The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 11. Francke Kuno
"It is entirely safe here, I swear it is," Ottomar whispered, as he helped Ferdinande alight. The cabman put his dollar contentedly into his pocket and drove off; Ottomar took Ferdinande's arm and led the confused, anxious, dazed girl into the garden; he heard plainly her deep breathing. "I swear it is safe here," he repeated.
"Swear that you love me! That's all I ask!"
Instead of answering he placed his arm about her; she embraced him with both arms; their lips touched with a quiver and a long ardent kiss. Then they hurried hand in hand further into the park till shrubbery and trees inclosed them in darkness, and they sank into each other's arms, exchanging fervent kisses and stammering love vows – drunk with a bliss which they had so long, long dreamed, but which was now more precious than all their happy dreams.
So felt Ferdinande, at least, and so she said, while her lips met his again and again, and so said Ottomar; and yet in the same moment in which he returned her fervent kisses there was a feeling that he had never before known – a shuddering fear of the fever in his heart and hers, a feeling as of fainting in contrast to the passion which surrounded and oppressed him with the violence of a storm. He had sported with women before, considered his easy victories as triumphs, accepted the silent worship of beautiful eyes, the flattering words of loving lips, as a tribute which was due him and which he pocketed without thanks – but here – for the first time – he was the weaker one. He was not willing to confess it, but knew, as a practised wrestler knows after the first grip, that he has found his master and that he will be overcome if chance does not come to the rescue. Indeed, Ottomar was already looking for this chance – any event that might intervene, any circumstance which might serve to his advantage; and then he blushed for himself, for his cowardice, this base ingratitude toward the beautiful, precious creature who had thrown herself into his arms with such confidence, such devotion, such self-forgetfulness; and he redoubled the tenderness of his caresses and the sweet flattery of words of love.
And then – that anxious feeling might be a delusion; but she, who had done what he so often, so beseechingly asked, had at last granted him the meeting in which he wished to set forth his plans for the future – she had a right, she must expect, that he would finally unfold the plan for that future with which he seemed to have labored so long, and which was just as hazy to him as ever. He did not believe, what she declared to be true, that she wished nothing but to love him, to be loved by him, that everything of which he spoke – his father – her father – circumstances which must be considered – difficulties which must be overcome – everything, everything, was only a mist which vanishes before the rays of the sun, trifles not worth mentioning, causing them to waste even a moment of the precious time, even a breath of it! He did not believe it; but he was only too willing to take her at her word, already releasing himself silently from the responsibility of results, which such neglect of the simplest rules of caution and prudence might have, must have.
And then he forgot the flying moment, and had to be reminded by her that his time was up, that they were expecting him at home, that he must not reach the company too late.
"Or will you take me along?" she asked. "Will you enter the reception-room arm in arm with me and present me to the company as your betrothed? You shall not have cause to be ashamed of me; there are not likely to be many of your friends whom I cannot look down upon, and I have always found that to be able to look down on others is to be half noble. To you I shall ever have to look up; tall as I am, I must still reach up to you and your sweet lips."
There was a strange proud grace in the jest, and tenderest love in the kiss, which her smiling lips breathed upon his; he was enchanted, intoxicated by this lovely grace, this proud love; he said to himself that she was right – he said so to her – and that she could compare with any queen in the world; that she deserved to be a queen – and yet, and yet! If it had not been a jest, if she had demanded it seriously, what – yet she some time would demand it!
"That was the last kiss," said Ferdinande; "I must be the more prudent one, because I am so. And now give me your arm and conduct me to the nearest cab, and then you will go straight home and be very fine and charming this evening, and break a few more hearts in addition to those you have already broken, and afterwards lie at my feet in gratitude for my heart, which is larger than all theirs together."
It was almost dark when they left the silent park. The sky was all covered with clouds from which heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall. Fortunately an empty cab came along which Ferdinande could take to the Brandenburgerthor, there to step into another and thus obliterate every trace of the way she had gone. Ottomar could throw a kiss to her once more as he lifted her into the cab. And she leaned back into the seat, closed her eyes, and dreamed the blissful hour over again. Ottomar looked after the cab. It was a wretched nag, a wretched cab; and as they disappeared in the dark through the faint light of the few street lamps, a strange feeling of awe and aversion came over him. "It looks like a hearse," he said to himself; "I could hardly take hold of the wet doorhandle; I should not have had the courage to ride in the rig – the affair puts one into a strangely uncomfortable situation, indeed. The road home is no joke, either – it is nearly nine o'clock – and besides it is beginning to rain very hard."
He turned into the Grosser-Stern-Allee, the shortest way home. It was already growing dark so fast among the great tree trunks that he could distinguish only the hard walk upon which he was moving with hurried steps; on the other side of the broad bridle-path, where a narrow foot-path ran, the trunks of the trees were scarcely distinguishable from the blackness of the forest. He had ridden up and down this beautiful avenue countless times – alone, with his comrades, in the brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen – how often with Carla! Else was right! Carla was a skilful horse-woman, the best, perhaps, of all ladies, and certainly the most graceful. They had both so often been seen and spoken of together – it was, in fact, quite impossible to sever their relationship now; it would make a fearful fuss.
Ottomar stopped. He had gone too fast; the perspiration rolled from his brow; his bosom was so oppressed that he tore open his coat and vest. He had never known the sensation of physical fear before, but now he was terrified to hear a slight noise behind him, and his eyes peered anxiously into the dark – it was probably a twig which broke and fell. "I feel as if I had murder on my soul, or as if I myself were to be murdered the next moment," he said to himself, as he continued his way almost at a run.
He did not imagine that he owed his life to the breaking of that twig.
Antonio had lain in wait all this time at the entrance to the avenue as if bound by magic, now sitting on the iron railing between the foot-path and the bridle-path, now going to and fro, leaning against the trunk of a tree, continually engrossed in the same dark thoughts, projecting plans for revenge, exulting in imagining the tortures which he was to inflict upon her and upon him as soon as he had them in his power, directing his glance from time to time across the open place to the entrance of the other avenue into which the cab had disappeared with the two people, as if they must appear there again, as if his revengeful soul had the power to force them to come this way. He could have spent the whole night like a beast of prey that lies sullenly in his lair in spite of gnawing hunger, raging over his lost spoil.
And what was that? There he was, coming across the place, right toward him! His eye, accustomed to the darkness, recognized him clearly as if it had been bright day. Would the beast have the stupidity to come into the avenue – to deliver himself into his hand? Per bacco! It was so and not otherwise; then – after a short hesitation – he turned into the avenue – to the other side, to be sure; but it was all right; he could thus follow him on his side so much the more safely; then there was only the bridle-path to leap across, in the deep sand in which his first steps would certainly not be heard, and then – with a few springs, the stiletto in his neck, or, if he should turn, under the seventh rib up to the hilt!
And his hand clutched the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with the finger of the other hand he tested over and over the needle-point, while he stole along from tree to tree in long strides – softly, softly – the soft claws of a tiger could not have risen and fallen more softly.
Now half of the avenue was passed; the darkness could not become more dense now; it was just light enough to see the blade of the stiletto. One moment yet to convince himself that they were alone in the park; he over there,