Books: Jezebel

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How my aunt's perilous experiment was conducted--in what particulars it
succeeded and in what particulars it failed--I am unable to state as an
eyewitness, owing to my absence at the time. This curious portion of the
narrative will be found related by Jack himself, on a page still to come.
In the meanwhile, the course of events compels me to revert to the
circumstances which led to my departure from London.

While Mrs. Wagner was still in attendance at the palace, a letter reached
her from Mr. Keller, stating the necessity of increasing the number of
clerks at the Frankfort branch of our business. Closely occupied as she
then was, she found time to provide me with those instructions to her
German partners, preparing them for the coming employment of women in
their office, to which she had first alluded when the lawyer and I had
our interview with her after the reading of the will.

"The cause of the women," she said to me, "must not suffer because I
happen to be just now devoted to the cause of poor Jack. Go at once to
Frankfort, David. I have written enough to prepare my partners there for
a change in the administration of the office, and to defer for the
present the proposed enlargement of our staff of clerks. The rest you can
yourself explain from your own knowledge of the plans that I have in
contemplation. Start on your journey as soon as possible--and understand
that you are to say No positively, if Fritz proposes to accompany you. He
is not to leave London without the express permission of his father."

Fritz did propose to accompany me, the moment he heard of my journey. I
must own that I thought the circumstances excused him.

On the previous evening, we had consulted the German newspapers at the
coffee-house, and had found news from Wurzburg which quite overwhelmed my
excitable friend.

Being called upon to deliver their judgment, the authorities presiding at
the legal inquiry into the violation of the seals and the loss of the
medicine-chest failed to agree in opinion, and thus brought the
investigation to a most unsatisfactory end. The moral effect of this
division among the magistrates was unquestionably to cast a slur on the
reputation of Widow Fontaine. She was not pronounced to be guilty--but
she was also not declared to be innocent. Feeling, no doubt, that her
position among her neighbors had now become unendurable, she and her
daughter had left Wurzburg. The newspaper narrative added that their
departure had been privately accomplished. No information could be
obtained of the place of their retreat.

But for this last circumstance, I believe Fritz would have insisted on
traveling with me. Ignorant of what direction to begin the search for
Minna and her mother, he consented to leave me to look for traces of them
in Germany, while he remained behind to inquire at the different foreign
hotels, on the chance that they might have taken refuge in London.

The next morning I started for Frankfort.

My spirits were high as I left the shores of England. I had a young man's
hearty and natural enjoyment of change. Besides, it flattered my
self-esteem to feel that I was my aunt's business-representative; and I
was almost equally proud to be Fritz's confidential friend. Never could
any poor human creature have been a more innocent instrument of mischief
in the hands of Destiny than I was, on that fatal journey. The day was
dark, when the old weary way of traveling brought me at last to
Frankfort. The unseen prospect, at the moment when I stepped out of the
mail-post-carriage, was darker still.

CHAPTER IX

I had just given a porter the necessary directions for taking my
portmanteau to Mr. Keller's house, when I heard a woman's voice behind me
asking the way to the Poste Restante--or, in our roundabout English
phrase, the office of letters to be left till called for.

The voice was delightfully fresh and sweet, with an undertone of sadness,
which made it additionally interesting. I did what most other young men
in my place would have done--I looked round directly.

Yes! the promise of the voice was abundantly kept by the person. She was
quite a young girl, modest and ladylike; a little pale and careworn, poor
thing, as if her experience of life had its sad side already. Her face
was animated by soft sensitive eyes--the figure supple and slight, the
dress of the plainest material, but so neatly made and so perfectly worn
that I should have doubted her being a German girl, if I had not heard
the purely South-German accent in which she put her question. It was
answered, briefly and civilly, by the conductor of the post-carriage in
which I had traveled. But, at that hour, the old court-yard of the
post-office was thronged with people arriving and departing, meeting
their friends and posting their letters. The girl was evidently not used
to crowds. She was nervous and confused. After advancing a few steps in
the direction pointed out to her, she stopped in bewilderment, hustled by
busy people, and evidently in doubt already about which way she was to
turn next.

If I had followed the strict line of duty, I suppose I should have turned
my steps in the direction of Mr. Keller's house. I followed my instincts
instead, and offered my services to the young lady. Blame the laws of
Nature and the attraction between the sexes. Don't blame me.

"I heard you asking for the post-office," I said. "Will you allow me to
show you the way?"

She looked at me, and hesitated. I felt that I was paying the double
penalty of being a young man, and of being perhaps a little too eager as
well.

"Forgive me for venturing to speak to you," I pleaded. "It is not very
pleasant for a young lady to find herself alone in such a crowded place
as this. I only ask permission to make myself of some trifling use to
you."

She looked at me again, and altered her first opinion.

"You are very kind, sir; I will thankfully accept your assistance."

"May I offer you my arm?"

She declined this proposal--with perfect amiability, however. "Thank you,
sir, I will follow you, if you please."

I pushed my way through the crowd, with the charming stranger close at my
heels. Arrived at the post-office, I drew aside to let her make her own
inquiries. Would she mention her name? No; she handed in a passport, and
asked if there was a letter waiting for the person named in it. The
letter was found; but was not immediately delivered. As well as I could
understand, the postage had been insufficiently paid, and the customary
double-rate was due. The young lady searched in the pocket of her
dress--a cry of alarm escaped her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I have lost my
purse, and the letter is so important!"

It occurred to me immediately that she had had her pocket picked by some
thief in the crowd. The clerk thought so too. He looked at the clock.
"You must be quick about it if you return for the letter," he said, "the
office closes in ten minutes."

She clasped her hands in despair. "It's more than ten minutes' walk," she
said, "before I can get home."

I immediately offered to lend her the money. "It is such a very small
sum," I reminded her, "that it would be absurd to consider yourself under
any obligation to me."

Between her eagerness to get possession of the letter, and her doubt of
the propriety of accepting my offer, she looked sadly embarrassed, poor
soul.

"You are very good to me," she said confusedly; "but I am afraid it might
not be quite right in me to borrow money of a stranger, however little it
may be. And, even if I did venture, how am I----?" She looked at me
shyly, and shrank from finishing the sentence.

"How are you to pay it back?" I suggested.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, it's not worth the trouble of paying back. Give it to the first poor
person you meet with to-morrow." I said this, with the intention of
reconciling her to the loan of the money. It had exactly the contrary
effect on this singularly delicate and scrupulous girl. She drew back a
step directly.

"No, I couldn't do that," she said. "I could only accept your kindness,
if----" She stopped again. The clerk looked once more at the clock. "Make
up your mind, Miss, before it's too late."

In her terror of not getting the letter that day, she spoke out plainly
at last. "Will you kindly tell me, sir, to what address I can return the
money when I get home?"

I paid for the letter first, and then answered the question.

"If you will be so good as to send it to Mr. Keller's house----"

Before I could add the name of the street, her pale face suddenly
flushed. "Oh!" she exclaimed impulsively, "do you know Mr. Keller?"

A presentiment of the truth occurred to my mind for the first time.

"Yes," I said; "and his son Fritz too."

She trembled; the color that had risen in her face left it instantly; she
looked away from me with a pained, humiliated expression. Doubt was no
longer possible. The charming stranger was Fritz's sweetheart--and
"Jezebel's Daughter."

My respect for the young lady forbade me to attempt any concealment of
the discovery that I had made. I said at once, "I believe I have the
honor of speaking to Miss Minna Fontaine?"

She looked at me in wonder, not unmixed with distrust.

"How do you know who I am?" she asked.

"I can easily tell you, Miss Minna. I am David Glenney, nephew of Mrs.
Wagner, of London. Fritz is staying in her house, and he and I have
talked about you by the hour together."

The poor girl's face, so pale and sad the moment before, became radiant
with happiness. "Oh!" she cried innocently, "has Fritz not forgotten me?"

Even at this distance of time, my memory recalls her lovely dark eyes
riveted in breathless interest on my face, as I spoke of Fritz's love and
devotion, and told her that she was still the one dear image in his
thoughts by day, in his dreams by night. All her shyness vanished. She
impulsively gave me her hand. "How can I be grateful enough to the good
angel who has brought us together!" she exclaimed. "If we were not in the
street, I do believe, Mr. David, I should go down on my knees to thank
you! You have made me the happiest girl living." Her voice suddenly
failed her; she drew her veil down. "Don't mind me," she said; "I can't
help crying for joy."

Shall I confess what my emotions were? For the moment, I forgot my own
little love affair in England--and envied Fritz from the bottom of my
heart.

The chance-passengers in the street began to pause and look at us. I
offered Minna my arm, and asked permission to attend her on the way home.

"I should like it," she answered, with a friendly frankness that charmed
me. "But you are expected at Mr. Keller's--you must go there first."

"May I call and see you to-morrow?" I persisted, "and save you the
trouble of sending my money to Mr. Keller's?"

She lifted her veil and smiled at me brightly through her tears. "Yes,"
she said; "come to-morrow and be introduced to my mother. Oh! how glad my
dear mother will be to see you, when I tell her what has happened! I am a
selfish wretch; I have not borne my sorrow and suspense as I ought; I
have made her miserable about me, because I was miserable about Fritz.
It's all over now. Thank you again and again. There is our address on
that card. No, no, we must say good-bye till to-morrow. My mother is
waiting for her letter; and Mr. Keller is wondering what has become of
you." She pressed my hand warmly and left me.

On my way alone to Mr. Keller's house, I was not quite satisfied with
myself. The fear occurred to me that I might have spoken about Fritz a
little too freely, and might have excited hopes which could never be
realized. The contemplation of the doubtful future began to oppress my
mind. Minna might have reason to regret that she had ever met with me.

I was received by Mr. Keller with truly German cordiality. He and his
partner Mr. Engelman--one a widower, the other an old bachelor--lived
together in the ancient building, in Main Street, near the river, which
served for house and for offices alike.

The two old gentlemen offered the completest personal contrast
imaginable. Mr. Keller was lean, tall, and wiry--a man of considerable
attainments beyond the limits of his business, capable (when his hot
temper was not excited) of speaking sensibly and strongly on any subject
in which he was interested. Mr. Engelman, short and fat, devoted to the
office during the hours of business, had never read a book in his life,
and had no aspiration beyond the limits of his garden and his pipe. "In
my leisure moments," he used to say, "give me my flowers, my pipe, and my
peace of mind--and I ask no more." Widely as they differed in character,
the two partners had the truest regard for one another. Mr. Engelman
believed Mr. Keller to be the most accomplished and remarkable man in
Germany. Mr. Keller was as firmly persuaded, on his side, that Mr.
Engelman was an angel in sweetness of temper, and a model of modest and
unassuming good sense. Mr. Engelman listened to Mr. Keller's learned talk
with an ignorant admiration which knew no limit. Mr. Keller, detesting
tobacco in all its forms, and taking no sort of interest in horticulture,
submitted to the fumes of Mr. Engelman's pipe, and passed hours in Mr.
Engelman's garden without knowing the names of nine-tenths of the flowers
that grew in it. There are still such men to be found in Germany and in
England; but, oh! dear me, the older I get the fewer I find there are of
them.

The two old friends and partners were waiting for me to join them at
their early German supper. Specimens of Mr. Engelman's flowers adorned
the table in honor of my arrival. He presented me with a rose from the
nosegay when I entered the room.

"And how did you leave dear Mrs. Wagner?" he inquired.

"And how is my boy Fritz?" asked Mr. Keller.

I answered in terms which satisfied them both, and the supper proceeded
gaily. But when the table was cleared, and Mr. Engelman had lit his pipe,
and I had kept him company with a cigar, then Mr. Keller put the fatal
question. "And now tell me, David, do you come to us on business or do
you come to us on pleasure?"

I had no alternative but to produce my instructions, and to announce the
contemplated invasion of the office by a select army of female clerks.
The effect produced by the disclosure was highly characteristic of the
widely different temperaments of the two partners.

Mild Mr. Engelman laid down his pipe, and looked at Mr. Keller in
helpless silence.

Irritable Mr. Keller struck his fist on the table, and appealed to Mr.
Engelman with fury in his looks.

"What did I tell you," he asked, "when we first heard that Mr. Wagner's
widow was appointed head-partner in the business? How many opinions of
philosophers on the moral and physical incapacities of women did I quote?
Did I, or did I not, begin with the ancient Egyptians, and end with
Doctor Bernastrokius, our neighbor in the next street?"

Poor Mr. Engelman looked frightened.

"Don't be angry, my dear friend," he said softly.

"Angry?" repeated Mr. Keller, more furiously than ever. "My good
Engelman, you never were more absurdly mistaken in your life! I am
delighted. Exactly what I expected, exactly what I predicted, has come to
pass. Put down your pipe! I can bear a great deal--but tobacco smoke is
beyond me at such a crisis as this. And do for once overcome your
constitutional indolence. Consult your memory; recall my own words when
we were first informed that we had a woman for head-partner."

"She was a very pretty woman when I first saw her," Mr. Engelman
remarked.

"Pooh!" cried Mr. Keller.

"I didn't mean to offend you," said Mr. Engelman. "Allow me to present
you with one of my roses as a peace-offering."

_"Will_ you be quiet, and let me speak?"

"My dear Keller, I am always too glad to hear you speak! You put ideas
into my poor head, and my poor head lets them out, and then you put them
in again. What noble perseverance! If I live a while longer I do really
think you will make a clever man of me. Let me put the rose in your
buttonhole for you. And I say, I wish you would allow me to go on with my
pipe."

Mr. Keller made a gesture of resignation, and gave up his partner in
despair. "I appeal to _you,_ David," he said, and poured the full flow of
his learning and his indignation into my unlucky ears.

Mr. Engelman, enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke, enjoyed in silence
the composing influence of his pipe. I said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir,"
at the right intervals in the flow of Mr. Keller's eloquence. At this
distance of time, I cannot pretend to report the long harangue of which I
was made the victim. In substance, Mr. Keller held that there were two
irremediable vices in the composition of women. Their dispositions
presented, morally speaking, a disastrous mixture of the imitativeness of
a monkey and the restlessness of a child. Having proved this by copious
references to the highest authorities, Mr. Keller logically claimed my
aunt as a woman, and, as such, not only incapable of "letting well
alone," but naturally disposed to imitate her husband on the most
superficial and defective sides of his character. "I predicted, David,
that the fatal disturbance of our steady old business was now only a
question of time--and there, in Mrs. Wagner's ridiculous instructions, is
the fulfillment of my prophecy!"

Before we went to bed that night, the partners arrived at two
resolutions. Mr. Keller resolved to address a written remonstrance to my
aunt. Mr. Engelman resolved to show me his garden the first thing in the
morning.

CHAPTER X

On the afternoon of the next day, while my two good friends were still
occupied by the duties of the office, I stole out to pay my promised
visit to Minna and Minna's mother.

It was impossible not to arrive at the conclusion that they were indeed
in straitened circumstances. Their lodgings were in the cheap suburban
quarter of Frankfort on the left bank of the river. Everything was
scrupulously neat, and the poor furniture was arranged with taste--but no
dexterity of management could disguise the squalid shabbiness of the
sitting-room into which I was shown. I could not help thinking how
distressed Fritz would feel, if he could have seen his charming Minna in
a place so unworthy of her as this.

The rickety door opened, and the "Jezebel" of the anonymous letter
(followed by her daughter) entered the room.

There are certain remarkable women in all countries who, whatever sphere
they may be seen in, fill that sphere as completely as a great actor
fills the stage. Widow Fontaine was one of these noteworthy persons. The
wretched little room seemed to disappear when she softly glided into it;
and even the pretty Minna herself receded into partial obscurity in her
mother's presence. And yet there was nothing in the least obtrusive in
the manner of Madame Fontaine, and nothing remarkable in her stature. Her
figure, reaching to no more than the middle height, was the well-rounded
figure of a woman approaching forty years of age. The influence she
exercised was, in part, attributable, as I suppose, to the supple grace
of all her movements; in part, to the commanding composure of her
expression and the indescribable witchery of her manner. Her dark eyes,
never fully opened in my remembrance, looked at me under heavy
overhanging upper eyelids. Her enemies saw something sensual in their
strange expression. To my mind it was rather something furtively
cruel--except when she looked at her daughter. Sensuality shows itself
most plainly in the excessive development of the lower part of the face.
Madame Fontaine's lips were thin, and her chin was too small. Her profuse
black hair was just beginning to be streaked with gray. Her complexion
wanted color. In spite of these drawbacks, she was still a striking, I
might almost say a startling, creature, when you first looked at her.
And, though she only wore the plainest widow's weeds, I don't scruple to
assert that she was the most perfectly dressed woman I ever saw.

Minna made a modest attempt to present me in due form. Her mother put her
aside playfully, and held out both her long white powerful hands to me as
cordially as if we had known each other for years.

"I wait to prove other people before I accept them for my friends," she
said. "Mr. David, you have been more than kind to my daughter--and _you_
are my friend at our first meeting."

I believe I repeat the words exactly. I wish I could give any adequate
idea of the exquisite charm of voice and manner which accompanied them.

And yet, I was not at my ease with her--I was not drawn to her
irresistibly, as I had felt drawn to her daughter. Those dark, steady,
heavy-lidded eyes of hers seemed to be looking straight into my heart,
and surprising all my secrets. To say that I actually distrusted and
disliked her would be far from the truth. Distrust and dislike would have
protected me, in some degree at least, from feeling her influence as I
certainly did feel it. How that influence was exerted--whether it was
through her eyes, or through her manner, or, to speak the jargon of these
latter days, through some "magnetic emanation" from her, which invisibly
overpowered me--is more than I can possibly say. I can only report that
she contrived by slow degrees to subject the action of my will more and
more completely to the action of hers, until I found myself answering her
most insidious questions as unreservedly as if she had been in very truth
my intimate and trusted friend.

"And is this your first visit to Frankfort, Mr. David?" she began.

"Oh, no, madam! I have been at Frankfort on two former occasions."

"Ah, indeed? And have you always stayed with Mr. Keller?"

"Always."

She looked unaccountably interested when she heard that reply, brief as
it was.

"Then, of course, you are intimate with him," she said. "Intimate enough,
perhaps, to ask a favor or to introduce a friend?"

I made a futile attempt to answer this cautiously.

"As intimate, madam, as a young clerk in the business can hope to be with
a partner," I said.

"A clerk in the business?" she repeated. "I thought you lived in London,
with your aunt."

Here Minna interposed for the first time.

"You forget, mamma, that there are three names in the business. The
inscription over the door in Main Street is Wagner, Keller, and Engelman.
Fritz once told me that the office here in Frankfort was only the small
office--and the grand business was Mr. Wagner's business in London. Am I
right, Mr. David?"

"Quite right, Miss Minna. But we have no such magnificent flower-garden
at the London house as Mr. Engelman's flower-garden here. May I offer you
a nosegay which he allowed me to gather?"

I had hoped to make the flowers a means of turning the conversation to
more interesting topics. But the widow resumed her questions, while Minna
was admiring the flowers.

"Then you are Mr. Wagner's clerk?" she persisted.

"I _was_ Mr. Wagner's clerk. Mr. Wagner is dead."

"Ha! And who takes care of the great business now?"

Without well knowing why, I felt a certain reluctance to speak of my aunt
and her affairs. But Widow Fontaine's eyes rested on me with a resolute
expectation in them which I felt myself compelled to gratify. When she
understood that Mr. Wagner's widow was now the chief authority in the
business, her curiosity to hear everything that I could tell her about my
aunt became all but insatiable. Minna's interest in the subject was, in
quite another way, as vivid as her mother's. My aunt's house was the
place to which cruel Mr. Keller had banished her lover. The inquiries of
the mother and daughter followed each other in such rapid succession that
I cannot pretend to remember them now. The last question alone remains
vividly impressed on my memory, in connection with the unexpected effect
which my answer produced. It was put by the widow in these words:

"Your aunt is interested, of course, in the affairs of her partners in
this place. Is it possible, Mr. David, that she may one day take the
journey to Frankfort?"

"It is quite likely, madam, that my aunt may be in Frankfort on business
before the end of the year."

As I replied in those terms the widow looked round slowly at her
daughter. Minna was evidently quite as much at a loss to understand the
look as I was. Madame Fontaine turned to me again, and made an apology.

"Pardon me, Mr. David, there is a little domestic duty that I had
forgotten." She crossed the room to a small table, on which
writing-materials were placed, wrote a few lines, and handed the paper,
without enclosing it, to Minna. "Give that, my love, to our good friend
downstairs--and, while you are in the kitchen, suppose you make the tea.
You will stay and drink tea with us, Mr. David? It is our only luxury,
and we always make it ourselves."

My first impulse was to find an excuse for declining the invitation.
There was something in the air of mystery with which Madame Fontaine
performed her domestic duties that was not at all to my taste. But Minna
pleaded with me to say Yes. "Do stay with us a little longer," she said,
in her innocently frank way, "we have so few pleasures in this place." I
might, perhaps, have even resisted Minna--but her mother literally laid
hands on me. She seated herself, with the air of an empress, on a shabby
little sofa in the corner of the room, and beckoning me to take my place
by her side, laid her cool firm hand persuasively on mine. Her touch
filled me with a strange sense of disturbance, half pleasurable, half
painful--I don't know how to describe it. Let me only record that I
yielded, and that Minna left us together.

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