, of a quixotically generous and
unselfish nature--all this I had already proved. That he loved his child
with a love not short of passion was patent to me every day. But upon
the past, silence so utter as I never before met with. Not a hint; not
an allusion; not one syllable.

Little Sigmund was not yet two and a half. The story upon which his
father maintained so deep a silence was not, could not, be a very old
one. His behavior gave me no clew as to whether it had been a joyful or
a sorrowful one. Mere silence could tell me nothing. Some men are silent
about their griefs; some about their joys. I knew not in which direction
his disposition lay.

I saw Karl look at him that evening once or twice, and I trembled lest
the blundering, good-natured fellow should make the mistake of asking
some question. But he did not; I need not have feared. People were not
in the habit of putting obtrusive questions to Eugen Courvoisier. The
danger was somehow quietly tided over, the delicate ground avoided.

The conversation wandered quietly off to commonplace topics--the state
of the orchestra; tales of its doings; the tempers of our different
conductors--Malperg of the opera; Woelff of the ordinary concerts, which
took place two or three times a week, when we fiddled and the public
ate, drank, and listened; lastly, von Francius, _koeniglicher
Musik-direktor_.

Karl Linders gave his opinion freely upon the men in authority. He had
nothing to do with them, nothing to hope or fear from them; he filled a
quiet place among the violoncellists, and had attained his twenty-eighth
year without displaying any violent talent or tendency to distinguish
himself, otherwise than by getting as much mirth out of life as possible
and living in a perpetual state of "carlesse contente."

He desired to know what Courvoisier thought of von Francius; for
curiosity--the fault of those idle persons who afterward develop into
busybodies--was already beginning to leave its traces on Herr Linders.
It was less known than guessed that the state of things between
Courvoisier and von Francius was less peace than armed neutrality. The
intense politeness of von Francius to his first violinist, and the
punctilious ceremoniousness of the latter toward his chief, were topics
of speculation and amusement to the whole orchestra.

"I think von Francius would be a fiend if he could," said Karl,
comfortably. "I wouldn't stand it if he spoke to me as he speaks to some