Gotzkowsky only asked of his daughter that she should live, that she should become again healthy and strong for new happiness.

Bertram, in the strength and fidelity of his affections, had no other wish than that he should some day see her cheerful and content again, and once more brightened by the beams which only love and happiness can spread over a human countenance; and in his great and self-sacrificing love he said to himself:  “If I only knew that her happiness lay in the remotest corner of the world, thither would I go to fetch it for her, even if she thereby were lost to me forever!”

And thus did four years pass away—­externally, bright and clear, surrounded by all the brilliancy of wealth and happiness—­inwardly, silent and desolate, full of privation and deep-rooted sorrow.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

DAYS OF MISFORTUNE.

Gotzkowsky was alone in his room.  It was an elegant, brilliantly ornamented apartment, which the greatest prince might have envied.  The most select pictures by celebrated old masters hung around on the walls; the most costly Chinese vases stood on gilt tables; and between the windows, instead of mirrors, were placed the most exquisite Greek marble statues.  The furniture of the room was simple.  Gotzkowsky had but one passion, on which he spent yearly many thousands, and that was for art-treasures, paintings, and antiques.  His house resembled a temple of art; it contained the rarest and choicest treasures; and when Gotzkowsky passed through the rooms on the arm of his daughter, and contemplated the pictures, or dwelt with her on one of the sublime statues of the gods, his eye beamed with blissful satisfaction, and his whole being breathed cheerfulness and calm.  But at this moment his countenance was care-worn and anxious, and however pleasantly and cheerfully the pictures looked down upon him from the walls, his eye remained sad and clouded, and deep grief was expressed in his features.

He sat at his writing-table, and turned over the papers which lay piled up high before him.  At times he looked deeply shocked and anxious, and his whole frame trembled, as with hasty hand he transcribed some notes from another sheet.  Suddenly he let the pen drop, and sank his head on his breast.

“It is in vain,” he muttered in a low voice—­“yes, it is in vain.  If I were to exert all my power, if I were to collect all my means together, they would not be sufficient to pay these enormous sums.”

Again he turned over the papers, and pointing with his finger to one of them, he continued:  “Yes, there it stands.  I am a rich man on paper.  Leipsic owes me more than a million.  If she pays, and De Neufville comes, I am saved.  But if not—­if Leipsic once more, as she has already done three times, protests her inability to pay—­if De Neufville does not come, what shall I do?  How can I save myself from ruin and shame?”