e known were some who felt so perfectly well
satisfied with what was base and mean, that nothing higher and purer
could touch and win them. But a noble spirit, like yours, unhappy
because of its loneliness, suffering only on account of its inability
to give joys to others--no, dear Fraeulein, never will I believe that
your heart can have no future, that you must forever remain in this
sad, cold isolation, and all the efforts of warm-hearted men to melt
your soul be utterly in vain. When I repeat our conversation to my
brother, I know well what his course will be; he will not think of
himself but of your fate and his duty not to remain away from you. You
don't know what he can do. Not that he will seek to win you for
himself, to creep into your heart in any way. But he will fearlessly
battle with the dark powers that rule your youth, and," he added with a
melancholy smile--"I'm only sorry that I shall not be alive to hear
you, when you say to him: 'You've conquered; my heart has grown warm.'"

Toinette gently shook her head. "You're a good man, but a bad prophet,"
she answered smiling. "But no matter. Only promise me to live, for who
knows what may happen; and tell your brother--what you please. I doubt
whether he will come here again. He's different from you, prouder, more
passionate, he wants 'all or nothing.' If he will only learn to be
satisfied with a little--I shall always be glad to see him. But he must
come soon, for I can't tell what will become of me. In three days I
must decide upon something; for even if I loved life, I can live no
longer as I am; servitude, poverty--or a third contingency, which might
not be the worst. And now, my dear friend--"

She looked toward the door, which had already been once opened and
hastily closed again. The youth rose and approached her. "I thank you
most sincerely for all you've confided to me," said he, "and I shall
carry away a lighter heart than I brought with me. But I should like to
say one thing more; if it's impossible for you to refuse to receive
this count, beware of letting Edwin meet him here. From what I know of
my brother, he would not endure this gentleman's haughty manner, and
even his mere presence, his cold, empty smile, his brow, behind which
no noble thought ever germinated, would be so repulsive to him, that he
would beseech you to choose between him and this third alternative. How
is it possible for _you_ to tolerate such a person near you? The very
nobil