As Bertram thought over this, he paced the room up and down, panting with excitement, and wringing his hands.  “If Gotzkowsky knew this, he would kill her, or die himself of grief.  Die of grief!” continued he, after a pause, completely buried in his sad and bitter thoughts—­“it is not so easy to die of grief.  The sad heart is tenacious of life, and sorrow is but a slow grave-digger.  I have heard that one could die of joy, and it seemed to me just now, when Elise rewarded me with a kiss, that I could understand this.  If she only loved me, it were a blessing of God to die, conscious of her love.”

Completely overcome by his painful thoughts, he remained for a while motionless and sad.  But he soon recovered himself, and shook off the dark cloud which overshadowed his soul.  “I am not born to die such a death.  It is my destiny not to be happy myself, but to save others from unhappiness.  I feel and know that Elise cannot be happy in this love.  A loving heart is gifted with prophetic second sight to read the future.  Elise can never be happy without her father’s blessing, and Gotzkowsky will never give his sanction to this love.  How can I lead her past this abyss which threatens to engulf her?  May God, who sees my heart, help me!  He knows how hopeless and disinterested it is.  Help me, Father in heaven! show me some way of saving her noble father from the grief which lies before him.”

It seemed as if God had heard his prayer, and taken compassion on his pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him assistance.  A loud knocking at the door aroused him suddenly from his gloomy thoughts, and he hastened to open it.

A veiled lady stood there, wrapped in furs, and attended by a servant in rich livery.  In fluent French, which it could be perceived, however, was not her native tongue, she inquired whether, as she had been told, Herr von Brink, Tottleben’s adjutant, resided there.  As Bertram answered this question in the affirmative, but added, that Herr von Brink was in the habit of not returning from the general’s quarters before evening, she added, in a decided tone, “Well, then, I will wait for him.”

Without deeming Bertram’s consent necessary, she entered the hall and motioned to her servant to remain at the door.

After a pause, there ensued between the two one of those superficial, ceremonious conversations, the usual refuge of those who have nothing to say to each other; but the evident uneasiness and confusion of the young lady prevented her from joining freely in it.  Her large, bright eyes strayed restlessly around the room.  A hectic flush alternated on her cheeks with deathly pallor, and the smile, which occasionally played around her lips, seemed but a painful expression of mental suffering.  Suddenly she raised her head, as if determined no longer to bear this constraint, or submit to the fetters of conventionality.