"There was nothing in it. Sarah—nothing; no possessions, hardly any furniture. Curtains, and a few cooking things. He never owned anything, he never bought anything. He preferred to sleep on straw, clean straw. . . . And there was his food; he seems to have lived chiefly on oatmeal and carrots and milk. Faithful George saw to his having plenty of warm easy clothes. But nothing else . . . nothing ever. . . . Can you imagine it, Sarah? can you see the years? Faithful George was very good about everything, he saw that he wasn't cheated. No wonder he hardly touched his pay."
"And there's what his father left him, a third of the estate. What Jules had."
"I gather Jules spent his early."
"On a lovely place off the Grasse road, on travel, on Madame de la Turbie. . . ."
"You remember when I was here last spring? I never thought of him then. I could have gone with Jules to see him. He would be alive now. No, Sarah, I have to think of it. Have you thought of something else, have you ever thought that he might have been cured? I've been reading
about that. Sarah, when he was found dead he had a card for my wedding in his house."
Sarah kept silent.
"And now I cannot speak of him to Jules. I can hardly speak to Jules at all."
"I know his total eclipses. It's time he reappeared. There's that other thing."
"That can only be ignored," said Caroline.
Unspoken, the words stood in the women's minds.
Baron's Young Wife Died of Heartbreak
Neglect or Worse — ? Damp House — French Maid's Testimony
"Her parents have not read it, thank God for that. But her brothers have. Emil has, Markwald has, the servants have. Her child may have—"
"It is poison," said Caroline.
"Melanie was a queer girl. If only there were an occasional word from Jules."
"He went out with me the other day. I made him. He hates my going out, but as he can't discuss it—I took advantage of that."
"What was it like?"
"Ghastly. They're pretty bored with me by now, this was the first time they set eyes on him. He was rather wonderful; never moved a muscle, just a little more stiff. I suppose that is what men look like on a battlefield— I had an uncle who rode at Balaclava. Jules never said a word. Nor did he say a word afterwards. I see now what Clara means by retribution."
"When did you see so much of her?"
"I saw her three times during the two weeks she was here," said Caroline. "I'm afraid, if anything, my outing's made Jules worse."
"Then someone must act for him; I agree there ought to be a gesture about the inheritance. It'll be complicated —generally is with intestates—I understand everything's
been invested, in a conservative sort of way though not at all badly. There's also the settlement the Captain had under the old Count's will."
"I expect that reverts to the Bernins," said Caroline.
"Not at all," said Sarah. "You ought to see the lawyers. It's to go to the Feldens. In trust to Gustavus and Jules, then outright to Clara's children, if she'd had any, and to Jules's. That'll be Henrietta at twenty-one."
"I wouldn't let a child of mine touch it!" said Caroline.
"The law would prevent your doing that."
"You mean to say that any children I might have would inherit that poor boy's money and I could do nothing about it?"
"Any children in wedlock with Jules—certainly."
Sarah went on. "It is extraordinary, people never do know. They seem to know all about how they ought to be tried for murder and about illegal arrest, but when it comes to property ... It makes everything so vague."
"Sarah, I must know something. You have known him for a long time. Will Jules—will he, will he be himself again?"
"He has never been anything else." Sarah had answered at once. She spoke in her coldest tone, the one Caroline so seldom heard. "Jules is a rock. India-rubber, but a rock. He's kept himself wrapped in untouchable delicacy—and he is untouchable. Jules has never known what any other human being felt. Jules will outlast us all."
"You are very bitter."
"I feel rather anti-Felden this morning."
Caroline looked away. "What we have dragged you into," she said.
"You?" Sarah raised a face to her friend in which there was no hope. And in the manner of someone who has let go all care of good opinion, she said, "You might as well know, you must have been wondering with every newspaper blaring it, I was in love with Jules, and he was rather taken with the little Merz girl, so I made the mar
riage— To save my face to myself— To look magnanimous— Not so much in love either, enough to touch Vamour propre. It's all so long ago that it's hardly true any more. Yet, / made that marriage, I'm good at arranging things, as good as your Clara in my different way." Her mood collapsed. "But—" she gave full weight to her words— "I did not arrange yours."
"No . . ." Caroline said, "no. . . ." trying to think. Appalled more by the sound, having hardly taken in what she had heard, she tried, "It'll never be what it was . . . paying is not buying back . . . let's not open doors to further desolation . . . let's be what we are, wiser perhaps, not better women."
When two days later Sarah entered Voss Strasse she was shown into the Herrenzimmer. "You have heard our news?"
"My parents are so pleased."
"We are all so pleased."
"Jules told us last night."
"He is pleased."
"She only told him yesterday."
"Henrietta is to have a little brother, ma'am."
"Early in the next year."
"Jules said January."
"Or February."
"You must go and congratulate him."
"Where is Caroline?" said Sarah.
"Upstairs."
"She hasn't come down today."
Sarah hesitated.
"Frau Baronin just went out, ma'am," Gottlieb said; "Herr Baron put her in the carriage. Herr Baron wanted her to have the air."
Caroline, as a matter of fact, had decided to call on Jeanne. Perhaps she did so in a spirit of New Year's resolutions, she hardly knew herself. At any rate she went.
Jeanne was now living in a very pretty flat in a nondescript street.
Caroline looked at it with new eyes. "What a charming room," she said.
"One does what one can," said Jeanne. She only saw her visitor. Conscious always of beauty in a woman, and the possession of it in a woman's life, she was moved.
"Of course Sarah's house is lovely."
"Sarah does everything a l'anglaise," said Jeanne.
Caroline laughed.
(Jeanne already heard herself saying, She is not only beautiful—she is radiant.)
"Not her pictures, though."
"No, not those," said Jeanne. "I'm coming round to them."
"I was round. But I never really saw them until Sarah. She taught me."
Jeanne rang for tea. "Tell me," Caroline said, "does everybody spend the summer in Berlin, or only everybody I know?"
"I'm a bad example. Friedrich likes to be where his parents are, and I'm not much of a one for the country."
"No—?" said Caroline.
"It makes me feel lost. I have a little house, a villa, at Travemunde—that's the seaside—I don't think I spent more than three days there half a dozen times in ten years."
"It seems a waste."
"I didn't buy it to go there. It seemed a sensible idea— you know, safer than the bank."
"It's by the sea?" said Caroline.
"Oh yes, the sea's there. Though it's not a wilderness, you can put your foot to ground without getting your ankle turned, the walks are paved. It's quite a coming place." Something made her add, "Would you like to go there? The house is empty. There's a little garden, and it's really not too bad. Why don't you try it, and see
whether you can put up with it? It's not far, you and your husband could drive there. And it would give me such pleasure."
"What a very sweet thing to suggest," said Caroline.
"Don't say no, think it over. It would be a change. Not a big change. . . ." She smiled. Then, bethinking herself that there was some point in being sixty, she said, "Will you let me say something? I really wish you were going back to your own home."
"Where?"
"Aren't you thinking of going back to Spain?"
"Oh no!" said Caroline.
"Travel, then . . . Some kind of move. . . . You should not stay here." She said it very kindly.
Caroline said, "You see, I am enceinte."
"My dear." Jeanne made no pretence of taking it entirely in her stride, yet she kept herself in hand. She said warmly, "Yes, that will make a difference. I am very glad for Jules. It will be the greatest help to him."
"He seems to take it in that way."
"And you?" Jeanne said.
Caroline made no answer.
"You are so young."
"Not so young; most of my friends have children."
"Many women," Jeanne said, "have children before they want them; or they wait and it is too late. That is the way. . . . But one can never tell."
Caroline said, "This is not a good moment."
"No, my dear, no. It will help you, though, to put it behind you."
There was benevolence behind Jeanne's words, benevolence and compassion, but there was no suffering; the suffering Caroline half knew that she put on Sarah with almost every word she said. For once she had the sense that her meaning did not sink away into layers of emotion and despair, or glance off, bootless or alien, as it did with Jules
or Clara, but bounced back to her, clear and aired, like coins rung upon a counter for what they might be worth. She answered as she had not meant to speak, "I am afraid. Of the very thing you implied, I'm afraid of what it may be to him. You must know that Jules is not the best man to bring up someone."
Jeanne said, "A son will change him."
In a voice strong with revulsion, Caroline said, "Am I to provide him with a lost brother?"
Jeanne saw much of it, if not all. She recognized the cry from the heart and she effaced herself. She waited till the sound of the young woman's words had faded, then she said, "Jules loved Henrietta as his child."
"While she was a child."
"She is still that."
"Not in his eyes. And there is what they've made of her."
Jeanne said, "There were circumstances. . . ."
"I know. Money; Jules's own queer position; the girl's future."
"That seems assured now."
"It had better. After no childhood and no parents, and being shut up in a stuffy house for fourteen years. . . . She ought to live with Jules."
"Friedrich says they still would not let her go."
"Not out of Berlin?"
"No; they only have this feeling about abroad."
"That's what / thought," said Caroline.
"Do you know one thing, my dear, you will soon be committed to so much thought about yourself— cela change les idees."
"That's the nicest way I've ever heard it put," said Caroline.
Jeanne said, "Things have not been very happy for you lately."
"Well, no."
The elder woman opened her arms. Gratefully, naturally, Caroline gave herself to the embrace.
In the door she said, "I know now what we're going to
do. I've just made up my mind." "Don't make it up too fast." "Dear Jeanne. Plans always make me cheerful/*
O
ne day all things have an end, and when autumn had set in and the holidays were over and the Reichstag met again, the Reduced-Military-Service Bill was not passed and the budget was, the new Secretary of State was dun-coloured, there seemed to be threatening once more a deal of trouble in Morocco, a mysterious crime had taken place at Hanover, the Kaiser and the Kaiserin announced a Court Ball, and there was after all a brand new battleship. Putnitz was farming, and so was Faithful George; the colonel, some majors and a brigadier were in retirement; Corporal Schaale remained unfound; the papers, and so perforce the public, dropped their interest in the Feldens and their connections and concerns; the Merzes' house was like any other house, people came and went, and the passers-by went by.
Caroline wrote and answered letters; went here and there; travelled South, found Gustavus knowledgeable, saw at last what she wanted.
"You are decided?" Sarah said, a week later.
"Absolutely."
"It will be a tie."
"What is not? One might as well have a home."
"At the border of Alsace? The world is larger."
"Not for me," said Caroline.
Sarah shifted her ground. "If you will sell out all your capital—"
"Not all. Just a few shares. They won't let me touch my trust fund. I shall have to raise something on the income."
"It'll cripple you."
Caroline shrugged.
"Jules hasn't even seen it." Sarah shifted her ground again.
"He can't help liking the house. I do. You will." She smiled.
But a month later everything was still unsigned; Caroline ought to have gone to England, and the house was certainly not ready. "Now I shall have to leave it all till afterwards," she said; "I knew it."
"The first house is always the hardest," said Sarah.
"Those poor animals arriving from Spain almost any day now."
"Who?"
"The horses. I had so hoped to have everything ready for them. You know what Gustavus said to me, the booby, 'You and Jules are not thinking of riding?' Sarah, you have no idea what it's like down there, their lives—total gloom. I sat through one meal. Bernin behaves as if he hadn't turned a hair; but he's desperate, so bored. There's talk of his going to South America. Do you think he will be Emperor of Brazil after all? Clara moves among her poor; Gustavus used to go into Karlsruhe every week to help make people's family trees, he's been pushed to give that up; now he hardly stirs. Yet everybody in those parts seems as friendly as can be, if a bit curious."
"Your chosen neighbours," Sarah said.
"My dear, not at all, it's hours and hours in a very slow train from the Bernins' place. Seeing that neither Gustavus nor Jules will take a train lightly—"
"You'll have Clara on your neck."
"She is my sister-in-law. Clara's had a good deal to put up with."
"Caroline, don't snap. Edu used to say / did."