"She is old enough to be my mother, sir," I whispered; "and this time, at
any rare, she has told you the truth."
Hardly a word passed between us on our way through the streets and over
the bridge. Minna was sad and silent, thinking of Fritz; and whatever her
mother might have to say to me, was evidently to be said in private.
Arrived at the lodgings, Madame Fontaine requested me to wait for her in
the shabby little sitting-room, and graciously gave me permission to
smoke. "Say good night to David," she continued, turning to her daughter.
"Your poor little heart is heavy to-night, and mamma means to put you to
bed as if you were a child again. Ah! me, if those days could only come
back!"
After a short absence the widow returned to me, with a composed manner
and a quiet smile. The meeting with Mr. Keller seemed to have been
completely dismissed from her thoughts, in the brief interval since I had
seen her last.
"We often hear of parents improving their children," she said. "It is my
belief that the children quite as often improve the parents. I have had
some happy minutes with Minna--and (would you believe it?) I am already
disposed to forgive Mr. Keller's brutality, and to write to him in a tone
of moderation, which must surely have its effect. All Minna's doing--and
my sweet girl doesn't in the least suspect it herself! If you ever have
children of your own, David, you will understand me and feel for me. In
the meantime, I must not detain you by idle talk--I must say plainly what
I want of you." She opened her writing-desk and took up a pen. "If I
write to Mr. Keller under your own eye, do you object to take charge of
my letter?"
I hesitated how to answer. To say the least of it, her request
embarrassed me.
"I don't expect you to give it to Mr. Keller personally," she explained.
"It is of very serious importance to me" (she laid a marked emphasis on
those words) "to be quite sure that my letter has reached him, and that
he has really had the opportunity of reading it. If you will only place
it on his desk in the office, with your own hand, that is all I ask you
to do. For Minna's sake, mind; not for mine!"
For Minna's sake, I consented. She rose directly, and signed to me to
take her place at the desk.
"It will save time," she said, "if you write the rough draft of the
letter from my dictation. I am accustomed to dictate my letters, with
Minna for secretary. Of course, you shall see the fair copy before I seal
it."
She began to walk up and down the little room, with her hands crossed
behind her in the attitude made famous by the great Napoleon. After a
minute of consideration, she dictated the draft as follows:
"Sir,--I am well aware that scandalous reports at Wurzburg have
prejudiced you against me. Those reports, so far as I know, may be summed
up under three heads.
"(First.) That my husband died in debt through my extravagance.
"(Second.) That my respectable neighbors refuse to associate with me.
"(Third.) That I entrapped your son Fritz into asking for my daughter's
hand in marriage, because I knew his father to be a rich man.
"To the first calumny I reply, that the debts are due to expensive
chemical experiments in which my late husband engaged, and that I have
satisfied the creditors to the last farthing. Grant me an audience, and I
will refer you to the creditors themselves.
"To the second calumny I reply, that I received invitations, on my
arrival in Wurzburg after my marriage, from every lady of distinguished
social position in the town. After experience of the society thus offered
to me, I own to having courteously declined subsequent invitations, and
having devoted myself in retirement to my husband, to my infant child,
and to such studies in literature and art as I had time to pursue. Gossip
and scandal, with an eternal accompaniment of knitting, are not to my
taste; and, while I strictly attend to domestic duties, I do not consider
them as constituting, in connection with tea-drinking, the one great
interest of a woman's life. I plead guilty to having been foolish enough
to openly acknowledge these sentiments, and to having made bitter enemies
everywhere as the necessary consequence. If this plain defense of myself
fails to satisfy you, grant me an audience, and I will answer your
questions, whatever they may be.
"To the third calumny, I reply, that if you had been a Prince instead of
a merchant, I would still have done everything in my power to keep your
son away from my daughter--for this simple reason, that the idea of
parting with her to any man fills me with grief and dismay. I only
yielded to the marriage engagement, when the conviction was forced upon
me that my poor child's happiness depended on her union with your son. It
is this consideration alone which induces me to write to you, and to
humiliate myself by pleading for a hearing. As for the question of money,
if through some unexpected misfortune you became a bankrupt to-morrow, I
would entreat you to consent to the marriage exactly as I entreat you
now. Poverty has no terrors for me while I have health to work. But I
cannot face the idea of my child's life being blighted, because you
choose to believe the slanders that are spoken of her mother. For the
third time I ask you to grant me an audience, and to hear me in my own
defense."
There she paused, and looked over my shoulder.
"I think that is enough," she said. "Do you see anything objectionable in
my letter?"
How could I object to the letter? From beginning to end, it was strongly,
and yet moderately, expressed. I resigned my place at the desk, and the
widow wrote the fair copy, with her own hand. She made no change
whatever, except by adding these ominous lines as a postscript:
"I implore you not to drive me to despair. A mother who is pleading for
her child's life--it is nothing less, in this case--is a woman who surely
asserts a sacred claim. Let no wise man deny it."
"Do you think it quite discreet," I ventured to ask, "to add those
words?"
She looked at me with a moment's furtive scrutiny, and only answered
after she had sealed the letter, and placed it in my hands.
"I have my reasons," she replied. "Let the words remain."
Returning to the house at rather a late hour for Frankfort, I was
surprised to find Mr. Keller waiting to see me.
"I have had a talk with my partner," he said. "It has left (for the time
only, I hope), a painful impression on both sides--and I must ask you to
do me a service, in the place of Mr. Engelman--who has an engagement
to-morrow, which prevents him from leaving Frankfort."
His tone indicated plainly enough that the "engagement" was with Madame
Fontaine. Hard words must have passed between the two old friends on the
subject of the widow. Even Mr. Engelman's placid temper had, no doubt,
resented Mr. Keller's conduct at the meeting in the hall.
"The service I ask of you," he resumed, "will be easily rendered. The
proprietor of a commercial e
stablishment at Hanau is desirous of entering
into business-relations with us, and has sent references to respectable
persons in the town and neighborhood, which it is necessary to verify. We
are so busy in the office that it is impossible for me to leave Frankfort
myself, or to employ our clerks on this errand. I have drawn out the
necessary instructions--and Hanau, as you are aware, is within an easy
distance of Frankfort. Have you any objection to be the representative of
the house in this matter?"
It is needless to say that I was gratified by the confidence that had
been placed in me, and eager to show that I really deserved it. We
arranged that I should leave Frankfort by the earliest conveyance the
next morning.
On our way upstairs to our bed-chambers, Mr. Keller detained me for a
moment more.
"I have no claim to control you in the choice of your friends," he said;
"but I am old enough to give you a word of advice. Don't associate
yourself too readily, David, with the woman whom I found here to-night."
He shook hands cordially, and left me. I thought of Madame Fontaine's
letter in my pocket, and felt a strong conviction that he would persist
in his refusal to read it.
The servants were the only persons stirring in the house, when I rose the
next morning. Unobserved by anyone, I placed the letter on the desk in
Mr. Keller's private room. That done, I started on my journey to Hanau.
CHAPTER XIV
Thanks to the instructions confided to me, my errand presented no
difficulties. There were certain persons to whom I was introduced, and
certain information to be derived from them, which it was my duty to
submit to Mr. Keller on my return. Fidelity was required of me, and
discretion was required of me--and that was all.
At the close of my day's work, the hospitable merchant, whose references
I had been engaged in verifying, refused to permit me to return to the
hotel. His dinner-hour had been put off expressly to suit my convenience.
"You will only meet the members of my family," he said, "and a cousin of
my wife's who is here with her daughter, on a visit to us--Frau Meyer, of
Wurzburg."
I accepted the invitation, feeling privately an Englishman's reluctance
to confronting an assembly of strangers, and anticipating nothing
remarkable in reference to Frau Meyer, although she did come from
Wurzburg. Even when I was presented to the ladies in due form, as "the
honored representative of Mr. Keller, of Frankfort," I was too stupid, or
too much absorbed in the business on which I had been engaged, to be much
struck by the sudden interest with which Frau Meyer regarded me. She was
a fat florid old lady, who looked coarsely clever and resolute; and she
had a daughter who promised to resemble her but too faithfully, in due
course of time. It was a relief to me, at dinner, to find myself placed
between the merchant's wife and her eldest son. They were far more
attractive neighbors at table, to my thinking, than Frau Meyer.
Dinner being over, we withdrew to another room to take our coffee. The
merchant and his son, both ardent musicians in their leisure hours,
played a sonata for pianoforte and violin. I was at the opposite
extremity of the room, looking at some fine proof impressions of prints
from the old masters, when a voice at my side startled me by an
unexpected question.
"May I ask, sir, if you are acquainted with Mr. Keller's son?"
I looked round, and discovered Frau Meyer.
"Have you seen him lately?" she proceeded, when I had acknowledged that I
was acquainted with Fritz. "And can you tell me where he is now?"
I answered both these questions. Frau Meyer looked thoroughly well
satisfied with me. "Let us have a little talk," she said, and seated
herself, and signed to me to take a chair near her.
"I feel a true interest in Fritz," she resumed, lowering her voice so as
not to be heard by the musicians at the other end of the room. "Until
to-day, I have heard nothing of him since he left Wurzburg. I like to
talk about him--he once did me a kindness a long time since. I suppose
you are in his confidence? Has he told you why his father sent him away
from the University?"
My reply to this was, I am afraid, rather absently given. The truth is,
my mind was running on some earlier words which had dropped from the old
lady's lips. "He once did me a kindness a long time since." When had I
last heard that commonplace phrase? and why did I remember it so readily
when I now heard it again?
"Ah, his father did a wise thing in separating him from that woman and
her daughter!" Frau Meyer went on. "Madame Fontaine deliberately
entrapped the poor boy into the engagement. But perhaps you are a friend
of hers? In that case, I retract and apologize."
"Quite needless," I said.
"You are _not_ a friend of Madame Fontaine?" she persisted.
This cool attempt to force an answer from me failed in its object. It was
like being cross-examined in a court of law; and, in our common English
phrase, "it set my back up." In the strict sense of the word, Madame
Fontaine might be termed an acquaintance, but certainly not a friend, of
mine. For once, I took the prudent course, and said, No.
Frau Meyer's expansive bosom emitted a hearty sigh of relief. "Ah!" she
said, "now I can talk freely--in Fritz's interest, mind. You are a young
man like himself, he will be disposed to listen to you. Do all you can to
back his father's influence, and cure him of his infatuation. I tell you
plainly, his marriage would be his ruin!"
"You speak very strongly, madam. Do you object to the young lady?"
"Not I; a harmless insignificant creature--nothing more and nothing less.
It's her vile mother that I object to."
"As I have heard, Frau Meyer, there are two sides to that question. Fritz
is persuaded that Madame Fontaine is an injured woman. He assures me, for
instance, that she is the fondest of mothers."
"Bah! What does _that_ amount to? It's as much a part of a woman's nature
to take to her child when she has got one, as it is to take to her dinner
when she is hungry. A fond mother? What stuff! Why, a cat is a fond
mother!--What's the matter?"
_A cat is a fond mother._ Another familiar phrase--and this time a phrase
remarkable enough to lead my memory back in the right direction. In an
instant I recollected the anonymous letter to Fritz. In an instant I felt
the conviction that Frau Meyer, in her eagerness to persuade me, had
unconsciously repeated two of the phrases which she had already used, in
her eagerness to persuade Fritz. No wonder I started in my chair, when I
felt that I was face to face with the writer of the anonymous letter!
I made some excuse--I forget what--and hastened to resume the
conversation. The opportunity of making discoveries which might be
invaluable to Fritz (to say nothing of good Mr. Engelman) was not an
opportunity to be neglected. I persisted in quoting Fritz's authority; I
repeated his assertion relative to the love of scandal at Wurzburg, and
the envy of Madame Fontaine's superior attractions felt among the ladies.
Frau Meyer laughed disdainfully.
"Poor Fritz!" she said. "An excellent disposition--but so easily
persuaded, so much too amiable. Our being all envious of Widow Fontaine
is too ridiculous. It is a mere waste of time to notice such nonsense.
Wait a little, Mr. David, and you will see. If you and Mr. Keller can
only keep Fritz out of the widow's way for a few months longer, his eyes
will be opened in spite of himself. He may yet come back to us with a
free heart, and he may choose his future wife more wisely next time."
As she said this her eyes wandered away to her daughter, at the other end
of the room. Unless her face betrayed her, she had evidently planned, at
some past time, to possess herself of Fritz as a son-in-law, and she had
not resigned the hope of securing him yet. Madame Fontaine might be a
deceitful and dangerous woman. But what sort of witness against her was
this abusive old lady, the unscrupulous writer of an anonymous letter?
"You prophesy very confidently about what is to come in the future," I
ventured to say.
Frau Meyer's red face turned a shade redder. "Does that mean that you
don't believe me?" she asked.
"Certainly not, madam. It only means that you speak severely of Doctor
Fontaine's widow--without mentioning any facts that justify you."
"Oh! you want facts, do you? I'll soon show you whether I know what I am
talking about or not. Has Fritz mentioned that among Madame Fontaine's
other virtues, she has paid her debts? I'll tell you how she has paid
them--as an example, young gentleman, that I am not talking at random.
Your admirable widow, sir, is great at fascinating old men; they are
always falling in love with her, the idiots! A certain old man at
Wurzburg--close on eighty, mind--was one of her victims. I had a letter
this morning which tells me that he was found dead in his bed, two days
since, and that his nephew is the sole heir to all that he leaves behind
him. Examination of his papers has shown that _he_ paid the widow's
creditors, and that he took a promissory note from her--ha! ha! ha!--a
promissory note from a woman without a farthing!--in payment of the sum
that he had advanced. The poor old man would, no doubt, have destroyed
the note if he had known that his end was so near. His sudden death has
transferred it to the hands of his heir. In money-matters, the nephew is
reported to be one of the hardest men living. When that note falls due,
he will present it for payment. I don't know where Madame Fontaine is
now. No matter! Sooner or later, she is sure to hear of what has
happened--and she must find the money, or see the inside of a debtor's
prison. Those are the facts that I had in my mind, Mr. David, when I
spoke of events opening Fritz's eyes to the truth."
I submitted with all possible humility to the lady's triumph over me. My
thoughts were with Minna. What a prospect for the innocent, affectionate
girl! Assuming the statement that I had just heard to be true, there was
surely a chance that Madame Fontaine (with time before her) might find
the money. I put this view of the case to Frau Meyer.
"If I didn't know Mr. Keller to be a thoroughly resolute man," she
answered, "I should say she might find the money too. She has only to
succeed in marrying her daughter to Fritz, and Mr. Keller would be
obliged to pay the money for the sake of the family credit. But he is one
of the few men whom she can't twist round her finger. If you ever fall in
with her, take care of yourself. She may find your influence with Fritz
an obstacle in her way--and she may give you reason to remember that the
mystery of her husband's lost chest of poisons is not cleared up yet. It
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