“Willingly,” she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him the case.

“Anything more?” she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up from the sofa.  She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange; but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild and strange in the Kurhaus?

“Yes,” he said.  “Here are five francs for you.”

She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown chalet at Gruesch.

So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the lamps.  Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother.  These peasants know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each other too.  Marie knew.  And she told her mother of the gifts she was bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests.

She was very happy writing this letter:  the little nut-brown home rose before her.

“Ach!” she said, “how I long to be home!”

And then she put down her pen, and sighed.

“Ach!” she said, “and when I’m there, I shall long to be here. Da wo ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck.”

Marie was something of a philosopher.

Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report.  She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the sound.  She saw Waerli in the passage.  He was looking scared, and his letters had fallen to the ground.  He pointed to No. 54.

It was the Dutchman’s room.

Help arrived.  The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead. 
The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa.  When
Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice. 
Her tender heart overflowed with grief.

Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall, and sobbed.

“It was my fault, it was my fault!” she cried.  “I gave him the case.  But how was I to know?”

They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain.

“And he gave me five francs,” she sobbed.  “I shudder to think of them.”

It was all in vain that Waerli gave her a letter for which she had been longing for many days.

“It is from your Mutterli,” he said, as he put it into her hands.  “I give it willingly.  I don’t like the look of one or two of the letters I have to give you, Mariechen.  That Hans writes to you.  Confound him!”

But nothing could cheer her.  Waerli went away shaking his curly head sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie’s sorrow.  And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that evening.