"Madman! madman!" I repeated with exasperation. . . .
Meanwhile night was coming on. I walked with long strides towards the house where Acia lived. XVIII
GAGIN came out to meet me.
"Have you seen my sister?" he shouted to me while I was still some distance off.
"Why, isn't she at home?" I asked.
"No."
"She hasn't come back?"
"No. I was in fault," Gagin went on. "I couldn't restrain myself. Contrary to our agreement, I went to the chapel; she was not there; didn't she come, then?"
"She hasn't been at the chapel?"
"And you haven't seen her?"
I was obliged to admit I had seen her.
"Where?"
"At Frau Luise's. I parted from her an hour ago," I added. "I felt sure she had come home."
"We will wait a little," said Gagin.
We went into the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. We both felt very uncomfortable. We were continually looking round, staring at the door, listening. At last Gagin got up.
"Oh, this is beyond anything!" he cried. "My heart's in my mouth. She'll be the death of me, by God! . . . Let's go and look for her."
We went out. It was quite dark by now, outside.
"What did you talk about to her?" Gagin asked me, as he pulled his hat over his eyes.
"I only saw her for five minutes," I answered. "I talked to her as we agreed."
"Do you know what?" he replied, "it's better for us to separate. In that way we are more likely to come across her before long. In any case come back here within an hour." XIX
I WENT hurriedly down from the vineyard and rushed into the town. I walked rapidly through all the streets, looked in all directions, even at Frau Luise's windows, went back to the Rhine, and ran along the bank. . . . From time to time I was met by women's figures, but Acia was nowhere to be seen. There was no anger gnawing at my heart now. I was tortured by a secret terror, and it was not only terror that I felt . . . no, I felt remorse, the most intense regret, and love,--yes! the tenderest love. I wrung my hands. I called "Acia" through the falling darkness of the night, first in a low voice, then louder and louder; I repeated a hundred times over that I loved her. I vowed I would never part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hold her cold hand again, to hear again her soft voice, to see her again before me. . . . She had been so near, she had come to me, her mind perfectly. made up, in perfect innocence of heart and feelings, she had offered me her unsullied youth . . . and I had not folded her to my breast, I had robbed myself of the bliss of watching her sweet face blossom with delight and the peace of rapture. . . This thought drove me out of my mind.
"Where can she have gone? What can she have done with herself?" I cried in an agony of helpless despair. . . . I caught a glimpse of something white on the very edge of the river. I knew the place; there stood there, over the tomb of a man who had been drowned seventy years ago, a stone cross half-buried in the ground, bearing an old inscription. My heart sank . . . I ran up to the cross; the white figure vanished. I shouted "Acia!" I felt frightened myself by my uncanny voice, but no one called back.
I resolved to go and see whether Gagin had found her. XX
As I climbed swiftly up the vineyard path I caught sight of a light in Acia's room. . . . This reassured me a little.
I went up to the house. Th e door below was fastened. I knocked. A window on the ground floor was cautiously opened, and Gagin's head appeared.
"Have you found her?" I asked.
"She has come back," he answered in a whisper. "She is in her own room undressing. Everything is all right."
"Thank God!" I cried, in an indescribable rush of joy. "Thank God! now everything is right. But you know we must have another talk."
"Another time," he replied, softly drawing the casement towards him. "Another time; but now good-bye."
"Till to-morrow," I said. "To-morrow everything shall be arranged."
"Good-bye," repeated Gagin. The window was closed. I was on the point of knocking at the window. I was on the point of telling Gagin there and then that I wanted to ask him for his sister's hand. But such a proposal at such a time. . . . "To-morrow," I reflected, "to-morrow I shall be happy. . . ."
To-morrow I shall be happy! Happiness has no to-morrow, no yesterday; it thinks not on the past, and dreams not of the future; it has the present--not a day even--a moment.
I don't remember how I got to Z. It was not my legs that carried me, nor a boat that ferried me across; I felt that I was borne along by great, mighty wings. I passed a bush where a nightingale was singing. I stopped and listened long; I fancied it sang my love and happiness. XXI
WHEN next morning I began to approach the little house I knew so well, I was struck with one circumstance; all the windows in it were open, and the door too stood open; some bits of paper were lying about in front of the doorway; a maidservant appeared with a broom at the door.
I went up to her. . . .
"They are gone!" she bawled, before I had time to inquire whether Gagin was at home.
"Gone?" . . . I repeated. "What do you mean by gone? Where?"
"They went away this morning at six o'clock, and didn't say where. Wait a minute, I believe you're Mr. N----, aren't you?"
"I'm Mr. N----, yes."
"The mistress has a letter for you." The maid went up-stairs and returned with a letter. "Here it is, if you please, sir."
"But it's impossible. . . . how can it be?". . . I was beginning. The servant stared blankly at me, and began sweeping.
I opened the letter. Gagin had written it; there was not one word from Acia. He began with begging me not to be angry at his sudden departure; he felt sure that, on mature consideration, I should approve of his decision. He could find no other way out of a position which might become difficult and dangerous. "Yesterday evening," he wrote, "while we were both waiting in silence for Acia, I realised conclusively the necessity of separation. There are prejudices I respect; I can understand that it's impossible for you to marry Acia. She has told me everything; for the sake of her peace of mind, I was bound to yield to her reiterated urgent entreaties." At the end of the letter he expressed his regret that our acquaintance had come to such a speedy termination, wished me every happiness, shook my hand in friendship, and besought me not to try to seek them out.
"What prejudices?" I cried aloud, as though he could hear me; "what rubbish! What right has he to snatch her from me? . . ." I clutched at my head.
The servant began loudly calling for her mistress; her alarm forced me to control myself. One idea was aflame within me; to find them, to find them wherever they might be. To accept this blow, to resign myself to such a calamity was impossible. I learnt from the landlady that they had got on to a steamer at six o'clock in the morning, and were going down the Rhine. I went to the ticket-office; there I was told they had taken tickets for Cologne. I was going home to pack up at once and follow them. I happened to pass the house of Frau Luise. . . . Suddenly I heard some one calling me. I raised my head, and at the window of the very room where I had met Acia the day before, I saw the burgomaster's widow. She smiled her loathsome smile, and called me. I turned away, and was going on; but she called after me that she had something for me. These words brought me to a halt, and I went into her house. How can I describe my feelings when I saw that room again? . . .
"By rights," began the old woman, showing me a little note; "I oughtn't to have given you this unless you'd come to me of your own accord, but you are such a fine young man. Take it."
I took the note.