superstition, have been below, and have discovered no trace whatever of such an occurrence.”
“May he not, after the commission of the dreadful act, have dragged himself away a street or two? Alas! if he could be saved!”
“We will not lose our reputation as people of sound mind by making such a search, or keep the servants longer from their beds, since they have been uselessly disturbed.”
With these words the Baron laid himself down.
Clotilde arose and began to dress herself, but her husband told her, somewhat harshly, that if the fever of her imagination led to such unheard of exploits, he should be compelled to lock his doors. This he, in fact, caused to be done.
Clotilde complained aloud, and could not comprehend how want of feeling could rise to such a pitch.
In the morning she betrayed no disposition at all to rise from her bed. The physician, who was called in, found her pulse in a very feverish motion. Her husband implored her to take the prescribed remedies; the doctor’s opinion had so roused his sensibility that he seldom quitted her bedside.
“And have you heard nothing yet of his death?” inquired she.
Von Eschenburgh replied in the negative.
“Do not disguise the truth!”
“Certainly not, my love,” replied the affectionate husband.
“In bed!” exclaimed Madame Selter, who came to make a morning call.
“A sudden fever,” said the Baron, who was just at that instant called away.
“Dont believe it, my dear Selter,” said Clotilde. “But pray tell me, have you heard any thing? Wartenstein?”
“Yes, I am come to tell you.”
“Alas! I know all already.”
“Well, I am told that he lives not far from here.”
“Lives! Would it were so!”
“Why surely, and, moreover, is very happy in a new amour.”
Clotilde withdrew her hand and turned away. “Wretched delusions!” cried she. “I perceive that you have been fetched to restrain me, as a maniac with fabricated stories. Believe me, I know too well, that he died last night—here too, in this very town.”
“Last night!” Madame Selter recollected the fever that the Baron had mentioned, and deemed it prudent to avoid contradicting the invalid. That is something new, however!”
“Is nothing then really known in the town of his violent death?”
“I come from his sisters, who had not heard a syllable about it, but on the contrary told me what I say.”
“Apropos! There is some news!” said the Baron entering just then. “The papers announce that Wartenstein has got married.”
Clotilde turned herself again to the wall, and could not be prevailed upon to hear or speak a word. After Madame Selter had quitted the chamber, shaking her head pensively, she again turned her face and said—“I know not why you suppose me capable of so much credulity.”
“The paper will be here in half an hour to convince you.”
“Here, my dear Clotilde,” said Eschenburg shortly after, presenting her the paper. She took it, and read:
“To-day is the first day of our happy union.
Leopoldine von Wartenstein.
formerly Von Landau.”
“The Christian names agree. It’s not amiss, but it is all in vain!” exclaimed Clotilde laying down the journal.
“In vain! Why do you suppose the whole is fabricated? When and wherefore? On account of your indisposition this morning, I suppose, when the paper was printed the day before yesterday!”
“But perhaps reprinted this morning here such deceptions have lost their novelty.”
“Clotilde, what strange infatuation is this?” cried the Baron with an expression that she could not misunderstand. “Well, then, somebody has made a bad jest at Wartenstein’s expense. Examples of that kind, too, are frequent enough.” “But why not credit at once what is the most likely case? Clotilde, I almost fear that your heart will deeply feel this step of Wartenstein’s.”
“My heart! Indeed, Eschenburg, you do my heart a great injustice.—I could go mad with joy if he had married; and thus restore my peace of mind for ever. But, alas! the occur-
