When they entered the agent ran to meet them, wringing his hands, and tearfully falling on the merchant's neck. The presence of the young insurgent prevented him from expressing his feelings. He threw open the nearest door, and in lamentable tones apologized for the exceeding disorder in which the room was. Chests and coffers were being packed up; male and female servants were running to and fro, hiding silver candlesticks here, thrusting in silver spoons there. Meanwhile the master of the house never left off wringing his hands, lamenting his misfortunes and those of the firm, welcoming, and, in the same breath, regretting the arrival of the principal, and every now and then assuring the young officer, with choking voice, that he too was a patriot, and that it was only owing to an unaccountable mistake on the part of one of the maids that the cockade had been taken off his hat. It was plain that the man and his whole family had quite lost their wits.
The merchant had much trouble before he could get him into a corner and hear some business details. It appeared that the wagons had arrived in town on the very day that the insurrection broke out. Through the foresight of one of the wagoners, they had been taken into the great court-yard of a remote inn, but as to what had become of them since then the agent knew nothing.
After some further conversation the merchant said, "We shall not claim your hospitality to-night; we shall sleep wherever our wagons are." All the persuasions of the agent were peremptorily rejected.
This worthy but weak man seemed really distressed at the new danger into which his friend was determined to run.
"I shall call you up early," said the merchant, as he left; "I propose setting out to-morrow with my wagons, but first I wish to make a few, as you know, necessary visits to our customers, and to have your company during them." The agent promised to do his best by daylight.
Again our travelers went forth into the night, accompanied by the Pole, who had scornfully listened to the half-whispered conversation. As they went along the street, the principal, angrily throwing away his cigar, said to Anton,
"Our friend will be of little use to us; he is helpless as a child. In the beginning of the disturbance, he neglected to do his duty—to collect money, and seek for reimbursement."
"And now," said Anton, sorrowfully, "no one will be inclined to pay or reimburse us."
"And yet we must bring this about to-morrow, and you shall help me to do so. By heaven, these warlike convulsions are in themselves inconvenient enough to trade without this addition, paralyzing as they do all useful activity, which is the only thing that prevents us from becoming mere animals. But if a man of business allows himself to be more crushed than is absolutely unavoidable, he does an injury to civilization—an injury for which there is no compensation."
They had now reached a part of the town where empty streets, and the silence of the grave immediately at hand, only enhanced the horrors of the distant clamor and the red glare in the sky. At length they stopped before a low building with a large gateway. Entering, they looked into the bar, a dirty room with blackened rafters, in which loud-voiced and brandy-drinking patriots clustered on bench and table. The young officer called for the landlord. A fat figure with a red face appeared.
"In the name of the government, rooms for myself and my companions," said the young man. The host sullenly took up a bundle of rusty keys and a tallow candle, and led them to an upper floor, where he opened the door of a damp room, and morosely declared that he had no other for them.
"Bring us supper and a bottle of your best wine," said the merchant; "we pay well, and at once."
This announcement occasioned a visible improvement in the mood of the fat landlord, who even made an unsuccessful attempt to be polite. The merchant next asked for the wagons and wagoners. These questions were evidently unwelcome. At first Boniface pretended to know nothing about them, declaring that there were a great many wagons coming and going in his court-yard, and that there were several wagoners too, but that he did not know them.
It was in vain that the merchant tried to make him understand the object of his coming; the landlord remained obtuse, and was about to relapse into his former moroseness, when the young Pole came forward, and informed Mr. Schröter that this was not the way of dealing with such people. He then faced the landlord, called him all manner of hard names, and declared that he would arrest and carry him off on the spot unless he at once gave the most exact information.
The landlord looked timidly at the officer, and begged to be allowed to retire and send up one of the wagoners.
Soon a lanky figure with a brown felt hat came lumbering up stairs, started at the sight of the merchant, and at last announced, with pretended cheerfulness, that there he was.
"Where are the wagons? where are the bills of lading?"
The wagons were in the court-yard. The bills were reluctantly produced from the dirty leather purse of the wagoner.
"You guarantee me that your load remains complete and undisturbed?" asked the merchant.
The felt hat ungraciously replied that he could do nothing of the kind. The horses had been unharnessed and hid in a secret stable, that they might not be confiscated by the government; as to the fate of the wagons, he could neither prevent nor ascertain it, and all responsibility ceased in troublous times like these.
"We are in a den of thieves," said the merchant to his escort; "I must request your assistance in bringing these people to reason."
Now bringing people to reason was just what the young Pole believed to be his speciality; so, with a smile, he took a pistol in one hand, and said aside to Anton, "Do as I, and have the goodness to follow me." Next he seized the wagoner by the throat, and dragged him down the stair. "Where is the landlord?" cried he, in the most formidable tone he could raise. "The dog of a landlord and a lantern!" The lantern being brought, he drove the whole pack—the strangers, the fat landlord, the captured wagoner, and all others assembled by the noise, before him into the court-yard. Arrived there, he placed himself and his prisoner in the centre of the circle, bestowed a few more injurious epithets upon the landlord, rapped the wagoner on the head with his pistol, and then courteously observed in French to the merchant, "This fellow's skull sounds remarkably hollow; what next do you require from the boobies?"
"Have the goodness to summon the wagoners."
"Good," said the Pole; "and then?"
"Then I will examine the freight of the wagons, if it be possible to do so in the dark."
"Every thing is possible," said the Pole, "if you like to take the trouble to search through the old canvas in the night. But I should be inclined to advise a bottle of Sauterne and a few hours' repose instead. In times like these, one should not lose an opportunity of refreshing one's self."
"I should prefer to inspect the wagons at once," said the merchant, with a smile, "if you have no objection to it."
"I am on duty," replied the Pole, "therefore let's to work at once; there are plenty of hands here to hold lights for you. You confounded rascals," continued he, in Polish, again cuffing the wagoner and threatening the landlord, "I will carry you all off together, and have a court-martial held upon you, if you do not instantly bring all the drivers belonging to this gentleman into my presence. How many of them?" inquired he, in French, from the merchant.
"There are fourteen wagons," was the reply.
"There must be fourteen wagoners," thundered the Pole again to the people; "the devil shall fly away with you all if you do not instantly produce them." With the help of an old domestic servant, a dozen of the drivers were at length brought forward; two, however, were in no way to be recovered, and finally the landlord confessed that they had gone to join the patriots.
The young Pole did not seem to attach much value to this instance of patriotism. Turning to the merchant, he said, "Here you have the men, now see to the freight; if a single article be found wanting, I will have the whole of these fellows tried by court-martial." Then he carelessly sat down on the pole of a carriage, and looked at the points of his polished boots, which had got a good deal bemired.
A number of lanterns and torches were now brought, and after a few encouraging words from the merchant, the wagoners proceeded to roll away some empty carts, and to open out a passage to their own goods. Most of these men had been employed by him before, and knew him and Anton personally; some of them proved themselves trustworthy and obliging; and while Mr. Schröter was cross-questioning the most intelligent of their number, Anton hastened to ascertain, as well as he could, the condition of the freight, which mostly consisted of wool and tallow. Some wagons were untouched; one was entirely unloaded, and many had lost their canvas covering, and been otherwise plundered. The merchant had once more recourse to the young Pole. "It is just as we supposed," said he; "the landlord has persuaded some of the drivers that, now the revolution has set in, their obligations have ceased, and they have begun to unload the wagons. Had we been a day later, every thing would have been carried off. The landlord and a few of his associates have been the instigators, and some of the wagoners have been frightened into compliance."
At this announcement a new volley of imprecations proceeded from the lips of the small authority, and the landlord, from whose face all ruddiness had vanished, was soon on his knees before the officer, who pulled him by the hair, and treated him very roughly indeed. Meanwhile Anton and some of the men laid siege to a locked-up coach-house, broke open the door, and disclosed the bales of wool and the remainder of the stolen goods.
"Let these people reload," said the merchant; "they may well work the night through as a punishment." After some opposition, the wagoners set to, overpowered by a combination of threats and promises. The Pole drove the drunken guests out of the tavern, had the outer door closed, and all the candles and lanterns of the establishment brought into the court-yard. Next he dragged the host by the hair of his head to the upper story, and then, by the help of some patriots with great cockades, tied him to a bedpost, and gave him to understand that that was the nearest approach to a night's rest which he had to expect. "In the event of the freight being found entire, and safely removed from your premises, you shall be forgiven," said the Pole; "in the opposite case, I shall have you tried at once, and shot."
Meanwhile the uproar in the court was great indeed. Anton had the wagons reloaded and the freight properly secured. Full of his work, he scarcely looked around, and only realized at odd moments his singularentourage, and the exciting nature of the scene. It was a large square court, surrounded by low, ruinous wooden buildings, stables, and coach-houses, and having two entrances, one through the inn itself, and one through a gate opposite. It occupied a space of several acres, as is often the case with these hostelries of eastern Europe, stationed on great thoroughfares; and afforded, as do the caravanseries of Asia, shelter for large transports of goods, as well as for multitudes of the poor and needy. All sorts of wagons were now assembled in the square court in question, and it was crowded besides with ladders, poles, wheels, gigantic hampers, gray canvas coverings, bundles of hay and straw, old tar-barrels, and portable racks. Besides the stable lanterns and flaming pine torches, there was the red glare in the sky, and the lurid clouds of smoke and sparks rolling still over the heads of the travelers. This strange sort of twilight shone here at least upon a peaceful task. The wagoners worked hard, shouting loudly the while; dark forms now vanished in the shadow of the bales, now sprang on the top of them, while their animated gesticulations made them look, in the red light, like a crowd of savages holding some mysterious nocturnal orgies.
The merchant, meanwhile, walked up and down between the inn and the scene of action. It was in vain that Anton implored him to rest for a few hours. "This is no night for us to sleep in," said he, gloomily; and Anton read in his dark glance the resolve of a man who is ready to stake his all upon the accomplishment of his inflexible will.
It was nearly morning when the last giant bale was firmly secured with ropes and chains on the wagon top. Anton, who had himself been lending a hand, now slipped down, and announced to his principal that their work was done.
"At last!" replied the merchant, drawing a long breath; and then he went up to announce the fact to their friendly escort.
He, for his part, had contrived to get through the night in his own way; first, he thoroughly enjoyed the supper and wine brought him by the terrified maids, and found leisure to say a few encouraging words to the prettiest of them. Then he contemplated the dirty bed, and at last threw himself, with a French oath, upon it, looking now at the distorted countenance of the roguish host, who sat opposite him on the ground, now at the ceiling; and, while half asleep himself, complimenting the merchant, who looked in from time to time, upon his capacity of keeping awake a whole night. At length the youth fell fast asleep. At least the merchant found him in the morning outstretched on the coarse coverlet, his delicate face shaded by his long black hair, his small hands crossed, and a pleasant smile playing around his lips.
As he lay there he afforded no incorrect type of the aristocracy of his nation: noble child that he was, with the passions, and perhaps the sins of a man; while over against him crouched the coarse build of the fettered plebeian, who pretended to sleep too, but often cast a malicious glance at the recumbent form before him.
The aristocrat sprang up when the merchant approached the bed, and, throwing the window open, said, "Good-day: it is morning, I see; I have slept admirably." Next he called to a patrol passing by, briefly informed the leader how things stood, made over to him the landlord and the remainder of the supper, and desired him to stop at once, and keep guard over the house until he should return. Then he ordered the wagoners to harness the horses, and led the travelers out into the gray dawn of a comfortless-looking day.
On their way to the agent the merchant said to Anton, "We shall divide the most necessary visits between us. Tell our customers that we have no kind of intention of oppressing them; that, on the restoration of some degree of order, they may reckon upon the greatest forbearance and consideration—nay, under conditions, upon an extension of credit, but that at present we insist upon securities. We shall not effect much in this confusion; but that these gentlemen should be, at a time like this, even reminded of our firm, is worth a good deal." Then, in a lower tone, he added, "The town is doomed: we shall do little business here for some time to come; remember that, and be firm." And, turning to the Pole, he said, "I request you to allow my fellow-traveler to pay a few business calls in the company of our agent."
"If your agent will answer with his person for the gentleman's return," returned the Pole, with some reluctance, "I consent."
The light of day had exercised its gracious office of giving color to flowers and courage to the faint-hearted, even in favor of the agent. He declared himself ready to accompany Anton upon the terms proposed. Accordingly, under the protection of the great cockade upon his companion's hat, Anton hurried from house to house, pale indeed from loss of rest, but with an undaunted heart. Every where he was received with amazement not always free from confusion. "How could people think in such a time about winding up matters of business, with the noise of arms all round, and in deadly fear of a horrible future?"
Anton coolly replied, "Our firm is not accustomed to trouble itself about rumors of war when not absolutely obliged to do so. All times are suited for the fulfillment of obligations; and if this be a fit season for us to come here, it is also a fit season for you to arrange matters with me;" through which representations he succeeded here and there in obtaining definite promises, commissions, nay, even reimbursement.
After a few hours' hard work, Anton met his principal in the agent's house. When he had made his report, the merchant said, reaching out his hand to him, "If we can succeed in getting our wagons safely out of the town, we shall have done enough to enable us to bear the unavoidable losses that we must undergo. Now, then, to the commandant." He gave a few further instructions to the agent, whispering to him in parting, "In a few days our troops will enter; I take it for granted that you will not leave your house till then. We shall thus meet again."
With upraised hands the agent invoked the protection of all the saints in the calendar upon the travelers, locked and bolted the house door behind them, and hid his revolutionary cockade in the stove.
Our friends now hurried on through the tumult, led by the Pole. The streets were full again; bands of armed men passed by, the populace was in wilder excitement, and the noise greater than on the previous evening. The houses were thundered at, and an entrance insisted on. Brandy-casks were rolled on to the flags, and surrounded by drunken men and women. Every thing denoted that the authorities were not sufficiently strong to enforce street-discipline. Even in the house of the commandant there was agitation and restlessness, soldiers were hurrying to and fro, and the messages which they brought were evidently unfavorable, for there was much whispering going on in the great ante-chamber, and anxious suspense was visible on every face.
As soon as the young Pole entered he was surrounded by his friends and drawn into a corner. After some hasty questions, he seized a musket, called off a few soldiers by name, and left the room, without troubling himself any further about the travelers.
The merchant and Anton were shown into the next room, where the young commander-in-chief received them. He too looked pale and dejected, but it was with the bearing of a true nobleman that he addressed Mr. Schröter: "I have forwarded your wishes; here is a passport for you and your wagons. I pray you to infer from this that we are anxious to treat the citizens of your state with consideration, possibly even more than the duty of self-preservation would dictate."
The merchant received the important document with shining eyes. "You have shown me a remarkable degree of kindness," said he; "I feel myself deeply indebted to you, and wish that I may one day be permitted to prove my gratitude."
"Who knows?" answered the young commandant, with a melancholy smile; "he who stakes all upon a cast may lose all."
"He may lose much," replied the merchant, courteously, "but not all, if he has striven honorably."
At that moment a hollow sound was heard, a sound like the sweep of a howling wind, or the roaring of a rushing flood. The commandant stood motionless and listened. Suddenly a discordant scream of many voices resounded close by, and some shots followed. Anton, made susceptible by a night of wakefulness and long-continued excitement, started with terror, and remarked that his principal's hand, in which was the passport, shook violently. The door of the cabinet now burst open, and a few stately-looking men rushed in, with garments torn, arms in their hands, the traces of a street combat visible on their excited countenances, and at their head the young escort of the travelers.
"Mutiny!" cried the youth to his commanding officer; "they are seeking you. Save yourself. I will keep them off."
Quick as thought Anton sprang toward his principal, dragged him away, and both flew through the ante-chamber, and down the staircase to the ground floor. Here they came upon a band of soldiers who were endeavoring to garrison the house against masses of the populace. But, swift as were the movements of the travelers, those of their last night's escort were quicker still, as, with a loud shout, he rushed to head his friends in their resistance to the invaders. His black hair flew wildly around his bare head, and his eyes shone out from his beautiful and now pallid face with the unconquerable energy of a brave man.
"Back!" he cried, with a loud, clear voice, to the raging people, and sprang like a panther in among them, dealing sword-strokes round. The masses gave way; the comrades of the brave youth ranged themselves behind him. Again Anton seized his principal's arm, and dragged him off with such speed as is only possible to men under the influence of strong excitement. They had just got behind a projection of the house when they heard a shot fired, and saw with horror the young Pole fall backward bleeding, and heard his last cry, "Thecanaille!"
"To the wagons!" said the merchant, dashing down a narrow cross-street. They still heard in the distance shots and cries of discord; and breaking through bands of curious and terrified inhabitants, who hindered their progress, they arrived breathless, and fearing the worst, at the door of the inn.
Here, too, there was mutiny. The soldiers left in charge of the house had loosed the landlord, and speedily made their retreat as soon as news of the tumult reached them. The court-yard was now a scene of wrangling and confusion. The landlord, supported by a number of idlers collected from the street, was disputing violently with the wagoners. Some of the wagons were harnessed and ready for departure, but from others the canvas covering had been again dragged off. The case was a desperate one. The merchant tore away from Anton, who tried to detain him, and, rushing into the midst of the disputants, called out in Polish as loudly as he could, while holding the passport above his head, "Stop, I say; here is the order of the commander-in-chief authorizing the departure of our wagons. Whoever resists it will be punished. We are under the protection of the government."
"What government, you rogue of a German?" screamed the landlord, with ominous face; "the old government is done away with; the traitors have had their reward, and their spies shall be hanged as well;" and, rushing at the merchant, he brandished an old sword at his head.
Our Anton shuddered; but man being in the most critical moments liable to strange associations of idea, which play like meteors across the anguish of his spirit, it chanced that the broad back of the landlord suddenly reminded him of the back of a squat schoolfellow of his at Ostrau, a good-natured baker's son, upon whom, in many a scuffle, he had often practiced the boyish trick of tripping an adversary from behind. Quick as lightning he sprang upon the landlord, and most skillfully threw him. The falling sword swerved from its fatal aim, only striking the arm of the merchant, cutting through the coat and into the flesh. As the fat fellow lay struggling on his back like a beetle, Anton drew out his trusty pistols, and cried, with the inspiration of despair, "Back, you rascals, or I shoot him dead!"
This rapid diversion had more effect than could reasonably have been hoped; the people that the landlord had collected around him, and who, after all, were only working for his interest, fell back, while half a dozen wagoners, with bars of iron and other implements of the kind, crowded round the merchant, and now screamed as loudly as the other party had done a short time before, declaring that no harm should happen to the gentleman and his wagons. The merchant cried, "Drive these strangers out!" and, taking up the sword that the landlord had dropped, at the head of his adherents stormed the latter's abettors, and drove them through the house. The most stiff-necked of them tried to intrench themselves in the bar, but one after the other was cast out, roaring and cursing the while. The door was then locked, and the merchant hastened back to the court-yard, and found Anton still kneeling by the incorrigible landlord to prevent him from rising. The rest of the wagoners having timidly got out of the way, the merchant now summoned them all, and ordered them to put the horses to, saying to Anton, "We must leave this place. Better the street pavement than this den of thieves."
"You bleed!" cried Anton, in great distress, his eye falling on the merchant's arm.
"It must be a mere scratch; I can move the arm," was the prompt reply. "Open the gate; out with the wagons. Forward, my men! Anton, one of the wagoners will help you to bind the landlord."
"And where shall we go?" inquired Anton, in English. "Are we to take these wagons into the bloodshed of the streets?"
"We have a passport, and will leave the town," answered the merchant, doggedly.
"They will not respect our passport," cried Anton in return, while he held a pistol at the head of the obstreperous landlord.
"If the worst come to the worst, there are other inns in this part of the town; any of them will be a better refuge."
"But we have not the full complement of drivers, and some of our number are disaffected."
"I will manage the disaffected," answered the merchant, sternly; "we have the full number of horses, we only want the men. Those to whom the horses belong will remain with them. The gate is open—out with the wagons!"
The gate led to an open space covered with building-stones anddébris, and surrounded by a few poor houses. The merchant hastened thither to superintend the departure. A stout youth came to Anton's assistance. They were anxious moments these. Near the house, he and his helper were struggling with the prostrate man, whose ugly wife and her two maid-servants were howling at the house door. As the first wagon rolled away, their screams became louder: the landlady called out "help" and "murder!" and the maids wailed all the louder the more fervently the young wagoner assured them that no harm would befall his worship, the landlord, if he would only lie still, and that, moreover, they would all pay their bills besides.
Just then loud knocks were heard at the house door; the women rushed in and unlocked it at once; and so great had been the hopeless excitement of the last few minutes, that it was almost with a sense of relief that Anton saw a strong body of soldiery defile into the court. He rose from the ground, and left the landlord free. But the merchant walked slowly, and with uncertain steps, like a broken-down man, to meet the enemies who, at this decisive moment, frustrated his will.
The leader of the band, one of those whom the young Pole had in the morning summoned to the inn, said to the merchant, "You are prisoners; neither you nor your wagons can leave the town."
"I have a passport," eagerly replied Mr. Schröter, feeling for his pocket-book.
"The new government forbids your journey," was the curt rejoinder.
"I must submit," said the merchant, mechanically sitting down on a wagon-pole, and clinging to the body of the vehicle.
Anton held the half-unconscious man in his arms, and said, in utmost indignation, "We have been twice robbed in this inn; we were in danger of being killed; my companion is wounded, as you see; if your government is determined to detain us and our wagons, at least protect our lives and our property. The wagons can not remain here, and if we are separated from them, it will be still more difficult to prevent their being plundered."
The soldiers now held a consultation, and at length their leader called Anton to share in it. After much discussion, it was finally arranged that the wagons should be moved to a neighboring establishment, equal to this in accommodation, but superior in character. Anton obtained leave to move to it with his companion, and there remain under surveillance till something further should be decided. Meanwhile the merchant sat leaning against the canvas covering, and taking, apparently, no interest in what was going on. Anton now rapidly told him the decision arrived at.
"We must bear it," said the principal, rising slowly and with difficulty. "Ask the landlord for our bill."
"We will pay the landlord," said the soldier in command, roughly pushing the functionary aside. "Think of yourself," added he, kindly catching hold of the wounded man's arm to support him.
"Pay for us and for the horses," repeated Mr. Schröter to Anton; "we can not remain in these people's debt."
Anton accordingly took out his pocket-book, called the drivers together, and, in their presence, made over a banknote to the landlord, saying to him, "I now pay you this sum provisionally, until you shall have made out your account. You men are witnesses." The drivers respectfully bowed, and hurried back to their wagons.
The procession now set forth. First a portion of the armed escort, then the heavy wagons, which slowly and helplessly rumbled along over the stones; some of them without drivers, but kept in line by their well-trained horses.
Mr. Schröter stood at the gate, leaning upon Anton, and counted each wagon as it passed; and as the last rolled off, he said, "Done at last," and consented to be led away.
In the very next cross-street the procession turned into the great court-yard of another inn. When the last of the wagons had at length had its horses unharnessed, and the soldiers had barred the gate from within, the merchant fell down in a swoon, and was carried into the house.
He was placed in a small room, a guard stationed at his door, and another in the court. Anton remained alone with the sufferer. Full of anxiety, he knelt by his bed, unfastened his clothes, and bathed his face with cold water. After a time Mr. Schröter revived, opened his eyes, looked gratefully at Anton, and pointed to the window.
Anton looked out, and said, joyously, "It opens upon the court-yard. I can overlook and count the wagons. I really think that here, although prisoners, we are tolerably safe. But, first of all, allow me to look to your wound: your clothes are much stained with blood."
"My weakness proceeds more from over-excitement than loss of blood," replied the merchant, raising himself up.
Anton opened the door, and begged for a surgeon. Their guard was prepared to go for one, and after an anxious hour had passed, he introduced a shabby-looking individual, who hurriedly produced a razor and a dirty pocket-handkerchief, wiping the razor on his sleeve, and bringing the handkerchief into alarming proximity with Anton's chin. It was with some difficulty that the reason of his being sent for was conveyed to him.
Anton cut away the sleeve of the coat and shirt, and himself examined the wound. It was a cut in the upper arm; not a deep one, indeed, but the arm was stiff, and Mr. Schröter suffered severely. The barber attempted to bandage it, and went off, promising to return on the morrow. The merchant fell back, exhausted with the pain of the bandaging, and Anton sat by him the remainder of the day, laying wet cloths around the arm, and watching the feverish slumber of the patient.
Soon he sank himself into a sort of half sleep, a dull apathy, which made him indifferent to all that was going on without. Thus evening wore away, and night came on. Anton occasionally dipped his fingers in cold water, and crept from the bed to the window to watch the wagons, or to the door to exchange a whisper with the guard, who showed a friendly interest in the case.
Meanwhile the fire continued its ravages, and the sound of musketry thundered at the gates. Anton looked carelessly at the burning fragments which the wind drove over the unhappy town, and heard, with a faint degree of surprise, that the noise of the firing grew louder and louder, and at last became a deafening crash; all the sounds that struck his ear from the street appearing to him as unimportant as the ringing of a little early church-bell which he had often heard from his own room in the principal's house, and which never disturbed any one out of his morning repose. The whole night through he kept mechanically wetting and applying cold-water poultices to the patient's arm, and rising whenever the latter groaned or turned; but when, toward morning, the merchant fell into a sounder sleep, Anton forgot his task, his head fell heavy upon his hands outstretched on the table, he neither saw nor heard; and amid the screams of the wounded, and the thundering of cannon which attended the taking of a stoutly-defended town, amid all the horrors of a bloody conflict, he slept like a tired boy over his school-task.
When he awoke, after the lapse of a few hours, it had long been morning. The merchant smiled kindly at him from his bed, and reached out his hand. Anton pressed it with all his heart, and hurried to the window. "They are all right," said he. He then opened the door; the guard of the previous night had vanished; and on the street he heard the beat of drums, and the regular tramp of regiments marching in.
"We gave you up for lost," cried the newly-arrived captain to Mr. Schröter. "They manage inns wretchedly here, and all my inquiries after you proved fruitless. It was a fortunate thing that your letter found me out in this confusion."
"We have accomplished our purpose," said the merchant, "but not, as you see, without drawbacks;" and he pointed, smiling, to his wounded arm.
"First and foremost, let me hear your adventures," said the captain, sitting down by the bedside. "You have more tokens of the fight to show than I."
The merchant told his story. He dwelt warmly upon Anton's courage, to which he ascribed his safety, and ended by saying, "My wound does not prevent my traveling, and my return is imperative. I shall go with the wagons as far as the frontier."
"Early to-morrow morning one of our companies returns to the frontier; you can send your wagons under its escort; besides which, the high roads are now safe. To-morrow the mails begin to run again."
"I must still further request your assistance. I am anxious to write home by a courier this very day."
"I will take care," promised the captain, "that your return to-morrow shall meet with no impediments."
As soon as the officer had left the room, Mr. Schröter said to Anton, "I have a surprise for you, dear Wohlfart, which will, I fear, be an unwelcome one. I wish to leave you here in my place." Anton drew nearer in amazement. "There is no relying on our agent at a time like this," continued the merchant, "and I have, during the last few days, rejoiced to discover how perfectly I can depend upon you. What you have just done to save my head-piece will be unforgotten as long as I live. And now draw a writing-table here beside me; we have still some plans to arrange."
The next morning a post-chaise stood before the inn door, into which Mr. Schröter was lifted by Anton. It was then drawn up to the side of the street till he had seen the wagons pass one by one out of the gateway. Then pressing Anton's hand once more, he said, "Your stay here may last weeks, nay, months. Your work will be very disagreeable, and often fruitless. But I repeat it, do not be too anxious; I trust to your decision as to my own. And do not be afraid of incurring contingent loss, if you can only get unsafe debtors to pay up. This place is devastated and lost to us for the future. Farewell till our happy meeting at home."
Thus Anton remained alone in the strange town, in a position where great trust imposed upon him great responsibility. He went back to his room, called the landlord, and at once made arrangements for his further stay there. The town was so filled with military that he preferred to remain in the small quarters that he had already occupied, and to put up with their inconveniences, having little expectation of changing for the better.
It was indeed a devastated town which Anton now explored. A few days back, crowds of passionately-excited men had filled the streets, and every kind of daring enterprise was to be read on their wild faces. Where was now the haughty defiance, the thirst of battle, that inspired all those thousands?
The crowds of peasants, the swarming town populace, the soldiers of the patriot army, had vanished like ghosts scared by the presence of an enchanter. The few men to be seen were foreign soldiers. But their gay uniforms did not improve the aspect of the town. True, the fire was quenched, whose clouds of smoke had darkened the sky. But there stood the houses in the pale light, looking as if they had been gutted. The doors remained closed; many of the window-panes were broken; on the flags lay heaps of mud, dirty straw, and fragments of furniture. Here, a car with a broken wheel; there, a uniform, arms, the carcass of a horse. At the corner of a street stood barrels and pieces of furniture which had been thrown out of the houses, as a last barricade to impede the advancing troops; and behind them lay, carelessly strewn over with straw, the corpses of slaughtered men. Anton turned away in horror when he saw the pale faces through the straw. Newly-arrived troops were bivouacking in the square—their horses stood in couples round; in all the streets the tramp of patrols was heard; while it was only at rare intervals that a civilian was seen to pass along the flag-stones; with his hat drawn low over his face, and casting timid sidelong glances at the foreign troops. Sometimes, too, a pale-looking man was seen, led along by soldiers, and pushed onward with the bayonet if he went too slowly. The town had worn an ugly appearance during the insurrection, but it was still worse now.
When Anton returned from his first walk, with these impressions upon his mind, he found a hussar walking up and down before his door like a sentinel.
"Mr. Wohlfart!" shouted the hussar, rushing at him.
"My dear Karl," cried Anton; "this is the first pleasure I have had in this wretched town. But how came you hither?"
"You know that I am serving my time. We joined our comrades at the frontier a few hours after you had left. The landlord knew me, and told me of your departure. You may imagine the fright I was in. To-day I got leave of absence for the first time, and had the good luck to meet one of the drivers, else I should not have found you out yet. And now, Mr. Wohlfart, what of our principal, and what of your goods?"
"Come with me into my room, and you shall hear all," replied Anton.
"Stop a moment," cried Karl; "you speak to me more formally than you used to do, and I can't stand that. Please to speak just as if I was Karl in our old place yonder."
"But you are no longer so," said Anton, laughing.
"This is only a masquerade," said Karl, pointing to his uniform; "in my heart I am still a supernumerary porter of T. O. Schröter's."
"Have it your own way, Karl," replied Anton; "but come in, and hear all about it."
Karl soon fell, as might have been expected, into a violent rage with the good-for-nothing landlord. "The thievish dog! he has dared to attack our firm and our head! To-morrow I'll take a whole troop of our fellows there. I'll drive him into his own yard, and we'll all play at leap-frog over him by the hour, and at every leap we'll give a kick to that wicked head of his."
"Mr. Schröter let him go unpunished," said Anton; "don't be more cruel than he. I say, Karl, you are become a handsome youth."
"I shall do," returned Karl, much flattered. "I've got reconciled to agriculture. My uncle is a worthy man. If you picture my father to yourself about half his own size, thin instead of stout, and with a small stumpy nose instead of a large one, and a long face instead of a round, with a gray coat and no leather apron, and with a pair of great boots up to his knees, why then you have my uncle—a most capital little fellow. He is very kind to me. At first I found it dull in the country, but I got used to it in time; one is always going about the farm, and that's pleasant. It was a blow to my gray-headed uncle when I had to turn soldier, but I was delighted to get upon a horse in right down earnest, and to see something of the scuffle here. There are wretched inns in this country, Mr. Wohlfart, and this place is a horrible scene of desolation."
Thus Karl rattled on. At last he caught up his cap: "If you remain here, will you allow me often to spend a quarter of an hour with you?"
"Do as at home," said Anton; "and if I happen to be out, the landlord will have the key, and here are the cigars."
And so Anton found an old friend; but Karl was not his only military acquaintance. The captain was delighted with a countryman who had played so bold a part against the insurgents. He introduced him to the colonel who commanded the division. To him Anton had to tell his adventures, and to receive high commendation from a large circle of epaulets; and the following day the captain invited him to dinner, and introduced him to the officers of his own squadron. Anton's modest composure made a favorable impression upon them all. At home they would probably have been restricted by their views of human greatness from becoming intimate with a young merchant, but here in the camp they were themselves wiser men than in the idle days of peace, their social prejudices were fewer, and their recognition of others' deserts less impeded. Consequently, they soon came to consider the young clerk as a "deuced good fellow," fell into the habit of calling him by his Christian name, and whenever they were going to drink their coffee or to play a game of dominoes, they invariably invited him to join them. An obscure tradition of large means and mysterious relationship once more emerged from the abyss of past years, but, to do the squadron justice, it was not this which prompted their kind attentions to their countryman. Anton himself was more exalted by this good fellowship with these noble lads than he would have chosen to confess to himself or to Mr. Pix. He now enjoyed a free intercourse with men of mark, and felt as if born to many enjoyments which heretofore he had only contemplated with silent reverence from afar. Old recollections began to reassert their sway, and he felt once more drawn into the magic circle, where every thing appeared to him free, bright, and beautiful. Lieutenant von Rothsattel belonged to the number of Anton's friendly acquaintance. Our hero treated him with the tenderest consideration, and the lieutenant, who was at bottom a reckless, light-hearted, good-natured fellow, was readily pleased by Anton's cordial admiration, and repaid him with peculiar confidence.
Fortunately, however, for our hero, his business prevented him losing his independence among his new allies. The town was indeed devastated; the wild uproar was over; but all peaceful activity seemed exhausted too. The necessaries of life were dear, and work scarce. Many who once wore boots went barefoot now. He who could formerly have bought a new coat, now contented himself with having the old one mended; the shoemaker and tailor breakfasted on water-gruel instead of coffee; the shopkeeper was unable to pay his debts to the merchant, and the merchant unable to discharge his obligations to other firms. He who had to recover money from men thus depressed had a hard task indeed, as Anton soon found out. On every side he heard lamentations which were but too well founded; and frequently every species of artifice was employed to evade his claims. Every day he had to go through painful scenes, often to listen to long legal proceedings carried on in Polish, out of which he generally came with an impression of having been "done," though the agent played the part of interpreter. It was a strange commercial drama in which Anton had now to take a share. Men from every portion of Europe were here, and trade had many peculiarities, which to German eyes seemed irregular and insecure. Nevertheless, habits of duty exercise so great an influence even over weaker natures, that Anton's perseverance more than once won the day.
The greatest claim that his house had was upon a Mr. Wendel, a dry little man, who had done a great deal of business on every side. People said that he had become rich by smuggling, and was now in great danger of failing. He had received the principal himself with something of contumely, and had at first comported himself toward his young deputy like a man distracted. Anton had again spent an hour in reasoning with him, and, in spite of all the latter's twistings and turnings, had remained firm to his point. At length Wendel broke out, "Enough; I am a ruined man, but you deserve to get your money. Your house has always dealt generously by me. You shall be reimbursed. Send your agent to me again in the course of the day, and come to me early to-morrow morning."
On the morrow, when Anton, accompanied by the agent, appeared before their debtor, Wendel, after a gloomy salutation, seized hold of a great rusty key, slowly put on a faded cloak on which countless darns showed like cobwebs on an old wall, and led his creditors to a remote part of the town, stopping before a ruined monastery. They went through a long cloister. Anton looked admiringly at the exquisite moulding of the arches, from which, however, time had worn off many a fragment that encumbered the pavement. Monuments of the old inhabitants of the place were ranged along the walls, and weather-stained inscriptions announced to the inattentive living that pious Slavonic monks had once sought peace within this shelter. Here in this cloister they had paced up and down; here they had prayed and dreamed till they had to make over their poor souls to the intercession of their saints. In the centre of this building Wendel now opened a secret door, and led his companions down a winding staircase into a large vault. This had once been used as the cellar of the rich cloister, and down that same staircase the cellarer had gone—ah! how often—wandering between the casks, tasting here and tasting there; and at the ringing of the little bell above him, bowing his head and saying a short prayer, and then returning to taste again, or in comfortable mood to walk up and down. The prayer-bell of the cloister had been melted down long ago; the empty cells were in ruins, the cattle fed where once the prior sat at the head of his brethren at their stately meal. All had vanished; the cellar only remained, and the casks of fiery Hungarian wine stood as they did five hundred years before. Still the rays of light converged into a star on the beautiful arch of the roof; still the vault was kept stainlessly whitewashed, and the floor strewn with finest sand; and still it was the cellarer's custom only to approach the noble wine with a waxlight. True, they were not the identical casks out of which the old monks drew their potions, but they were now, as then, filled with the produce of the vine-clad hills of Hegyalla, with the rosy wine of Menes, with the pride of Œdenburg, and the mild juice of the careful vintage of Rust.
"A hundred and fifty casks at eighteen, four-and-twenty, and thirty ducats the cask," said the agent, beginning the inventory.
Meanwhile Wendel went from one cask to another, the waxlight in his hand. He stood a little time before each, carefully wiping off with a clean linen cloth the very slightest trace of mould. "This was my favorite walk," said he to Anton. "For twenty years I have attended every vintage as a purchaser. Those were happy days, Mr. Wohlfart, and now they are gone forever. I have often walked up and down here, looking at the sunlight that shone down upon the barrels, and thinking of those that walked here before me. To-day I am here for the last time. And what will become of the wine? It will all be exported; they will drink it in foreign parts, without knowing its merits; and some brandy distiller will take possession of this cellar, or some new brewer will keep his Bavarian beer in it. The old times are over for me too. This is the noblest wine of all," said he, going up to a particular cask. "I might have excepted it from my surrender. But what should I do with this barrel only? Drink it? I shall never drink wine more. It shall go with the rest, only I must take leave of it." He filled his glass. "Did you ever drink wine like that before?" asked he, mournfully, holding out the glass to Anton, who willingly owned he never had.
They slowly reascended the steps. Arrived at the top, the wine-merchant cast one last long look into the cellar, then turned round like one fully resolved, locked the secret door, took out the key, and laid it solemnly in Anton's hand. "There is the key of your property. Our accounts are settled. Fare you well, gentlemen." Slowly and with bent head he went through the ruined cloister, looking, in the gray light of the early morning, like the ghost of some ancient cellarer still haunting the relics of his past glory.
The agent called after him, "But our breakfast, Mr. Wendel!" The old man shook his head, and made a gesture of refusal.
Yes, indeed, the breakfast. Every transaction was drowned in wine in this town. The long sittings in drinking-houses, which even the bad times did not prevent, were no small sorrow to Anton. He saw that men worked much less, and talked and drank much more in this country than in his. Whenever he had succeeded in getting a matter arranged, he could not dispense with the succeeding breakfast. Then buyers, sellers, assistants, and hangers-on of every kind sat at a round table together in one of the taverns; began with porter, ate Caviare by the pound, and washed it down with red Bordeaux wine. Hospitality was dispensed on all sides; every familiar face must come and take a share in the banquet; and so the company went on increasing till evening closed. Meanwhile the wives, accustomed to such proceedings, would have dinner brought up and removed three successive times, and at last adjourned till the next day. At times like these Anton often thought of Fink, who, despite his reluctance, had at least taught him to get through such ordeals as these respectably.
One afternoon, while Anton was sitting watching a game at dominoes, an old lieutenant, looking off his newspaper, called to the players, "Yesterday evening one of our hussars had two fingers of his right hand smashed. The ass who was quartered with him had been playing with his carabine, which was loaded. The doctor thinks amputation unavoidable. I am sorry for the fine fellow: he was one of the most efficient of our squadron. These misfortunes always happen to the best."
"What is the man's name?" asked Herr von Bolling, going on with his game.
"It is Corporal Sturm."
Anton sprang up, making all the pieces on the table dance again, and asked where he was to be found.
The lieutenant described the situation of the Lazaretto. In a dark room, full of beds and invalid soldiers, Karl lay pale and suffering, and reached out his left hand to Anton. "It is over," he said; "it hurt me most confoundedly, but I shall be able to use the hand again. I can still guide a pen, and shall try to do every thing else, if not with the right hand, why, with the left. Only I shall never again cut a figure in gold rings."
"My poor, poor Karl," cried Anton; "it's all over with your soldiering."
"Do you know," said Karl, "I can stand that misfortune pretty well. After all, it was not a regular war; and when spring and sowing-time comes, I shall be all right again. I could get up now if the doctor were not so strict. It is not pleasant here," added he, apologetically; "many of our people are sick, and one must shift for one's self in a strange town."
"You shall not remain in this room," said Anton, "if I can help it. There is such an atmosphere of disease here that a man in health becomes quite faint; I shall ask permission to have you moved into my lodging."
"Dear Mr. Anton!" cried Karl, overjoyed.
"Hush!" said the other; "I do not yet know whether we shall get leave."
"I have one other request to make," said the soldier, at parting, "and that is, that you will write the circumstance off to Goliath, so as not to make him too uneasy. If he first heard of it from a stranger, he would go on like a madman, I know."
Anton promised to do this, and then hurried to the surgeon of the regiment, and next to his kind friend the captain.
"I will answer for his getting leave," said the latter. "And as, from the account of his wound, his dismissal from the service seems to me unavoidable, he may as well stay with you till he receives it."
Three days later, Karl, with his arm in a sling, entered Anton's room. "Here I am," said he. "Adieu my gay uniform! adieu Selim, my gallant bay! You must have patience with me, Mr. Anton, for one other week, then I shall be able to use my arm again."
"Here is an answer from your father," said Anton, "directed to me."
"To you?" inquired Karl, in amazement. "Why to you? why has he not written to me?"
"Listen." Anton took up a great sheet of folio paper, which was covered over with letters half an inch long, and read as follows: "Worshipful Mr. Wohlfart, this is a great misfortune for my poor son. Two fingers from ten—eight remain. Even though they were but small fingers, the pain was all the same. It is a great misfortune for both of us that we can no longer write to each other. Therefore I beg of you to have the goodness to tell him what follows: 'He is not to grieve overmuch. Boring can still perhaps be done, and a good deal with the hammer. And even if it be Heaven's will that this too should be impossible, still he is not to grieve overmuch. He is provided for by an iron chest. When I am dead, he will find the key in my waistcoat pocket. And so I greet him with my whole heart. As soon as he can travel, he must come to me; all the more, as I can no longer tell him in writing that I am his true and loving father, Johann Sturm.'" Anton gave the letter to the invalid.
"It is just like him," said Karl, between smiles and tears; "in his first sorrow he has imagined that he can no longer write to me, because I have hurt my hand. How he will stare when he receives my letter!"
Karl spent the next few weeks with Anton. As soon as he could move his hand, he took possession of the wardrobe of his friend, and began to render him the little services that he had undertaken long ago in the principal's house. Anton had some difficulty to prevent him from playing the superfluous part of valet.
"There you are brushing my coat again," said he one day, going into Karl's room. "You know I will not stand it."
"It was only to keep mine in countenance," said Karl, by way of excuse; "two look so much better hanging together than one. Your coffee is ready, but the coffee-pot is good for nothing, and always tastes of the spirit of wine."
When he found that, as he said, he could be of no use to Anton, he began to work on his own account. Owing to his old love of mechanics, he had collected a quantity of tools of all sorts, and whenever Anton left the house, he began such a sawing, boring, planing, and rasping, that even the deaf old artillery officer, who was quartered in the neighboring house, was under the impression that a carpenter had settled near him, and sent a broken bedstead to be repaired. As Karl was still obliged to spare his right hand, he used one tool after the other with the left, and was as pleased as a child with the progress he made. And when the surgeon forbade such exertions for a week to come, Karl began to write with his left hand, and daily exhibited to Anton samples of his skill. "Practice is all that is wanted," said he; "man has to discover what he can do. As for that, writing with the hands at all is merely a habit; if one had no hands, one would write with one's feet; and I even believe that they are not essential, and that it could be managed with the head."
"You are a foolish fellow," laughed Anton.
"I do assure you," continued Karl, "that with a long reed held in the mouth, with two threads fastened to the ears to lessen the shaking, one might get on very tolerably. There is the setting of your keyhole come off; we'll glue that on in no time."
"I wonder that it does not stick of itself," said Anton, "for a most horrible smell of glue comes from your room. The whole atmosphere is impregnated with glue."
"God forbid!" said Karl; "what I have is perfectly scentless glue—a new invention."
When this true-hearted man set out homeward, with his dismission in his pocket, Anton felt as if he himself then first exchanged the counting-house for the foreign city.
One day our Anton passed the inn where his principal had been wounded. He stood still a moment, and looked with some curiosity at the old house and at the court-yard, where white-coated soldiers were now occupied in blacking and polishing their belts. At that moment he perceived a form in a black caftan glide away like a shadow out of the bar across the entrance. It had the black curls, the small cap, the figure and bearing of his old acquaintance, Schmeie Tinkeles. Alas! but it was his face no longer. The former Tinkeles had been rather a smart fellow of his kind. He had always worn his long locks shining and curled; he had had red lips, and a slight tinge of color on his yellow cheeks. The present Schmeie was but a shadow of him of yore: he looked pale as a ghost, his nose had become pointed and prominent, and his head drooped down like the cup of a fading flower.
Anton cried out in amazement, "Tinkeles, is it really you?" and went up to him. Tinkeles collapsed as if struck by a thunderbolt, and stared with wide-opened eyes at Anton, an image of horror and alarm.
"God of justice!" were the only words that escaped his white lips.
"What is the matter with you, Tinkeles? you look a most miserable sinner. What are you doing in this place, and what in the world leads you to this house, of all others?"
"I can not help being here," answered the trader, still half unconscious. "I can not help our principal being so unfortunate. His blood has flowed on account of the goods which Mausche Fischel sent off, having been paid for them. I am innocent, Mr. Wohlfart, on my eternal salvation. I did not know that the landlord was such a worthless being, and that he would lift his hand against the gentleman who stood before him there without hat, without cap on—without cap on," he whined out still more loudly; "bareheaded. You may believe that it was with me as though a sword had fallen upon my own body when I saw the landlord use such violence to a man who stood before him like a nobleman as he is, and has been all his life long."
"Hear me, Schmeie," said Anton, looking wondering at the Galician, who still harped upon the same string, trying to regain his composure by dint of speaking. "Hear me, my lad; you were in this town when our wagons were plundered—you saw from some hiding-place or other our quarrel with the landlord—you know this man's character, and yet you remain here; and now I will just tell you, in so many words, what you have half confessed to me—you knew of the unloading of the wagons, and, more, you had an interest in the carriers remaining behind; and in short, you and the landlord are in the same boat. After what you have now said, I shall not let you go till I know all. You shall either come with me to my room, and there freely confess, or I will take you to the soldiers, and have you examined by them."
Tinkeles was annihilated. "God of my fathers, it is fearful—it is fearful!" whined he, and his teeth chattered.
Anton felt compassion for his great terror, and said, "Come with me, Tinkeles, and I promise you that if you make a candid confession nothing shall be done to you."
"What shall I confess to the gentleman?" groaned Tinkeles; "I, who have nothing to confess."
"If you will not come at once, I call the soldiers," said Anton, roughly.
"No soldiers," implored Tinkeles, shuddering again. "I will come with you, and will tell you what I know, if you will promise to betray me to no one, not to your principal, not to Mausche Fischel, and not either to the wicked man, the landlord, and not to any soldiers."
"Come," said Anton, pointing down the street. And so he led away the reluctant Tinkeles like a prisoner, and never took his eyes off him, fearing that he would follow the suggestions of his evil conscience, and run off down some side street. The Galician, however, had not courage to do this, but crept along by Anton, looked toward him every now and then, sighing deeply, and gurgled out unintelligible words. Arrived at Anton's lodging, he began of his own accord: "It has been a weight on my heart—I have not been able to sleep—I have not been able to eat or drink; and whenever I ran here or there on business, it has lain on my soul just as a stone does in a glass—when one tries to drink, the stone falls against the teeth, and the water spills. Alas! what have I not spilled!"
"Go on," said Anton, again mollified by the candid confession.
"I came here on account of the wagons," continued Tinkeles, looking timidly at Anton. "Mausche has dealt with your firm for ten years, and always uprightly, and you have made a good sum of money out of him, and so he thought that the time was come when he might do a business of his own, and settle his account with you. And when the uproar began, he came to me and said, 'Schmeie,' said he, 'you are not afraid,' said he. 'Let them shoot away, and go you among them and see that you keep the wagons for me. Perhaps you can sell them, perhaps you can bring them back; at all events, it is better that we should have them than any one else.' And so I came and waited till the wagons arrived, and I spoke with the landlord, saying that, since the goods could not reach you, it was better they should fall into our hands. But that the landlord should prove such a man of blood, that I did not wish, and did not know; and since I saw how he cut your master's arm, I have had no peace, and I have ever seen before me the bloody shirt, and the fine cloth of his great-coat, which was cut in two."
Anton listened to this confession with an interest that outweighed the aversion he felt for these—not uncommon—manœuvres of Galician traders. He contented himself with saying to the delinquent, "Your rascality has cost Mr. Schröter a wounded arm; and, had we not appeared upon the scene, you would have stolen from us twenty thousand dollars."
"Not twenty thousand," cried Schmeie; "wool is very low, and there's nothing to be made of tallow. Less than twenty thousand."
"Indeed!" said Anton, disdainfully; "and now, what am I to do with you?"
"Do nothing with me," implored Schmeie, laying his hand on Anton's coat. "Let the whole matter go to sleep. You have the goods, be satisfied with that. It was a good business that which Mausche Fischel was not able to undertake because you hindered him."
"You still regret it," said Anton, indignantly.
"I am glad that you have the property," replied the Jew, "because you shed your blood about it; and therefore do nothing with me; I will see whether I can't please you in other matters. If you have any thing for me to do in this place, it will be a satisfaction to me to help you."
Anton coldly replied, "Although I have promised not to bring your thievishness to judgment, yet we can never deal with you again. You are a worthless man, Tinkeles, and have dealt unfairly with our house. Henceforth we are strangers."
"Why do you call me worthless?" complained Tinkeles. "You have known me as an upright man for years past; how can you call me worthless because I wanted to do a little stroke of business, and was unfortunate and could not do it? Is that worthless?"
"Enough," said Anton; "you may go." Tinkeles remained standing, and asked whether Anton required any new imperial ducats. "I want nothing from you," was the reply. "Go."
The Jew went slowly to the door, and then turning round, observed, "There is an excellent bargain to be made with oats; if you will undertake it with me, I will go shares with you; there is much money to be made by it."
"I have no dealings with you, Tinkeles. In Heaven's name, go away."
The Jew crept out, once more scratching at the door, but not venturing in. A few minutes later, Anton saw him cross the street, looking much dejected.
From that time Anton was regularly besieged by the repentant Tinkeles. Not a day passed without the Galician forcing an entrance, and seeking a reconciliation after his fashion. Sometimes they met in the streets, sometimes Anton was disturbed when writing by his unsteady knock; he had always something to offer, or some tidings to impart, through which he hoped to find favor. His power of invention was quite touching. He offered to buy or sell any thing or every thing, to transact any kind of business, to spy or carry messages; and when he found out that Anton was a good deal with the military, and that a certain young lieutenant, in particular, went often with him to the "Restauration," Tinkeles began to offer whatever he conceived might prove attractive to an officer. True, Anton remained firm in his resolve of not dealing with him, but at last he had no longer the heart to treat the poor devil roughly; and Tinkeles found out from many a suppressed smile, or short question put, that Anton's intercession for him with the principal was not quite hopeless. And for this he served with the perseverance of his ancestor Jacob.
One morning young Rothsattel came clattering into Anton's room. "I have been on the sick-list. I had a bad catarrh, and was obliged to remain in my comfortless quarters," said he, throwing himself on the sofa. "Can you help me to while away time this evening? We are to have a game at whist. I have invited our doctor and a few of our men. Will you come?" Pleased and a little flattered, Anton accepted. "Very well," continued the young gentleman; "then you must give me the power of losing my money to you. That wretchedvingt-et-unhas emptied my pockets. Lend me twenty ducats for eight days."
"With pleasure," said Anton; and he eagerly produced his purse.
Just as the lieutenant carelessly pocketed it, a horse's hoofs were heard in the street, and he rushed to the window. "By Jove, that is a lovely thing—pure Polish blood—the horse-dealer has stolen it from one of the rebels, and now wants to tempt an honest soldier with it."
"How do you know that the horse is to be sold?" asked Anton, sealing a letter at the writing-table.
"Don't you see that the creature is led about by a rogue to attract notice?"
At that moment there was a light knock at the door, and Schmeie Tinkeles first inserted his curly head, and then his black caftan, and gurgled submissively, "I wished to ask their honors whether they would look at a horse that is worth as many louis-d'or as it cost dollars. If you would just step to the window, Mr. Wohlfart, you would see it—seeing is not buying."
"Is this one of your mercantile friends, Wohlfart?" asked the lieutenant, laughing.
"He is so no longer; he is fallen into disgrace," replied Anton, in the same tone. "This time his visit is intended for you, Herr von Rothsattel. Take care, or he will tempt you to buy the horse."
The dealer listened attentively to the dialogue, and looked with much curiosity at the lieutenant.
"If the gracious baron will buy the horse," said he, coming forward, and staring at the young officer, "it will be a beautiful saddle-horse for him on his estate."
"What the deuce do you know about my estate?" said the lieutenant; "I have none."
"Do you know this gentleman?" asked Anton.
"How should I not know him, if it be he who has the great estate in your country, in which he has built a factory, where he makes sugar out of fodder."
"He means your father," explained Anton. "Tinkeles has connections in our province, and often stays months there."
"What do I hear?" cried the Galician; "the father of this worshipful officer! Your pardon, Mr. Wohlfart; so you are acquainted with the baron, who is the father of this gentleman!" A smile hovered over the lieutenant's mustache.
"I have, at all events, seen this gentleman's father," replied Anton, annoyed with the pertinacious questioning of the trader, and with himself for blushing.
"And forgive me if I ask whether you know this gentleman intimately, and whether he is what one calls your good friend?"
"What are you driving at, Tinkeles?" said Anton, sharply, and blushed still deeper, not knowing exactly how to answer the question.
"Yes, Jew, he is my good friend," said the lieutenant, clapping Anton on the shoulder. "He is my cashier; he has just lent me twenty ducats, and he won't give me any money to buy your horse. So go to the devil."
The trader listened attentively to every word spoken, and looked at the young men with curiosity, but, as Anton remarked, with a degree of sympathy foreign to his nature. "So," he repeated, mechanically, "he has lent you twenty ducats; he would lend you more if you asked him; I know—I know. So you do not want the horse, Mr. Wohlfart? My services to you, Mr. Wohlfart;" and, so saying, he vanished, and soon the quick trot of a horse was heard.
"What a fellow that is!" cried the lieutenant, looking out after him.
"He is not generally so easy to get rid of," said Anton, perplexed at the strange conduct of the Jew. "Perhaps your uniform expedited his departure."
"I hope it was of some use to you, then. Good-by till the evening," said the lieutenant, taking his leave.
That afternoon the light knocking was heard again, and Tinkeles reappeared. He looked cautiously around the room, and approached Anton. "Allow me to ask," said he, with a confidential wink, "is it really true that you lent him twenty ducats, and would lend him more if he wished?"
Anton assented to both these propositions. "And now," said he, "tell me plainly what is running in your head, for I see you have something to disclose."
Tinkeles made a sly face, and winked harder. "Even though he be your good friend, beware of lending him money. If you know what you are about, you will lend him no more money."
"And why not?" inquired Anton. "Your good advice is useless, unless I know on what it is founded."
"And if I tell you what I know, will you intercede for me with Mr. Schröter, so that he may not think about the wagons when he sees me in his counting-house?"
"I will tell him that you have behaved well in other respects. It will be for him to decide what he will do."
"You will intercede for me," said Tinkeles; "that's enough. Things are going ill with Von Rothsattel, the father of this young man—very ill. Misfortune's black hand is raised over him. He is a lost man. There is no saving him."
"How do you know this?" cried Anton, horrified. "But it is impossible," he added, more calmly; "it is a lie, a mere idle rumor."
"Believe my words," said the Jew, impressively. "His father is in the hands of one who walks about in secret, like the angel of destruction. He goes and lays his noose around the necks of the men he has singled out without any one seeing him. He tightens the noose, and they fall around like ninepins. Why should you lend your money to those who have the noose around their neck?"
"Who is this demon who has the baron in his power?" cried Anton, in uncontrollable excitement.
"What signifies the name?" coolly replied the Galician. "Even if I knew it I would not tell it, and if I told it it could do you no good, nor the baron either, for you know him not, and he knows him not."
"Is it Ehrenthal?" inquired Anton.
"I can not tell the name," rejoined the trader, shrugging his shoulders; "but it is not Hirsch Ehrenthal."
"If I am to believe your words, and if you wish to do me a service," continued Anton, more composedly, "you must give me exact information. I must know this man's name—must know all that you have heard of him and of the baron."