Page:The International - Volume 1.djvu/277

For a moment Alfred gazed into the distance as if he saw there a beautiful vision. Then he rubbed his eyes and repeated with a sigh:

"I will not sell!"

"Well, just as the master wishes. Keep your character and your poverty. Aaron will keep his money. Good day."

He threw the ducats back among the others so that they rang out, placed the bag in his bosom, and started to go. At the door, he turned.

"Aaron has a good heart," he said, "and cannot leave a righteous man in want. Listen—I will lend you money—give me your character in pawn. The interest will be small, fifty per cent—a mere trifle! How is that?"

Alfred thought a while. He looked around the room, at the empty closet, the hard bed, the lonely book-helves. Poverty whispered: "I will never forsake you!" His decision was made and waving his hand, he cried:

"Well, you may have it. I'll pawn it—"

Suddenly he paused. How was it possible to pawn a character! That was a thought of a diseased brain. He closed his eyes—opened them—the Jew was still there. He pinched himself—the Jew remained.

"I know what is troubling the gentleman. But that is Aaron's business."

He pulled from inside his coat a strange looking box, such as is used in holding pills, opened it and almost immediately closed it again.

"So, your character is here," he said with a sneer, and tapping the box. Alfred gazed upon it with awe. In the dim light he could read Noble Characters.

"See," the Jew said, "what honor I do you. I sort characters according to their value. Here," and he drew from his pocket another box. "I have the honest Old Bohemian Characters, which now-a-days are only to be found among the old people who have never killed any one. Here are Unblemished Characters. They are comparatively cheap, for they are not durable, they must be carefully guarded from the wind. Polit-

ical leaders generally present each other with them. In this box I keep Respectable Characters, mostly trash—but what does my master care for my boxes? It is the money he wants, is it not?"

Pulling out the bag he began to count out the glistening coins, one after another—suddenly he stopped.

"In five years from now Aaron will come to you, no matter where you may be. If you do not pay the loan, with the interest, the character shall be mine. Do you agree?"

Alfred nodded. The Jew continued to count out the ducats, and the pile grew higher and higher, and strange to say the bag seemed to grow no thinner.

Give us each, O Heaven, such a bag!

⁂

Five years have elapsed. We find Alfred in the midst of one of those whirls which foam with champagne, glisten with sparkling gems and rustle with silks, in an enchanted land which has been created by the demon of gold.

He looks well, his figure is more rotund, his cheeks are bright with health, his eyes shine with content. It can be seen that he has drunk from the cup of luxury in measured draughts, with the moderation of a true Epicurean. The absence of character agrees with him wonderfully well.

He has a wife. The beautiful coldhearted maiden whose image he saw in the last rings of smoke, five years ago? Oh, no ! To be sure her icy heart melted in the warm glow of ducats, but Alfred's had frozen. No longer is he interested in that beautiful picture framed in smoke. His love is now framed in solid gold. He does not love his wife, nor she him, yet what matters that? Before the world they are all that they should be, and privately—foolish is he who lets old-fashioned ideas interfere with his pleasures!

That Alfred has no character, is an open secret, every one knows it, and can read it on his brow. And still he holds his head up proudly, and all bow humbly before him. His breast is covered with medals; high offices are intrusted to him; honor,