Returning after a year’s absence, strengthened and restored to health, he found Elise as he had left her.  She received him with the same quiet, calm look with which she had bid him farewell.  She placed her hand as coolly and as friendly in his, and although she inquired cordially and sympathizingly after his welfare, Bertram still felt that her heart and her inmost soul had not part in her questioning.

Elise had not altered—­but how little was Gotzkowsky like himself!  Where was the ardent man, powerful of will, whom Bertram had embraced at his departure? where was his clear, ringing voice, his proud bearing, his energy, his burning eloquence—­what had become of all these?  What diabolical, dismal influence had succeeded in breaking this iron will, in subduing this vital power?

Bertram felt that a deep grief was corroding Gotzkowsky’s life—­a grief whose destructive influence was greater because he avoided the expression of it, and sought no relief nor consolation by communicating it to others.  “He shall, at least, speak to me,” said Bertram.  “I will compel him to make me the confidant of his grief, and to lighten his heart by imparting a portion of his burden to mine.”  With this determination he had entered Gotzkowsky’s room; he now stood opposite to him, and with gentle sympathy looked into his pale, sorrow-worn countenance.

But Gotzkowsky avoided his eye.  He seemed entirely occupied with his papers, and turned them over again and again.  Bertram could bear it no longer; he hastened to him, and taking his hand pressed it affectionately to his lips.  “My father,” said he, “forgive me; but when I look at you, I am possessed by a vague fear which I cannot explain to myself.  You know that I love you as my father, and for that reason can read your thoughts.  Gotzkowsky, since my return I have read much care and sorrow in your face.”

“Have you?” said Gotzkowsky, painfully; “yes, yes, sorrow does not write in hieroglyphics.  It is a writing which he who runs can read.”

“You confess, then, that you have sorrow, and yet you hide it from me.  You do not let me share your cares.  Have I deserved that of you, father?”

Gotzkowsky arose and paced the room, thoughtful and excited.  For the first time he felt that the sympathy of a loving heart did good.  Involuntarily the crust which surrounded his heart gave way, and he became gentle and eager for sympathy.  He held out his hand to Bertram and nodded to him.  “You are right, my son,” said he, gently, “I should not have kept my sorrows from you.  It is a comfort, perhaps, to unbosom one’s self.  Listen, then—­but no! first tell me what is said of me in the city, and, above all, what is said of me at the Bourse?  Ah? you cast your eyes down—­Bertram, I must and will know all.  Speak out freely.  I have courage to hear the utmost.”  But yet his voice trembled as he spoke, and his lips twitched convulsively.