Felix Lanzberg's Expiation

ms she fell with a cry when he stretched out two trembling hands to her with a sad smile. She had forgotten his unsuitable behavior; every bitter word which she had pronounced aga

kly, narrow-chested look. He spoke a great deal, with forced fluency, often repeating himself. He whom for so long Elsa had at most only heard laugh fondly at Litzi's little wise sayings, now laughed continually, loudly and harshly at the slightest provocation, whereupon the wr

r reception. He talked a great deal about his son, whom he could not bring to Elsa because the day was cold, and the little fello

he spoke of the child, and from time t

Elsa, when she was alone again with

in this thin, gray, feverish man, could imagine the greatness of his misery, cou

is wife, he came to the sad conviction that the most trivial acquaintance would have offered him as much distraction as this marriage. Pretty, coquettish, gracef

for other thoughts. Her joy at being now a "Lanzberg" was fairly na?ve. He really could not be angry with her when she displaye

theatre and drove in the Bois de Boulogne. Linda for a while was satisfied with the acquaintances which she made in the hotel reading-room, at the skating

g went through Linda's heart. She enveloped her denial of the simple question in a confusion of excuses and explanations--she had only re

d his evident objection to visiting His Excellency to the shyness which his

nd asked himself whether he should not buy his wife a diamond cluster of wheat to

many years younger, had served a degree low

, a gay, hot-blooded comrade for whom some one had found the nickname, "Scirocco."

ew his story better than this very Scir

ed softly. "It is very good

inking for a moment how hard it is to associate with "such a man." Felix looked so miserable, so depres

long have you been married? Here in foreign parts one loses all Austrian news. Your wife is a sensational beauty. Do not take it amiss that I do not ev

lied Felix. "She is the daughter of

conversation from an unpleasant subject, stumbles upon yet more dangerous t

him. "You know that I ca

here than with us at home. Mind and beauty count for as much as nobility." Poor Scirocco, he w

"Never!" said Felix, violently. T

upon your wife?

wish, Rudi," he murmured, then, suddenly turning towards him,

rolled over the cheeks o

cordiality to Felix was an uneasy conscience, the feeling that with the best intentions he had acted with a want of tact, and

is good-natured precipitation and thoughtless generosity, by which he was often subsequent

whom society had avoided, without harshness, with the assurance that he had assuredly been only stupid. They bowed to him on the street,

indignation--hm!--retired from the track. He was not wholly given up, but every one would only see him as

self several little irregularities with her husband, and who now,

ic occasions, made good all their lack of tact (people in an uncertain social position always develop a particular genius for this).

on him. People said at last that he must have his reasons for defending these people. Weary, angry, he then suddenly withdrew from his p

forced to beat a shameful retreat, when a perfectly

return from his campaign against public op

perhaps do better to return to Scirocco, who

e's, Coup de Foudre's, or Lady Jane's. In regard to these people, to a certain extent, p

o launch Lanzberg in Parisian society as one l

n Linda, and the day after

ances of the reading-room and skating-rink: "

uldings and white walls, pink doors, conventional chairs, and sky-blue satin upholstering. Linda very soon understood that this

Smyrna rugs--an irregular confusion of picturesque treasures whose u

emish chair, to drive a nail with his own hands in the wall for her to hang a Diaz or a Corot upon--procured all the invitations for

of a woman who may permit herself little liberties because she is su

for reflection, to be always out of breath with pleasure, and besides this, to be surrounded by a crowd of young men with distinguished attractions and fine names, animated by the consciousness

Fe

le games of écarté. He won. His opponent doubled, increased tenfold the stakes--Felix continued to win. The sweat stood on his brow; he was dea

he had anything to reproach himself with!" he thought to hi

Lanzberg's history only laughing

love-affair, and had spent two years in an insane asylum. Scirocco had probabl

and received for answer--this and that. But this one was a parvenu, and when he wished to spread his news the others listened to him with mocking smiles, shrugged their

long trips on the steamboats, passed the afternoon in the quiet peace of the gardens, sometimes stood for a quarter of an hour gloomily before

other Austrian Uhlan officer, he now dail

morous or sentimental genre pictures disappeared. The soft harmonies of

mily wandering from one picture to anoth

and with French talkativeness often s

he eighteenth century, of whom one might think that he had mixed his colors of tears, moonbeams, and the dust of withered flowers, and in

dark, mournful eyes; in the carriage of the emaciated frame the weary rigidity of vanquished pain. Everything in the appearance was

lorifies the harsh reality. He could not gaze often enough at the mysterious eyes of the Christ, the eyes in which compassion is

; it looks down from the wall of the Salle Lacaze. To-day he has gone to a mask-ball to distract himself, and his weary eyes ask in disappointment, "Is that all?" To-morrow he l

o him here and there, some little person whom perhaps he had given some small assistance, and who gree

e old rooms in their vast monotony like the faint echo of the great t

y creature, wrapped in white lawn, grew indistinct before his eyes; he scarcely saw it, only felt something warm, living, between his hand

lsive sob overcame him, and in a broken v

l consideration, a kind of free city for dubious characters. Felix's martyr nimbus had vanished through his intercourse with society in Paris. Scirocco who had been removed

istant. On their faces could be read, "We are surprised that you show yo

Austrian nobility, they, to be sure, never spoke of his af

e Linda spent a season and enjoyed her greatest

ly scattered clouds rose along the horizon, the lindens shivered, and threw long pale shadows over the smoothly-shaven lawn

he wandered through the large, gloomy rooms of the castle, in which the cold air was as close

at him, and pulling his ear, cried: "Do you amuse yourself, my boy? Do you amuse yourself? Have you debts? Out with it--not many? Always tell me what you need; I no longer know what circumstances require. You are my golden boy, you are your old father's joy!" He r

not spare poo

he large rooms. In some of them stood great

back the curtain, then he clutched his temples and turned away from the painting with the short, dull groan of a dying animal. What had he

and now, relating old stories, wandered at his side. The sweat of terror was on his brow. He met a servant, and hastily commanded him to remove the

m that the child slept. He bent over the little creature, who, with one little arm under h

wer clock, indifferent as time which it serves, played its old piece in a flat tone,

who suddenly hears once more the cradle so

softly, "Poor child, poor child!" And the words woke the child, he open