At the door stood Fritz the Fool, carrying in his arms what in the gathering dusk looked like a bundle. This bundle was human--a man who was but half a man. Embracing Fritz, with one arm tightly clutching the Fool's neck, the figure commenced to speak the moment the door was opened.
"I only am to blame; learning that you were in the study, I insisted upon being brought here immediately; carry me in gently, Fool, and set me in that chair."
The chair indicated was close to the writing-table, by which the Advocate was standing.
"Fritz made me acquainted with your arrival," continued the intruder, "and I hastened here without delay. When I tell you that I live two miles off, eight hundred feet above the level of this valley, you will realise the jolting I have had in my wheeled chair. Fritz, you can leave us; but be within call, as you must help to get me home again. Is there any need for me to introduce myself?" he asked.
"Master Lamont," said the Advocate.
"As much as is left of me; but I manage to exist. I have proved that a man can live without legs. You received my letter?"
"Yes; and I thank you for your attention. My wife," said the Advocate, introducing Adelaide. Attracted by the dulcet voice of Pierre Lamont, she had come out of the deeper shadows of the room. Dionetta had spoken truly; this thin, shrivelled wreck of mortality had a voice as sweet as honey.
"I cannot rise to pay my respects to you," said Pierre Lamont, his lynx eyes resting with profound admiration upon the beautiful woman, "but I beg you to believe that I am your devoted slave." Adelaide bent her head gracefully, and smiled upon the old lawyer. "One of my great anxieties is to know whether I have arranged the villa to your satisfaction. Christian Almer was most desirous that the place should be made pleasant and attractive, and I have endeavoured to carry out his instructions."
"We owe you a debt of gratitude," said Adelaide; "everything has been charmingly done."
"I am repaid for my labour," said Pierre Lamont gallantly. "You must be fatigued after your journey. Do not let me detain you. I shall remain with the Advocate but a very few minutes, and I trust you will allow me to make another and a longer visit."
"We shall always be happy to see you," said Adelaide, as she bowed and left the room.
"You are fortunate, comrade," said Pierre Lamont, "both in love and war. Your lady is the most beautiful I have ever beheld. I am selfishly in hopes that you will make a long stay with us; it will put some life into this sleepy valley. Is Christian Almer with you?"
"No; but I may induce him to come. It is to you," said the Advocate, pointing to the pile of newspapers, "that I am indebted for these."
"I thought you would find something in them to interest you. I see you have one of the papers in your hand, and that you were reading it before I intruded upon you. May I look at it? Ah! you have caught up the scent. It was the murder of the flower-girl I meant."
"Have you formed an opinion upon the case?"
"Scarcely yet; it is so surrounded with mystery. In my enforced retirement I amuse myself by taking up any important criminal case that occurs; and trying it in my solitude, acting at once the parts of judge and counsel for the prosecution and defence. A poor substitute for the reality; but I make it serve--not to my satisfaction, I confess, although I may show ingenuity in some of my conclusions. But I miss the cream, which lies in the personality of the persons concerned. This case of Gautran interests and perplexes me; were I able to take an active part, it is not unlikely I should move in it. I envy you, brother; I should feel proud if I could break a lance with you; but we do not live in an age of miracles, so I must be content, perforce, with my hermit life. What I read does not always please me; points are missed--almost wilfully missed, as it seems to me--strong links allowed to fall, disused, false inferences drawn, and, in the end, a verdict and sentence which half make me believe that justice limps on crutches. 'Fools, fools, fools!' I cry; 'if I were among you this should not be.' But what can an old cripple do? Grumble? Yes; and extract a morsel of satisfaction from his discontent--which tickles his vanity. That men's deserts are not meted out to them troubles me more now than it used to do. The times are too lenient of folly and crime. I would have the old law revived. 'To the doer as he hath done'--thus saith the thrice ancient word--so runs the 'Agamemnon.' If my neighbour kill my ass, I would knock his on the head. And this Gautran, if he be guilty, deserves the death; if he be innocent, deserves to live and be set free. But to allow a poor wretch to be judged by public passions--Heaven send us a beneficent change!"
The voice of the speaker was so sweet, and the arguments so palatable to the Advocate, and so much in accordance with his own views, that he listened with pleasure to this outburst. He recognised in the cripple huddled up in the chair one whose pre-eminence in his craft had been worthily attained.
"I am pleased we have met," he said, and the eyes of Pierre Lamont glistened.
He soon brought his visit to a close, and while Fritz the Fool was being summoned, he said that in the morning he would send the Advocate all the papers he could gather which might help to throw a light on the case of Gautran.
"You have spoken with Fritz, he tells me."
"I have; he appears to me worth studying."
"There is salt in the knave; he has occasionally managed to overreach me. Fool as he is, he has a head with brains in it. Farewell."
Now, although the old lawyer, while he was with the Advocate, seemed to think of nothing but his more celebrated legal brother, it was far different as he was carried in his wheeled chair to his home on the heights. He had his own servant to propel him; Fritz walked by his side.
"You were right, Fritz, you were right," said Pierre Lamont, and he smacked his lips, and his eyes kindled with the fire of youth, "she is a rare piece of flesh and blood--as fair as a lily, as ripe as a peach ready to drop from the wall. With passions of her own, Fritz; her veins are warm. To live in the heart of such a woman would be to live a perpetual summer. What say you, Fritz?"
"Nothing."
"That is a fool's answer."
"Then the fools are the real wise men, for there is wisdom in silence. But I say nothing because I am thinking."
"A mouse in labour. Beware of bringing forth a mountain; it will rend you to pieces."
Fritz softly hummed a tune as they climbed the hills. Only once did he speak till they arrived at Pierre Lamont's house; it was in reply to the old lawyer, who said:
"It is easier going up the hills than coming down."
"That depends," said Fritz, "upon whether it is the mule or the man on his back."
Pierre Lamont laughed quietly; he had a full enjoyment of Fritz's humour.
"I have been thinking," said Fritz when the journey was completed----
"Ah, ah!" interrupted Pierre Lamont; "now for the mountain."
"--Upon the reason that made so fair a lady--young, and warm, and ripe--marry an icicle."
"There is hidden fire, Fritz; you may get it from a stone."
"I forgot," said Fritz, with a sly chuckle, "that I was speaking to an old man."
"Rogue!" cried Pierre Lamont, raising his stick.
"Never stretch out your hand," said Fritz, darting away, "for what you cannot reach."
"Fritz, Fritz, come here!"
"You will not strike?"
"No."
"I will trust you. There are lawyers I would not, though every word they uttered was framed in gold."
"So, you have been thinking of the reason that made so fair a lady marry an icicle?"
"Yes."
"The icicle is celebrated."
"That is of no account."
"He is rich."
"That is good."
"He is much older than she. He may die, and leave her a young widow."
"That is better."
"Then she may marry again--a younger man."
"That is best Master Lamont, you have a head."
"And your own love-affair, Fritz, is that flourishing, eh? Have the pretty red lips kissed a 'Yes' yet?"
"The pretty red lips have not been asked. I bide my time. My peach is not as ripe as the icicle's. I'll go and look after it, Master Lamont. It needs careful watching; there are poachers about."
Fritz departed to look after his peach, and Pierre Lamont was carried into his study, where he sat until late in the night, surrounded by books and papers.
The Advocate was also in his study until two hours past midnight, searching newspaper after newspaper for particulars and details of the murder of the unfortunate girl whose body had been found in the wildly rushing Rhone. And while he pondered and mused, and ofttimes paced the room with thoughtful face, his wife lay sleeping in her holiday home, with smiles on her lips, and joy in her heart, for she was dreaming of one far away. And her dream was of love.
And Dionetta, the pretty maid, also slept, with her hands clasped at the back of her head; and her lady was saying to her: "Really and truly, Dionetta, you have not a lover? Women are made for love. It is the only thing in life worth living for." And a blush, even in her sleep, stole over her fair face and bosom. For her dream was of love.
And Pierre Lamont lived over again the days of his youth, and smirked and languished, and made fine speeches, and moved amidst a paradise of fair faces, all of which bore the likeness of one whom he had but just seen for the first time. And, old as he was, his dream was of love.
And Fritz the Fool tossed in his bed, and muttered:
"Too fair! too fair! If I were rich she might tempt me to be false to one, and make me vow I would lay down my life for her. It is a good thing for me that I am a fool."
And Gautran in his prison cell writhed upon his hard bed in the midst of the darkness; for by his side lay the phantom of the murdered girl, and his despair was deep and awful.
And in the mountains, two hundred miles distant from the House of White Shadows, roamed Christian Almer in the moonlight, struggling with all his mental might with a terror which possessed him. The spot he had flown to was ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, and his sleeping-room was in the hut of a peasant, mountain-born and mountain-reared, who lived a life of dull contentment with his goats, and wife, and children. Far away in the heights immense forests of fir-trees were grouped in dark, solemn masses. Not a branch stirred; a profound repose reigned within their depths, while the sleepless waterfalls in the lower heights, leaping, and creeping, and dashing over chasm and precipice, proclaimed the eternal wakefulness of Nature. The solitary man gazed upon these majestic signs in awe and despair.
"There is no such thing as oblivion," he muttered; "there is no such thing as forgetfulness. These solitudes, upon which no living creature but myself is to be seen, are full of accusing voices. My God! to die and be blotted out for ever and ever were better than this agony! I strive and strive, and cannot rid myself of the sin. I will conquer it--I will--I will--I will!"
But even as he spoke there gleamed upon him from a laughing cascade the vision of a face so beautiful as to force a groan from his lips. He turned from the vision, and it shone upon him with a tender wooing in every waterfall that met his sight. Trembling with the force of a passion he found it impossible to resist, he walked to his mountain home, and threw himself upon his couch. He was exhausted with sleepless nights, and in a short time he fell into a deep slumber. And a calm stole over his troubled soul, for his dreams were of love!
"Arise, Gautran."
At this command Gautran rose slowly from the floor of his prison-cell, upon which he had been lying at full length, and shaking himself like a dog, stood before the gaoler.
"Can't you let me alone?" he asked, in a coarse, savage voice.
"Scum of the gutter!" replied the gaoler. "Speak civilly while you have the power, and be thankful your tongue is not dragged out by the roots."
"You would do it if you dared."
"Ay--and a thousand honest men would rejoice to help me."
"Is it to tell me this you disturbed me?"
"No, murderer!"
"What do you want of me?"
The gaoler laughed at him in mockery. "You look more like beast than man."
"That's how I've been treated," growled Gautran.
"Better than you deserve. So, you have influential friends, it seems."
"Have I?" with a venomous flash at the taunt.
"One will be here to see you directly."
"Let him keep from me. I care to see no one."
"That may be, but the choice is not yours. This gentleman is not to be denied."
"A gentleman, eh?" exclaimed Gautran, with some slight show of interest.
"Yes, a gentleman."
"Who is he, and what is his business with me?"
"He is a great lawyer, who has sent murderers to their doom----"
"Ah!" and Gautran drew a long vindictive breath through closed teeth.
"And has set some free, I've heard."
"Is he going to do that for me?" asked Gautran, and a light of fierce hope shone in his eyes.
"He will earn Heaven's curse if he does, and man's as well. Here he is. Silence."
The door was opened, and the Advocate entered the cell.
"This is Gautran?" he asked of the gaoler.
"This is he," replied the gaoler.
"Leave me alone with him."
"It is against my orders, sir."
"Here is your authority."
He handed to the gaoler a paper, which gave him permission to hold free and uninterrupted converse with Gautran, accused of the murder of Madeline the flower-girl. The interview not to last longer than an hour.
The gaoler prepared to depart, but before he left the cell he said in an undertone:
"Be careful of the man; he is a savage, and not to be trusted."
"There is nothing to fear," said the Advocate.
The gaoler lingered a moment, and then retired.
The cell was but dimly lighted, and the Advocate, coming into it from the full sunlight of a bright day, could not see clearly for a little while. On the other hand. Gautran, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, had a distinct view of the Advocate, and in a furtive, hangdog fashion he closely inspected the features of his visitor. The man who stood before him could obtain his condemnation or his acquittal. Dull-witted as he was, this conviction was as much an intuition as an impression gained from the gaoler's remarks.
"You are a woodman?" said the Advocate.
"Aye, a woodman. It is well known."
"Have you parents?"
"They are dead."
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"None. I was the only one."
"Friends?"
"No."
"Have you wife or children?"
"Neither."
"How much money have you?"
"Not a sou."
"What about this murder?" asked the Advocate abruptly.
"What about it, then?" demanded Gautran. The questions asked by the Advocate were more judicial than friendly, and he assumed an air of defiance.
"Speak in a different tone. I am here to assist you, if I see my way. You have no lawyer to defend you?"
"How should I get one? What lawyer works without pay, and where should I find the money to pay him?"
"Heed what I say. I do not ask you if you are innocent or guilty of the crime of which you stand charged, for that is a formula and, guilty or not guilty, you would return but one answer. Have you anything to tell me?"
"I can't think of anything."
"You have led an evil life."
"Not my fault. Can a man choose his own parents and his country? The life I have led I was born into; and that is to stand against me."
"Are there any witnesses who would come forward and speak in your favour?"
"None that I know of."
"Is it true that you were walking with the girl on the night she was murdered?"
"No man has heard me deny it," said Gautran, shuddering.
"Why do you shudder?"
"Master, you asked me just now whether I had a wife, and I told you I had none. This girl was to have been my wife. I loved her, and we were to have been married."
"That is disputed."
"Everything is disputed that would tell in my favour. The truth is of no use to a poor devil caught in a trap as I am. Have you heard any good of me, master?"
"Not any; all that I have heard is against you."
"That is the way of it. Well, then, judge for yourself."
"Can you indicate anyone who would be likely to murder the girl? You shudder again."
"I cannot help it. Master, put yourself in this cell, as I am put, without light, without hope, without money, without a friend. You would need a strong nerve to stand it. You want to know if I can point out anyone who could have done the deed but me? Well, if I were free, and came face to face with him, I might. Not that I could say anything, or swear to anything for certain, for I did not see it done. No, master, I will not lie to you. Where would be the use? You are clever enough to find me out. But I had good reason to suspect, aye, to know, that the girl had other lovers, who pressed her hard, I dare say; some who were rich, while I was poor; some who were almost mad for her. She was followed by a dozen and more. She told me so herself, and used to laugh about it; but she never mentioned a name to me. You know something of women, master; they like the men to follow them--the best of them do--ladies as well as peasants. They were sent into the world to drive us to perdition. I was jealous of her, yes, I was jealous. Am I guilty because of that? How could I help being jealous when I loved her? It is in a man's blood. Well, then, what more can I say?"
In his intent observance of Gautran's manner the Advocate seemed to weigh every word that fell from the man's lips.
"At what time did you leave the girl on the last night you saw her alive?"
"At ten o'clock."
"She was alone at that hour?"
"Yes."
"Did you see her again after that?"
"No."
"Did you have reason to suspect that she was to meet any other man on that night?"
"If I had thought it, I should have stopped with her."
"For what purpose?"
"To see the man she had appointed to meet."
"And having seen him?"
"He would have had to answer to me. I am hot-blooded, master, and can stand up for my rights."
"Would you have harmed the girl?"
"No, unless she had driven me out of my senses."
"Were you in that state on the night of her death?"
"No--I knew what I was about."
"You were heard to quarrel with her."
"I don't deny it."
"You were heard to say you would kill her."
"True enough. I told her if ever I found out that she was false to me, I would kill her."
"Had she bound herself to marry you?"
"She had sworn to marry me."
"The handkerchief round her neck, when her body was discovered in the river, is proved to have been yours."
"It was mine; I gave it to her. I had not much to give."
"When you were arrested you were searched?"
"Yes."
"Was anything taken from you?"
"My knife."
"Had you and the girl's secret lover--supposing she had one--met on that night, you might have used your knife."
"That is speaking beforehand. I can't say what might have happened."
"Come here into the light. Let me look at your hands."
"What trick are you going to play me, master?" asked Gautran, in a suspicious tone.
"No trick," replied the Advocate sternly. "Obey me, or I leave you."
Gautran debated with himself in silence for a full minute; then, with an impatient movement, as though it could not matter one way or another, he moved into the light, and held out his hands.
The Advocate, taking a powerful glass from his pocket, examined the prisoner's fingers and nails and wrists with the utmost minuteness, Gautran, the while, wrapped in wonder at the strange proceeding.
"Now," said the Advocate, "hold your head back, so that the light may shine on your face."
Gautran obeyed, warily holding himself in readiness to spring upon the Advocate in case of an attack. By the aid of his glass the Advocate examined Gautran's face and neck with as much care as he had bestowed upon the hands, and then said:
"That will do."
"What is it all for, master?" asked Gautran.
"I am here to ask questions, not to answer them. Since your arrest, have you been examined as I have examined you?"
"No, master."
"Has any examination whatever been made of you by doctors or gaolers or lawyers?"
"None at all."
"How long had you known the girl?"
"Ever since she came into the neighbourhood."
"Were you not acquainted with her before?"
"No."
"From what part of the country did she come?"
"I can't say."
"Not knowing?"
"Not knowing."
"But being intimate with her, you could scarcely avoid asking her the question."
"I did ask her, and I was curious to find out. She would not satisfy me; and when I pressed her, she said the other one--Pauline--had made her promise not to tell."
"You don't know, then, where she was born?"
"No."
"Her refusal to tell you--was it lightly or seriously uttered?"
"Seriously."
"As though there was a secret in her life she wished to conceal?"
"I never thought of it in that way, but I can see now it must have been so."
"Something discreditable, then?"
"Most likely. Master, you go deeper than I do."
"What relationship existed between Pauline and Madeline?"
"Some said they were sisters, but there was a big difference in their ages. Others said that Pauline was her mother, but I don't believe it, for they never spoke together in that way. Master, I don't know what to say about it; it used to puzzle me; but it was no business of mine."
"Did you never hear Pauline address Madeline as her child?"
"Never."
"They addressed each other by their Christian names?"
"Yes."
"Did they resemble each other in feature?"
"There was something of a likeness between them."
"Why did Pauline leave the girl?"
"No one knew."
"That is all you can tell me?"
"That is all."
Then after a slight pause, the Advocate asked:
"Do you value your liberty?"
"Yes, master," replied Gautran excitedly.
"Let no person know what has passed between us, and do not repeat one word I have said to you."
"I understand; you may depend upon me. But master, will you not tell me something more? Am I to be set free or not?"
"You are to be tried; what is brought against you at your trial will establish either your innocence or your guilt."
He knocked at the door of the prison cell, and the gaoler opened it for him and let him out.
"Well, Gautran?" said the gaoler, but Gautran, wrapped in contemplation of the door through which the Advocate had taken his departure, paid no attention to him. "Do you hear me?" cried the gaoler, shaking his prisoner with no gentle hand.
"What now?"
"Is the great lawyer going to defend you?"
"You want to know too much," said Gautran, and refused to speak another word on the subject.
During the whole of the day there were but two figures in his mind--those of the Advocate and the murdered girl. The latter presented itself in various accusing aspects, and he vainly strove to rid himself of the spectre. Its hair hung in wild disorder over neck and bosom, its white lips moved, its mournful eyes struck terror to his soul. The figure of the Advocate presented itself in far different aspects; it was always terrible, Satanic, and damning in its suggestions.
"What matter," muttered Gautran, "if he gets me off? I can do as I please then."
In the evening, when the small window in his cell was dark, the gaoler heard him crying out loudly. He entered, and demanded what ailed the wretch.
"Light--light!" implored Gautran; "give me light!"
"Beast in human shape," said the gaoler; "you have light enough. You'll get no more. Stop your howling, or I'll stop it for you!"
"Light! light! light!" moaned Gautran, clasping his hands over his eyes. But he could not shut out the phantom of the murdered girl, which from that moment never left him. So he lay and writhed during the night, and would have dashed his head against the wall to put an end to his misery had he not been afraid of death.
It was on the evening of this day, the third since the arrival of the Advocate in Geneva, that he said to his wife over the dinner-table:
"I shall in all likelihood be up the whole of to-night in my study. Do not let me be disturbed."
"Who should disturb you?" asked Adelaide languidly. "There are only you and I in the villa; of course I would not venture to intrude upon you without permission."
"You misunderstand me, Adelaide; it is because we are in a strange house that I thought it best to tell you."
"As if there were anything unusual in your shutting yourself up all night in your study! Our notions of the way to lead an agreeable life are so different! Take your own course, Edward; you are older and wiser than I; but you must not wonder that I think it strange. You come to the country for rest, and you are as hard at work as ever."
"I cannot live without work; aimless days would send me to my grave. If you are lonely, Adelaide----"
"Oh, no, I am not," she cried vivaciously, "at least, not yet. There is so much in the neighbourhood that is interesting. Dionetta and I have been out all day seeing the sights. On the road to Master Lamont's house there is the loveliest rustic bridge. And the wild flowers are the most beautiful I have ever seen. We met a priest, Father Capel, a gentle-looking man, with the kindest face! He said he intended to call upon you, and hoped to be permitted. I said, of course, you would be charmed. I had a good mind to visit Master Lamont, but his house was too far up the hills. Fool Fritz joined us; he is very amusing, with his efforts to be wise. I was delighted everywhere with the people. I went into some of their cottages, and the women were very respectful; and the children--upon my word, Edward, they stare at me as if I were a picture."
The Advocate looked up at this, and regarded his wife with fond admiration. In his private life two influences were dominant--love for his wife, and friendship for Christian Almer. He had love for no other woman, and friendship for no other man, and his trust in both was a perfect trust.
"I do not wonder that the children stare at you," he said; "you must be a new and pleasant experience to them."
"I believe they take me for a saint," she said, laughing gaily; "and I need not tellyouthat I am very far from being one."
"You are, as we all are, human; and very beautiful, Adelaide."
She gazed at him in surprise.
"It is not often you pay me compliments."
"Do you need them from me? To be sure of my affection--is not that sufficient?"
"But I am fond of compliments."
"I must commence a new study, then," he said gravely; it was difficult for him to indulge in light themes for many minutes together. "So you are making yourself acquainted with the neighbours. I hope you will not soon tire of them."
"When I do I must seek out some other amusement. You have also discovered something since you came here in which you appear to be wonderfully interested."
"Yes; a criminal case----"
"A criminal case!" she echoed pettishly.
"In which there is a great mystery. I do not trouble you with these law matters; long ago you expressed weariness of such themes."
Her humour changed again.
"A mystery!" she exclaimed with child-like vivacity, "in a place where news is so scarce! It must be delightful. What is it about? There is a woman in it, of course. There always is."
"Yes; a young woman, whose body was found in the Rhone."
"Murdered?"
"Murdered, as it at present seems."
"The wretch! Have they caught him? For of course it is a man who committed the dreadful deed."
"One is in prison, charged with the crime. I visited him to-day."
"Surely you are not going to defend him?"
"It is probable. I shall decide to-night."
"But why, Edward, why? If the man is guilty, should he not be punished?"
"Undoubtedly he should. And if he is innocent, he should not be made to suffer. He is poor and friendless; it will be a relief for me to take up the case, should I believe him to be unjustly accused."
"Is he young--handsome--and was it done through jealousy?"
"I have told you the case is shrouded in mystery. As for the man charged with the crime, he is very common and repulsive-looking."
"And you intend to defend such a creature?"
"Most likely."
She shrugged her shoulders with a slight gesture of contempt. She had no understanding of his motives, no sympathy in his labours, no pride in his victories.
When he retired to his study he did not immediately proceed to the investigation of the case of Gautran, as it was set forth in the numerous papers which lay on the table. These papers, in accordance with the given promise, had been sent to him by Pierre Lamont, and it was his intention to employ the hours of the night in a careful study of the details of the affair, and of the conjectures and opinions of editors and correspondents.
But he held his purpose back for a while, and for nearly half-an-hour paced the floor slowly in deep thought. Suddenly he went out, and sought his wife's private room.
"It did not occur to me before," he said, "to tell you that a friend of Christian Almer's--Mr. Hartrich, the banker--in a conversation I had with him, expressed his belief that Almer was suffering."
"Ill!" she cried in an agitated tone.
"In mind, not in body. You have received letters from him lately, I believe?"
"Yes, three or four--the last a fortnight ago."
"Does he say he is unwell?"
"No; but now I think of it, he does not write in his usual good spirits."
"You have his address?"
"Yes; he is in Switzerland, you know."
"So Mr. Hartrich informed me--somewhere in the mountains, endeavouring to extract peace of mind from silence and solitude. That is well enough for a few days, and intellectual men are always grateful for such a change; but, if it is prolonged, there is danger of its bringing a mental disease of a serious and enduring nature upon a man brooding upon unhealthy fancies. I value Almer too highly to lose sight of him, or to allow him to drift. He has no family ties, and is in a certain sense a lonely man. Why should he not come and remain with us during our stay in the village? I had an idea that he himself would have proposed doing so."
"He might have considered it indelicate," said Adelaide with a bright colour in her face, "the house being his. As if he had a right to be here."
"It is by no means likely," said the Advocate, shaking his head, "that Almer would ever be swayed by other than generous and large-minded considerations. Write to him to-night, and ask him to leave his solitude, and make his home with us. He will be company for you, and your bright and cheerful ways will do him good. The prospect of his visit has already excited you, I see. I am afraid," he said, with a regretful pathos in his voice, "that my society affords you but poor enjoyment; yet I never thought otherwise, when you honoured me by accepting my proposal of marriage, than that you loved me."
"I hope you do not think otherwise now," she said in a low tone.
"Why, no," he said with a sigh of relief; "what reason have I to think otherwise? We had time to study each other's characters, and I did not present myself in a false light. But we are forgetting Almer. Can you divine any cause for unusual melancholy in him?"
She seemed to consider, and answered:
"No, she could not imagine why he should be melancholy."
"Mr. Hartrich," continued the Advocate, "suggested that he might have experienced a disappointment in love, but I could not entertain the suggestion. Almer and I have for years exchanged confidences in which much of men's inner natures is revealed, and had he met with such a disappointment, he would have confided in me. I may be mistaken, however; your opinion would be valuable here; in these delicate matters, women are keen observers."
"Mr. Hartrich's suggestion is absurd; I am convinced Mr. Almer has not met with a disappointment in love. He is so bright and attractive----"
"That any woman," said the Advocate, taking up the thread, for Adelaide seemed somewhat at a loss for words, "might be proud to win him. That is your thought, Adelaide."
"Yes."
"I agree with you. I have never in my life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman's heart than Christian Almer, and I have sometimes wondered that he had not met with one to whom he was drawn; it would be a powerful influence over him for good. Of an impure passion I believe him incapable. Write to him to-night, and urge him to come to us."
"If you wrote to him, also, it would be as well."
"I will do so; you can enclose my letter in yours. How does your new maid suit you?"
"Admirably. She is perfection."
"Which does not exist."
"If I could induce her grandmother to part with her, I should like to keep her with me always."
"Do not tempt her, Adelaide. For a simple maid a country life is the happiest and best--indeed, for any maid, or any man, young or old."
"How seldom practice and precept agree! Why do you not adopt a country life?"
"Too late. A man must follow his star. I should die of inaction in the country; and you--I smile when I think what would become of you were I to condemn you to it."
"You are not always right. I adore the country!"
"For an hour and a day. Adelaide, you could not exist out of society."
Until the Alpine peaks were tipped with the fire of the rising sun, the Advocate remained in his study, investigating and considering the case of Gautran. Only once did he leave it to give his wife the letter he wrote to Christian Almer. Newspaper after newspaper was read and laid aside, until the long labour came to its end. Then the Advocate rose, with no trace of fatigue on his countenance, and according to his wont, walked slowly up and down in deep thought. His eyes rested occasionally upon the grotesque and hideous figures carved on the old sideboard, which, had they been sentient and endowed with the power of speech, might have warned him that he had already, within the past few hours, woven one tragic link in his life, and have held him back from weaving another. But he saw no warning in their fantastic faces, and before he retired to rest he had formed his resolve. On the following day all Geneva was startled by the news that the celebrated Advocate, who had travelled thither for rest from years of arduous toil, had undertaken the defence of a wretch upon whose soul, in the opinion of nearly every thinking man and woman, the guilt of blood lay heavily. The trial of Gautran was instantly invested with an importance which elevated it into an absorbing theme with every class of society.