke in low undertones.

And if the guests were foreigners, they were noisy, clattering, and chattering, foolish for the most part, and vivaciously commonplace.

I don't know which made me feel most dreary.

The predominance of my countrymen gave the dinner the gayety of a funeral; the predominance of the Mossoo gave it the fatigue of got-up enthusiasm, of trivial expansiveness.

To hear strangers imparting the scraps of erudition and connoisseurship which they had that morning gathered from their valets de place and guide-books, or describing the sights they had just seen, to you, who either saw them yesterday, or would see them to-morrow, could not be permanently attractive.

My mind refuses to pasture on such food with gusto.

I cannot be made to care what the Herr Baron's sentiments about Albert Durer or Lucas Cranach may be.

I can digest my rindfleisch without the aid of the commis voyageur's criticisms on Gothic architecture.

This may be my misfortune.

In spite of the Italian blood which I inherit, I am a shy man--shy as the purest Briton.

But, like other shy men, I make up in obstinacy what may be deficient in expansiveness.

I can be frightened into silence, but I won't be dictated to.

You might as well attempt the persuasive effect of your eloquence upon a snail who has withdrawn into his shell at your approach, and will not emerge till his confidence is restored.

To be told that I MUST see this, and ought to go there, because my casual neighbor was charme, has never presented itself to me as an adequate motive.

From this you readily gather that I am severely taciturn at a table d'hote.

I refrain from joining in the "delightful conversation" which flies across the table, and know that my reticence is attributed to "insular pride."

It is really and truly nothing but impatience of commonplace.

I thoroughly enjoy good talk; but, ask yourself, what are the probabilities of hearing that rare thing in the casual assemblage of forty or fifty people, not brought together by any natural affinities or interests, but thrown together by the accident of being in the same district, and in the same hotel?

They are not "forty feeding like one," but like forty.

They have no community, except the community of commonplace.

No, tables d'hote are not delightful, and do not gather interesting people together.

Such has been my extensive experience.

But this at Nuremberg is a conspicuous exception.

At that table there was one guest who, on various grounds, personal and incidental, remains the most memorable man I ever met.

From the first he riveted my attention in an unusual degree.

He had not, as yet, induced me to emerge from my habitual reserve, for in truth, although he riveted my attention, he inspired me with a strange feeling of repulsion.

I

could scarcely keep my eyes from him; yet, except the formal bow on sitting down and rising from the table, I had interchanged no sign of fellowship with him.

He was a young Russian, named Bourgonef, as I at once learned; rather handsome, and peculiarly arresting to the eye, partly from an air of settled melancholy, especially in his smile, the amiability of which seemed breaking from under clouds of grief, and still more so from the mute appeal to sympathy in the empty sleeve of his right arm, which was looped to the breast-button of his coat.

His eyes were large and soft.

He had no beard or whisker, and only delicate moustaches.

The sorrow, quiet but profound, the amiable smile and the lost arm, were appealing details which at once arrested attention and excited sympathy.

But to me this sympathy was mingled with a vague repulsion, occasioned by a certain falseness in the amiable smile, and a furtiveness in the eyes, which I saw--or fancied--and which, with an inexplicable reserve, forming as it were the impregnable citadel in the center of his outwardly polite and engaging manner, gave me something of that vague impression which we express by the words "instinctive antipathy."

It was, when calmly considered, eminently absurd.

To see one so young, and by his conversation so highly cultured and intelligent, condemned to early helplessness, his food cut up for him by a servant, as if he were a child, naturally engaged pity, and, on the first day, I cudgeled my brains during the greater part of dinner in the effort to account for his lost arm.

He was obviously not a military man; the unmistakable look and stoop of a student told that plainly enough.

Nor was the loss one dating from early life: he used his left arm too awkwardly for the event not to have had a recent date.

Had it anything to do with his melancholy?

Here was a topic for my vagabond imagination, and endless were the romances woven by it during my silent dinner.

For the reader must be told of one peculiarity in me, because to it much of the strange complications of my story are due; complications into which a mind less active in weaving imaginary hypotheses to interpret casual and trifling facts would never have been drawn.

From my childhood I have been the victim of my constructive imagination, which has led me into many mistakes and some scrapes; because, instead of contenting myself with plain, obvious evidence, I have allowed myself to frame hypothetical interpretations, which, to acts simple in themselves, and explicable on ordinary motives, render the simple-seeming acts portentous.

With bitter pangs of self-reproach I have at times discovered that a long and plausible history constructed by me, relating to personal friends, has crumpled into a ruin of absurdity, by the disclosure of the primary misconception on which the whole history was based.

I have gone, let us say, on the supposition that two people were secretly lovers; on this supposition my imagination has constructed a whole scheme to explain certain acts, and one fine day I have discovered indubitably that the supposed lovers were not lovers, but confidants of their passions in other directions, and, of course, all my conjectures have been utterly false.

The secret flush of shame at failure has not, however, prevented my falling into similar mistakes immediately after.

When, therefore, I hereafter speak of my "constructive imagination," the reader will know to what I am alluding.

It was already busy with Bourgonef.

To it must be added that vague repulsion, previously mentioned.

This feeling abated on the second day; but, although lessened, it remained powerful enough to prevent my speaking to him.

Whether it would have continued to abate until it disappeared, as such antipathies often disappear, under the familiarities of prolonged intercourse, without any immediate appeal to my amour propre, I know not; but every reflective mind, conscious of being accessible to antipathies, will remember that one certain method of stifling them is for the object to make some appeal to our interest or our vanity: in the engagement of these more powerful feelings, the antipathy is quickly strangled.

At any rate it is so in my case, and was so now.

On the third day, the conversation at table happening to turn, as it often turned, upon St. Sebald's Church, a young Frenchman, who was criticising its architecture with fluent dogmatism, drew Bourgonef into the discussion, and thereby elicited such a display of accurate and extensive knowledge, no less than delicacy of appreciation, that we were all listening spellbound.

In the midst of this triumphant exposition the irritated vanity of the Frenchman could do nothing to regain his position but oppose a flat denial to a historical statement made by Bourgonef, backing his denial by the confident assertion that "all the competent authorities" held with him.

At this point Bourgonef appealed to me, and in that tone of deference so exquisitely flattering from one we already know to be superior he requested my decision; observing that, from the manner in which he had seen me examine the details of the architecture, he could not be mistaken in his confidence that I was a connoisseur.

All eyes were turned upon me.

As a shy man, this made me blush; as a vain man, the blush was accompanied with delight.

It might easily have happened that such an appeal, acting at once upon shyness and ignorance, would have inflamed my wrath; but the appeal happening to be directed on a point which I had recently investigated and thoroughly mastered, I was flattered at the opportunity of a victorious display.

The pleasure of my triumph diffused itself over my feelings towards him who had been the occasion of it.

The Frenchman was silenced;

the general verdict of the company was too obviously on our side.

From this time the conversation continued between Bourgonef and myself; and he not only succeeded in entirely dissipating my absurd antipathy--which I now saw to have been founded on purely imaginary grounds, for neither the falseness nor the furtiveness could now be detected--but he succeeded in captivating all my sympathy.

Long after dinner was over, and the salle empty, we sat smoking our cigars, and discussing politics, literature, and art in that suggestive desultory manner which often gives a charm to casual acquaintances.

It was a stirring epoch, that of February, 1848. The Revolution, at first so hopeful, and soon to manifest itself in failure so disastrous, was hurrying to an outburst.

France had been for many months agitated by cries of electoral reform, and by indignation at the corruption and scandals in high places.

The Praslin murder, and the dishonor of M. Teste, terminated by suicide, had been interpreted as signs of the coming destruction.

The political banquets given in various important cities had been occasions for inflaming the public mind, and to the far-seeing, these banquets were interpreted as the sounds of the tocsin.

Louis Philippe had become odious to France, and contemptible to Europe.

Guizot and Duchatel, the ministers of that day, although backed by a parliamentary majority on which they blindly relied, were unpopular, and were regarded as infatuated even by their admirers in Europe.

The Spanish marriages had all but led to a war with England.

The Opposition, headed by Thiers and Odillon Barrot, was strengthened by united action with the republican party, headed by Ledru Rollin, Marrast, Flocon, and Louis Blanc.

Bourgonef was an ardent republican.

So was I; but my color was of a different shade from his.

He belonged to the Reds.

My own dominant tendencies being artistic and literary, my dream was of a republic in which intelligence would be the archon or ruler; and, of course, in such a republic, art and literature, as the highest manifestation of mind, would have the supreme direction.

Do you smile, reader?

I smile now; but it was serious earnest with me then.

It is unnecessary to say more on this point.

I have said so much to render intelligible the stray link of communion which riveted the charm of my new acquaintance's conversation; there was both agreement enough and difference enough in our views to render our society mutually fascinating.

On retiring to my room that afternoon I could not help laughing at my absurd antipathy against Bourgonef.

All his remarks had disclosed a generous, ardent, and refined nature.

While my antipathy had specially fastened upon a certain falseness in his smile--a falseness the more poignantly hideous if it were falseness, because hidden amidst the wreaths of amiability--my delight in his conversation had specially justified itself by the truthfulness of his mode of looking at things.

He seemed to be sincerity itself.

There was, indeed, a certain central reserve;

but that might only he an integrity of pride; or it might be connected with painful circumstances in his history, of which the melancholy in his face was the outward sign.

That very evening my constructive imagination was furnished with a detail on which it was soon to be actively set to work.

I had been rambling about the old fortifications, and was returning at nightfall through the old archway near Albert Durer's house, when a man passed by me.

We looked at each other in that automatic way in which men look when they meet in narrow places, and I felt, so to speak, a start of recognition in the eyes of the man who passed.

Nothing else, in features or gestures, betrayed recognition or surprise.

But although there was only that, it flashed from his eyes to mine like an electric shock.

He passed.

I looked back.

He continued his way without turning.

The face was certainly known to me; but it floated in a mist of confused memories.

I walked on slowly, pestering my memory with fruitless calls upon it, hopelessly trying to recover the place where I could have seen the stranger before.

In vain memory traveled over Europe in concert-rooms, theaters, shops, and railway carriages.

I could not recall the occasion on which those eyes had previously met mine.

That they had met them I had no doubt.

I went to bed with the riddle undiscovered.

II THE ECHOES OF MURDER

Next morning Nuremberg was agitated with a horror such as can seldom have disturbed its quiet; a young and lovely girl had been murdered.

Her corpse was discovered at daybreak under the archway leading to the old fortifications.

She had been stabbed to the heart.

No other signs of violence were visible; no robbery had been attempted.

In great cities, necessarily great centers of crime, we daily hear of murders; their frequency and remoteness leave us undisturbed.

Our sympathies can only be deeply moved either by some scenic peculiarities investing the crime with unusual romance or unusual atrocity, or else by the more immediate appeal of direct neighborly interest.

The murder which is read of in the Times as having occurred in Westminster, has seldom any special horror to the inhabitants of Islington or Oxford Street; but to the inhabitants of Westminster, and especially to the inhabitants of the particular street in which it was perpetrated, the crime assumes heart-shaking proportions.

Every detail is asked for, and every surmise listened to, with feverish eagerness is repeated and diffused through the crowd with growing interest.

The family of the victim; the antecedents of the assassin, if he is known; or the conjectures pointing to the unknown assassin,--are eagerly discussed.

All the trivial details of household care or domestic fortunes, all the items of personal gossip, become invested with a solemn and affecting interest.

Pity for the victim and survivors mingle and alternate with fierce cries for vengeance on the guilty.

The whole street becomes one family, commingled by an energetic sympathy, united by one common feeling of compassion and wrath.

In villages, and in cities so small as Nuremberg, the same community of feeling is manifested.

The town became as one street.

The horror spread like a conflagration, the sympathy surged and swelled like a tide.

Everyone felt a personal interest in the event, as if the murder had been committed at his own door.

Never shall I forget that wail of passionate pity, and that cry for the vengeance of justice, which rose from all sides of the startled city.

Never shall I forget the hurry, the agitation, the feverish restlessness, the universal communicativeness, the volunteered services, the eager suggestion, surging round the house of the unhappy parents.

Herr Lehfeldt, the father of the unhappy girl, was a respected burgher known to almost every one.

His mercer's shop was the leading one of the city.

A worthy, pious man, somewhat strict, but of irreproachable character; his virtues, no less than those of his wife, and of his only daughter, Lieschen-- now, alas; for ever snatched from their yearning eyes--were canvassed everywhere, and served to intensify the general grief.

That such a calamity should have fallen on a household so estimable, seemed to add fuel to the people's wrath.

Poor Lieschen!

her pretty, playful ways--her opening prospects, as the only daughter of parents so well to do and so kind--her youth and abounding life--these were detailed with impassioned fervor by friends, and repeated by strangers who caught the tone of friends, as if they, too, had known and loved her.

But amidst the surging uproar of this sea of many voices no one clear voice of direction could be heard; no clue given to the clamorous bloodhounds to run down the assassin.

Cries had been heard in the streets that night at various parts of the town, which, although then interpreted as the quarrels of drunken brawlers, and the conflicts of cats, were now confidently asserted to have proceeded from the unhappy girl in her death- struggle.

But none of these cries had been heard in the immediate neighborhood of the archway.

All the inhabitants of that part of the town agreed that in their waking hours the streets had been perfectly still.

Nor were there any traces visible of a struggle having taken place.

Lieschen might have been murdered elsewhere, and her corpse quietly deposited where it was found, as far as any evidence went.

Wild and vague were the conjectures.

All were baffled in the attempt to give them a definite direction.

The crime was apparently prompted by revenge--certainly not by lust, or desire of money.

But she was not known to stand in any one's way.

In this utter blank as to the assignable motive, I, perhaps alone among the furious crowd, had a distinct suspicion of the assassin.

No sooner had the news reached me, than with the specification of the theater of the crime there at once flashed upon me the intellectual vision of the criminal: the stranger with the dark beard and startled eyes stood confessed before me!

I held my breath for a few moments, and then there came a tide of objections rushing over my mind, revealing the inadequacy of the grounds on which rested my suspicions.

What were the grounds?

I had seen a man in a particular spot, not an unfrequented spot, on the evening of the night when the crime had been committed there; that man had seemed to recognize me, and wished to avoid being recognized.

Obviously these grounds were too slender to bear any weight of construction such as I had based on them.

Mere presence on the spot could no more inculpate him than it could inculpate me; if I had met him there, equally had he met me there.

Nor even if my suspicion were correct that he knew me, and refused to recognize me, could that be any argument tending to criminate him in an affair wholly disconnected with me.

Besides, he was walking peaceably, openly, and he looked like a gentleman.

All these objections pressed themselves upon me, and kept me silent.

But in spite of their force I could not prevent the suspicion from continually arising.

Ashamed to mention it, because it may have sounded too absurd, I could not prevent my constructive imagination indulging in its vagaries, and with this secret conviction I resolved to await events, and in case suspicion from other quarters should ever designate the probable assassin, I might then come forward with my bit of corroborative evidence, should the suspected assassin be the stranger of the archway.

By twelve o'clock a new direction was given to rumor.

Hitherto the stories, when carefully sifted of all exaggerations of flying conjecture, had settled themselves into something like this: The Lehfeldts had retired to rest at a quarter before ten, as was their custom.

They had seen Lieschen go into her bedroom for the night, and had themselves gone to sleep with unclouded minds.

From this peaceful security they were startled early in the morning by the appalling news of the calamity which had fallen on them.

Incredulous at first, as well they might be, and incapable of believing in a ruin so unexpected and so overwhelming, they imagined some mistake, asserting that Lieschen was in her own room.

Into that room they rushed, and there the undisturbed bed, and the open window, but a few feet from the garden, silently and pathetically disclosed the fatal truth.

The bereaved parents turned a revealing look upon each other's whitened faces, and then slowly retired from the room, followed in affecting silence by the others.

Back into their own room they went.

The father knelt beside the bed, and, sobbing, prayed.

The mother sat staring with a stupefied stare, her lips faintly moving.

In a short while the flood of grief, awakened to a thorough consciousness, burst from their laboring hearts.

When the first paroxysms were over they questioned others, and gave incoherent replies to the questions addressed to them.

From all which it resulted that Lieschen's absence, though obviously voluntary, was wholly inexplicable to them; and no clew whatever could be given as to the motives of the crime.

When these details became known, conjecture naturally interpreted Lieschen's absence at night as an assignation.

But with whom?

She was not known to have a lover.

Her father, on being questioned, passionately affirmed that she had none; she loved no one but her parents, poor child!

Her mother, on being questioned, told the same story--adding, however, that about seventeen months before, she had fancied that Lieschen was a little disposed to favor Franz Kerkel, their shopman; but on being spoken to on the subject with some seriousness, and warned of the distance between them, she had laughed heartily at the idea, and since then had treated Franz with so much indifference that only a week ago she had drawn from her mother a reproof on the subject.

"I told her Franz was a good lad, though not good enough for her, and that she ought to treat him kindly.

But she said my lecture had given her an alarm, lest Franz should have got the same maggot into his head."

This was the story now passing through the curious crowds in every street.

After hearing it I had turned into a tobacconist's in the Adlergrasse, to restock my cigar-case, and found there, as everywhere, a group discussing the one topic of the hour.

Herr Fischer, the tobacconist, with a long porcelain pipe pendent from his screwed-up lips, was solemnly listening to the particulars volubly communicated by a stout Bavarian priest; while behind the counter, in a corner, swiftly knitting, sat his wife, her black bead-like eyes also fixed on the orator.

Of course I was dragged into the conversation.

Instead of attending to commercial interests, they looked upon me as the possible bearer of fresh news.

Nor was it without a secret satisfaction that I found I could gratify them in that respect.

They had not heard of Franz Kerkel in the matter.

No sooner had I told what I had heard than the knitting-needles of the vivacious little woman were at once suspended.

"Ach Je!"

she exclaimed, "I see it all.

He's the wretch!"

"Who?"

we all simultaneously inquired.

"Who?

Why, Kerkel, of course.

If she changed, and treated him with indifference, it was because she loved him; and he has murdered the poor thing."

"How you run on, wife!"

remonstrated Fischer; while the priest shook a dubious head.

"I tell you it is so.

I'm positive."

"If she loved him."

"She did, I tell you.

Trust a woman for seeing through such things."

"Well, say she did," continued Fischer, "and I won't deny that it may be so; but then that makes against the idea of his having done her any harm."

"Don't tell me," retorted the convinced woman.

"She loved him.

She went out to meet him in secret, and he murdered her--the villain did.

I'm as sure of it as if these eyes had seen him do it."

The husband winked at us, as much as to say, "You hear these women!"

and the priest and I endeavored to reason her out of her illogical position.

But she was immovable.

Kerkel had murdered her; she knew it; she couldn't tell why, but she knew it.

Perhaps he was jealous, who knows?

At any rate, he ought to be arrested.

And by twelve o'clock, as I said, a new rumor ran through the crowd, which seemed to confirm the little woman in her rash logic.

Kerkel had been arrested, and a waistcoat stained with blood had been found in his room!

By half-past twelve the rumor ran that he had confessed the crime.

This, however, proved on inquiry to be the hasty anticipation of public indignation.

He had been arrested; the waistcoat had been found: so much was authentic; and the suspicions gathered ominously over him.

When first Frau Fischer had started the suggestion it flew like wildfire.

Then people suddenly noticed, as very surprising, that Kerkel had not that day made his appearance at the shop.

His absence had not been noticed in the tumult of grief and inquiry;

but it became suddenly invested with a dreadful significance, now that it was rumored that he had been Lieschen's lover.

Of all men he would be the most affected by the tragic news; of all men he would have been the first to tender sympathy and aid to the afflicted parents, and the most clamorous in the search for the undiscovered culprit.

Yet, while all Nuremberg was crowding round the house of sorrow, which was also his house of business, he alone remained away.

This naturally pointed suspicion at him.

When the messengers had gone to seek him, his mother refused them admission, declaring in incoherent phrases, betraying great agitation, that her son was gone distracted with grief and could see no one.

On this it was determined to order his arrest.

The police went, the house was searched, and the waistcoat found.

The testimony of the girl who lived as servant in Kerkel's house was also criminatory.

She deposed that on the night in question she awoke about half-past eleven with a violent toothache; she was certain as to the hour, because she heard the clock afterwards strike twelve.

She felt some alarm at hearing voices in the rooms at an hour when her mistress and young master must long ago have gone to bed; but as the voices were seemingly in quiet conversation, her alarm subsided, and she concluded that instead of having gone to bed her mistress was still up.

In her pain she heard the door gently open, and then she heard footsteps in the garden.

This surprised her very much.

She couldn't think what the young master could want going out at that hour.

She became terrified without knowing exactly at what.

Fear quite drove away the toothache, which had not since returned.

After lying there quaking for some time, again she heard footsteps in the garden; the door opened and closed gently; voices were heard; and she at last distinctly heard her mistress say, "Be a man, Franz.

Good-night-- sleep well;" upon which Franz replied in a tone of great agony, "There's no chance of sleep for me."

Then all was silent.

Next morning her mistress seemed "very queer."

Her young master went out very early, but soon came back again; and there were dreadful scenes going on in his room, as she heard, but she didn't know what it was all about.

She heard of the murder from a neighbor, but never thought of its having any particular interest for Mr. Franz, though, of course, he would be very sorry for the Lehfeldts.

The facts testified to by the servant, especially the going out at that late hour, and the "dreadful scenes" of the morning, seemed to bear but one interpretation.

Moreover, she identified the waistcoat as the one worn by Franz on the day preceding the fatal night.

III THE ACCUSED

Now at last the pent-up wrath found a vent.

From the distracting condition of wandering uncertain suspicion, it had been recalled into the glad security of individual hate.

Although up to this time Kerkel had borne an exemplary reputation, it was now remembered that he had always been of a morose and violent temper, a hypocrite in religion, a selfish sensualist.

Several sagacious critics had long "seen through him"; others had "never liked him";

others had wondered how it was he kept his place so long in Lehfeldt's shop.

Poor fellow!

his life and actions, like those of every one else when illuminated by a light thrown back upon them, seemed so conspicuously despicable, although when illuminated in their own light they had seemed innocent enough.

His mother's frantic protestations of her son's innocence--her assertions that Franz loved Lieschen more than his own soul--only served to envelop her in the silent accusation of being an accomplice, or at least of being an accessory after the fact.

I cannot say why it was, but I did not share the universal belief.

The logic seemed to me forced; the evidence trivial.

On first hearing of Kerkel's arrest, I eagerly questioned my informant respecting his personal appearance; and on hearing that he was fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair, my conviction of his innocence was fixed.

Looking back on these days, I am often amused at this characteristic of my constructive imagination.

While rejecting the disjointed logic of the mob, which interpreted his guilt, I was myself deluded by a logic infinitely less rational.

Had Kerkel been dark, with dark eyes and beard, I should probably have sworn to his guilt, simply because the idea of that stranger had firmly fixed itself in my mind.

All that afternoon, and all the next day, the busy hum of voices was raised by the one topic of commanding interest.

Kerkel had been examined.

He at once admitted that a secret betrothal had for some time existed between him and Lieschen.

They had been led to take this improper step by fear of her parents, who, had the attachment been discovered, would, it was thought, have separated them for ever.

Herr Lehfeldt's sternness, no less than his superior position, seemed an invincible obstacle, and the good mother, although doting upon her only daughter, was led by the very intensity of her affection to form ambitious hopes of her daughter's future.

It was barely possible that some turn in events might one day yield an opening for their consent; but meanwhile prudence dictated secrecy, in order to avert the most pressing danger, that of separation.

And so the pretty Lieschen, with feminine instinct of ruse, had affected to treat her lover with indifference; and to compensate him and herself for this restraint, she had been in the habit of escaping from home once or twice a week, and spending a delicious hour or two at night in the company of her lover and his mother.

Kerkel and his mother lived in a cottage a little way outside the town.

Lehfeldt's shop stood not many yards from the archway.

Now, as in Nuremberg no one was abroad after ten o'clock, except a few loungers at the cafes and beer-houses, and these were only to be met inside the town, not outside it, Lieschen ran extremely little risk of being observed in her rapid transit from her father's to her lover's house.

Nor, indeed, had she ever met anyone in the course of these visits.

On the fatal night Lieschen was expected at the cottage.

Mother and son waited at first hopefully, then anxiously, at last with some vague uneasiness at her non-appearance.

It was now a quarter past eleven--nearly an hour later than her usual time.

They occasionally went to the door to look for her; then they walked a few yards down the road, as if to catch an earlier glimpse of her advancing steps.

But in vain.

The half-hour struck.

They came back into the cottage, discussing the various probabilities of delay.

Three-quarters struck.

Perhaps she had been detected;

perhaps she was ill; perhaps--but this was his mother's suggestion, and took little hold of him--there had been visitors who had stayed later than usual, and Lieschen, finding the night so advanced, had postponed her visit to the morrow.

Franz, who interpreted Lieschen's feelings by his own, was assured that no postponement of a voluntary kind was credible of her.

Twelve o'clock struck.

Again Franz went out into the road, and walked nearly up to the archway; he returned with heavy sadness and foreboding at his heart, reluctantly admitting that now all hope of seeing her that night was over.

That night?

Poor sorrowing heart, the night was to be eternal!

The anguish of the desolate "never more" was awaiting him.

There is something intensely pathetic in being thus, as it were, spectators of a tragic drama which is being acted on two separate stages at once--the dreadful link of connection, which is unseen to the separate actors, being only too vividly seen by the spectators.

It was with some interest that I, who believed in Kerkel's innocence, heard this story; and in imagination followed its unfolding stage.

He went to bed, not, as may be expected, to sleep; tossing restlessly in feverish agitation, conjuring up many imaginary terrors--but all of them trifles compared with the dread reality which he was so soon to face.

He pictured her weeping--and she was lying dead on the cold pavement of the dark archway.

He saw her in agitated eloquence pleading with offended parents--and she was removed for ever from all agitations, with the peace of death upon her young face.

At an early hour he started, that he might put an end to his suspense.

He had not yet reached the archway before the shattering news burst upon him.

From that moment he remembered nothing.