"A girl?" said Count Bernin.
"Still—" said Clara. "After the disappointment I've been to him. He didn't seem really pleased before we heard. I don't understand him. No, Gustavus, I don't understand you at all."
Gustavus did not look up from his sheaf of proofs. He had taken to corresponding with the Baden Herald's Office and they were giving him quite a lot of voluntary work.
"I hope at least that Jules realizes—" Count Bernin began, but did not pursue.
"Now, Gustavus, what have you done with that announcement?" said Clara. "Where is it? I want to save it for Johannes; Jules is certain not to think of sending it to him. Look, it's all smudged."
"What on earth do you want to do that for?" said her brother.
"His orderly. He likes getting post. I could try to get it off with bread crumbs."
"I don't like it," said Count Bernin, as the door shut.
Gustavus grunted.
"You shouldn't let her," said Count Bernin.
"None of my business," said Gustavus.
"I shouldn't have minded looking in on Jules and Mel-anie," said Edu; "I suppose that's all washed up now?"
"I don't think / should have gone."
"Why not? Sounds kind of jolly running down to their place and all that."
"Jolly?" Sarah said.
"Paris, don't you know. I shouldn't mind having a shot at Paris with old Jules."
"They don't live in Paris."
"Oh Jules goes up. He belongs to the Jockey, did you know? I thought no foreigner could."
In the Sologne that year autumn set in early. Melanie had used to mind the stillness, now she could not bear the sound made by the wind. She had believed that they would leave when the business of the waiting for the child was over, but Julius made no sign. When he was at home he was easy with her now; friendly, careful, at times almost chatty. It was found necessary to keep fires going all over the house and some of the fires always smoked. This upset him and brought on his asthma, and it occupied much of his time. They had their meals in the dining room that was too large, and he worked out a way of dealing with the draughts, but the draughts appeared to change directions. They both still took pains about their clothes. A wicker crate arrived, marked please water, and addressed to Henrietta Clara Melanie von Felden. Inside, on a bed of messy straw and broken biscuits, heaved a fox terrier puppy. An envelope attached to the crate contained a card. For Henrietta from her Uncle Johannes, and a letter. Julius flew into a rage. "What can this mean?" he shouted. Two veins swelled on his temples; he stood shaking. Melanie knew little and asked less. She looked at him, and saw how tall he was. "The letter," she said. "You haven't read the letter."
He did not see it. "What can it mean?" he cried. She had never heard him like this. He stalked off; came back. She was still holding the letter.
He snatched it. He stared at the ruled sheet. Melanie came nearer. "From a soldier," she said. He read the words, addressed to himself. The sender, respectful, sentimental, begged leave to send this fine puppy to the young lady in the Captain's name . . . feeling that this was what the Captain would have wished ... if the Captain . . . Julius crushed the paper, flung it from him— "The Captain?" said Melanie. Later she said, "You could send it back." "Send it back!" He lashed himself. "A dog? In a box?"
It was put in the stables—Melanie's first order to an out-door servant. Julius went away. When he had been back a few days, he said, "One must acknowledge this— this present."
"Yes."
"You must do it/'
"Yes. How?"
"In the third person."
"I will show it to you."
"No, no, no," said Julius.
The dog gradually established himself and became known as Henrietta's dog. Nobody thought of doing anything about the orderly. All October Melanie coughed, her maid believed that she was running a temperature. In November she went down with bronchitis; by Christmas she was up again. Julius told her she must eat. The winter was a mild one, but wet. Downstairs was abandoned; Julius had his dinner laid in the room where he read his catalogues, Melanie was sent trays. At the sound of her window, the wild geese glided into view gathered for their legato dives after any morsel she might choose to chuck them. In January they heard that Flora had died. Julius heard, and could not bring himself to tell her. He locked himself up with the telegram; he thought of sending for Clara, for the cure, for Nelly de la Turbie. At last he asked Melanie's maid to break the news to her. The maid, the new French one, seems to have been a decent enough woman; she did not like her mistress much, but she did her best.
"Eh bien non, elle ne m'a pas semblee trop bouleversee" she reported.
Melanie cried a little on that day, and on every day of that week, for poor Flora, and talked of her in spurts of incidents remembered from their early lives.
Julius asked her whether she did not think that her parents now might like to have her with them. Melanie replied that Flora had been away from home these last
four years, and she was sure that they preferred to go on as they were.
To her maid she said one evening, "Je crains que ma sceur n'etait pas tres heureuse avec son mari."
Then the bronchitis came on again, only this time it was pleurisy. Julius said how right he had been about the northern winter. The illness dragged, and the doctor, a local man, was not much pleased with his patient nor the set-up. Julius asked him whether it was contagious, he said he was thinking of the child. The doctor was quite disagreeable over this, adding that there really was no need to wait for contagion in this house. . . . Julius had hardly noticed him before, now he took against the man. A rustic, he said. When he told him that Melanie ought to be moved, he put it down to interfering folly. She did recover at La Souve, left her bed, yet was still far from well. The doctor now discovered a tubercular condition and advised immediate departure for the South. Julius believed at once, became frightened and shared the faith in the suggested remedy. Melanie was made to take cod liver oil, and in March they were able to set out. There were seven of them. Melanie, Julius and the baby, the baby's nurse, Melanie's maid, a woman from the village who had looked after Melanie during the pleurisy and a kitchen maid from La Souve promoted to act as between-maid. Julius had never been in a carriage with so many women and he was beyond anything.
The house in the South had been sold meanwhile and they went to stay at the Hotel des Anglais in Nice. After a day or two Melanie did not seem the worse for the journey; though to their consternation it was not at all warm. At the end of the week she had the fit of coughing peculiar to her illness, and collapsed. This took place in their own sitting room but a waiter had been present: Julius coming in from a brief stroll on the front was told of what had passed, in full detail, by the manager. At that time the Riviera was much sought by consumptives, and hotels and
their public exercised an almost hysterical vigilance; it could be difficult to stay out a common cold in a pension between San Remo and Cap Ferrat—77 y a des malades! and a place would empty before the evening train. Julius was told his wife must leave the place, on her own feet, within two hours.
He got hold of the doctor recommended by their man in the Sologne, who confirmed that on every ground Mel-anie must be moved to a clinic. Mentone was suggested. Now, it was to Mentone that Flora had been sent just under a year ago. The doctor said there was also a place at Grasse. They decided on Grasse.
Melanie left the hotel very early next morning in an ambulance. The clinic was quite a pleasant place and there she was considered one of the lighter cases. Presently she was up again; at least for part of the day. Julius had installed himself and the baby at an hotel nearby and spent the time allowed them with his wife. On two or three afternoons they were able to go for a brief carriage drive. They cannot have been very far from his old house. The weather remained bad. Melanie got worse; rallied; had another bout of bed; then got up: suddenly much improved. She was stronger and Julius was able to take her out to tea.
On the night of their removal from Nice he had written to Sarah, a straightforward letter containing all he knew. Sarah's and Edu's instructions were to consult a specialist he named, to leave the old Merzes in the dark at present, and to spare no money.
In April the weather cleared. They had an almost hot spell, though windy, with the mistral whirling up the dust along the roads. Her temperature went up; one morning dressing she had another collapse like the one she had had at Nice. Julius was informed that it was galloping consumption and that the chance of halting it was small. It was the first time he had been told anything of the kind. Edu telegraphed to do everything. This now meant
Switzerland. The French doctors were doubtful; Julius hesitated; Berlin pressed. It was getting hot. At last it was arranged to move Melanie to Davos in a private railway carriage. The Merzes sent a courier for Henrietta and her nurse, who took them to Berlin.
The journey to Switzerland was a night and a day. Julius of course went with her. He did, as the phrase goes, everything. He sat with her; and first they spoke little and of nothing very much. He inquired whether she was comfortable, and she talked to him until the end in polite small sentences. He could do nothing for her materially, and at her wish was made to leave the room when they tried to give her nourishment; so he attempted to distract her and it was then perhaps that he first began to tell his stories of the early Landen. Melanie did not improve at Davos; there were no more changes; she was in bed all the time now, generally apathetic and sometimes barely conscious; later there were stretches of deliriousness and during these she babbled to Jules about the South of France in schoolgirl French. In June she died.
The Merzes had a family vault in Berlin. Again Julius travelled in a private railway carriage. One wagon-lit compartment, lined with flowers, held the coffin; in another Julius had his meals, a third was his sleeper. It must have been a lonely journey. In the station in the morning there was a wait while they were being shifted to a siding. When Julius stepped out, upright in his dark clothes, holding his tall hat, to meet Edu and Friedrich, he looked the picture of a broken man.
The coffin had to be lifted through a window. They followed it to a mortuary chapel in the suburbs. After that Edu said, "We thought you had better stay with us—I mean —you know—till after it's all over."
"We think it would be best for our parents," said Fried-rich.
Julius inclined his head.
"Your brother and sister-in-law are arriving tomorrow."
"Yes," said Julius.
Sarah was waiting for him. "Oh Jules, there you are. Come in. The poor girl. It's so sad. Dear Jules."
He said nothing.
"Friedrich is coming back after lunch. Did they tell you?—it's for the day after tomorrow. There're still one or two points we'll have to decide on."
"Yes," he said.
"You see: the old people will not be going."
He bowed.
"There'll be a tremendous crowd—"
"Yes?"
He was standing in the middle of her drawing-room. Sarah touched his sleeve. "I'll take you upstairs," she said.
Julius said, "Henrietta—?"
"Oh, the baby," said Sarah.
"My daughter."
Sarah gave him a look. "I hear she's very well looked after," she said.
"I must see her," said Julius.
"Jules dear; I should wait a day or two. My parents-in-law—I don't know how to explain—they think—everybody thinks— It's been too much for them."
"I will send for her."
"I don't think her grandparents would like her to go out."
"Her grandparents —"
"You'll find they've become very fond of her," said Sarah.
Presently Friedrich said, "Have you talked to him about the service yet?"
"I couldn't," said Sarah. "Besides what's the use? Baroness Felden will be here tomorrow."
"Better get it all settled now," said Friedrich. "She could hardly—at this moment I mean."
"That woman is capable of anything," said Sarah. "All moments seem to be the same to her. No. We can't go
through the kind of thing again we had two years ago. I won't have it. I won't have it for your people; and I won't have it for him either."
"They say at the Stock Exchange—"
"Oh please, Friedrich. Tell us what Jeanne thinks."
"I didn't ask her."
"But what does she say?"
"She says if she were—if it was her who—she'd insist on Catholic burial but she wouldn't mind having a rabbi at the grave to please me; and she thinks it could be arranged."
"That's all very well for Jeanne," said Edu.
"I don't know whether Conrad Bernin is in Berlin," Sarah said. "I don't know where I read he was at the Wilhelmstrasse. I think I shall go and see him."
Two days later, on an urban summer afternoon, Melanie was buried. She had two services and more people followed her funeral than she had ever known. Julius's appearance as chief mourner, walking alone, was much remarked on.
The Kaiser, wishing to do what he could, sent a message asking Julius to a levee in the coming month.
At Voss Strasse, they had not been supposed to know the day, but Gottlieb and some of the maidservants had sneaked out, and so had Emil. Emil was heard to sob. Jeanne also followed the procession (in the closed carriage of some friends). Sarah said to her afterwards, "My dear, why didn't you tell me?" But to Edu she said, "Jeanne has such tact."
After the old people had gone to bed that evening, Markwald had to be told about everything. "They left a place next to Flora," he said, "did they leave one for the Baron, too?"
"Poor man. I think I saw a space, but I don't think it was marked."
"The status of the Baron has not been decided, sir," said Gottlieb.
Sarah that week was not an easy hostess.
"I asked him to come to the club," said Edu, "he doesn't seem to want to go. Dash it all, it makes one feel as though one ought to be staying in too and all that. And he's always here."