they had sat
in perfect silence for some time.

Eberhard got up, and made a gesture which meant that Daniel was to
follow him. They crossed the narrow hall, climbed up a pair of small
steps, and then Eberhard opened a door leading into the attic room.

A stupefying, deadening odour of decayed flowers struck them in the
face. Involuntarily Daniel turned to go, but the Baron pointed at the
walls in absolute silence.

"What is this? What kind of a room is this?" asked Daniel, rather
forcibly.

The four walls of the room were completely covered with bouquets,
garlands, and wreaths of withered flowers. The leaves had fallen from
most of them, and were now lying scattered about the floor. Leaves that
had once been green had turned brown; the grasses and mosses were in
shreds, the twigs were dry and brittle. Many of the bouquets had had
ribbons attached to them; these, once red or blue, were now faded.
Others had been bound with gold tinsel; this had rusted. The slanting
rays of the sun fell on others, and lighted them as it had shone on the
copper engraving in the room below. Through the purple rays could be
seen a dancing stream of dust.

It was a flower mausoleum; a vault of bouquets, a death-house of
memories. Daniel suspected what it all meant. He felt his tongue
cleaving to the roof of his mouth; a chill ran over him. And when
Eberhard at last began to speak, his eyes filled with hot, gushing
tears.

"The flowers were all picked and bound by her hands, by Eleanore's
hands," said Eberhard. And then, after a pause: "She prepared the
bouquets for a florist, and I bought them; she had no idea who bought
them." That was all he said.

Daniel looked back into his past life, as if an invisible arm were
drawing him to the pinnacle of some high mountain. He looked, and his
soul was dissolved in anxiety, torture, and repentance.

What had he left? Two graves: that was all. No, he had, aside from the
two graves, a broken harp, some withered flowers, and a mask of
terracotta.

He looked at the dead stems and withered chalices: Eleanore's fingers
had once touched all of these. Her fingers were even then hovering over
the dead buds like figures from the realm of spirits. In the dusty
spider webs hung caught at present unused moments, kind words that were
never spoken, consolation that was never expressed, encouragement,
consideration, and happiness that were allowed to pass unclaimed and
unapplied. Oh, this living and not