The Fortune Hunter [35]
to assure himself that she was not seeing, slipped it into the right outside pocket of his coat. The customer left and he returned to the front of the shop and stood with just the breadth of the end of the narrow counter between him and her.
``It's all over for me,'' he began. ``Your love has failed me. There is nothing left. I shall fling myself through the gates of death. I shall be forgotten. And you will live on and laugh and not remember that you ever had such love as mine.''
Another customer entered. Mr. Feuerstein again went to the rear of the space outside the counters. ``She loves me. She will gladly die with me,'' he muttered. ``First into HER heart, then into mine, and we shall be at peace, dead, as lovers and heroes die!''
When they were again alone, he advanced and began to edge round the end of the counter. She was no longer looking at him, did not note his excitement, was thinking only of how to induce him to go. ``Hilda,'' he said, ``I have one last request--a dying man's request--''
The counter was no longer between them. He was within three feet of her. His right hand was in his coat pocket, grasping the knife. His eyes began to blaze and he nerved himself to seize her--
Both heard her father's voice in the hall leading to the sitting-room. ``You must go,'' she cried, hastily retreating.
``Hilda,'' he pleaded rapidly, ``there is something I must say to you. I can not say it here. Come over to Meinert's as soon as you can. I shall be in the sitting-room. Just for a moment, Hilda. It might save my life. If not that, it certainly would make my death happier.''
Brauner was advancing into the shop and his lowering face warned Mr. Feuerstein not to linger. With a last, appealing look at Hilda he departed.
``What was HE doing here?'' growled Brauner.
``He'd just come in,'' answered Hilda absently. ``He won't bother us any more.''
``If he comes again, don't speak to him,'' said Brauner in the commanding voice that sounded so fierce and meant so little. ``Just call me or August.''
Hilda could not thrust him out of her mind. His looks, his tones, his dramatic melancholy saddened her; and his last words rang in her ears. She no longer loved him; but she HAD loved him. She could not think of him as a stranger and an enemy--there might be truth in his plea that he had in some mysterious way fallen through love for her. She might be able to save him.
Almost mechanically she left the shop, went to Sixth Street and to the ``family entrance'' of Meinert's beer-garden. She went into the little anteroom and, with her hand on the swinging door leading to the sitting-room, paused like one waking from a dream.
``I must be crazy,'' she said half aloud. ``He's a scoundrel and no good can come of my seeing him. What would Otto think of me? What am I doing here?'' And she hastened away, hoping that no one had seen her.
Mr. Feuerstein was seated at a table a few feet from where she had paused and turned back. He had come in half an hour before and had ordered and drunk three glasses of cheap, fiery brandy. As the moments passed his mood grew wilder and more somber. ``She has failed me!'' he exclaimed. He called for pen, ink and paper. He wrote rapidly and, when he had finished, declaimed his production, punctuating the sentences with looks and gestures. His voice gradually broke, and he uttered the last words with sobs and with the tears streaming down his cheeks. He signed his name with a flourish, added a postscript. He took a stamped envelope from his pocket, sealed the letter, addressed it and laid it before him on the table. ``The presence of death inspired me,'' he said, looking at his production with tragic pride. And he called for another drink.
When the waiter brought it, he lifted it high and, standing up, bowed as if some one were opposite him at the table. ``I drink to you, Death!'' he said. The waiter stared in open-mouthed astonishment, and with a muttered, ``He's luny!'' backed from the room.
He sat again and drew the knife
``It's all over for me,'' he began. ``Your love has failed me. There is nothing left. I shall fling myself through the gates of death. I shall be forgotten. And you will live on and laugh and not remember that you ever had such love as mine.''
Another customer entered. Mr. Feuerstein again went to the rear of the space outside the counters. ``She loves me. She will gladly die with me,'' he muttered. ``First into HER heart, then into mine, and we shall be at peace, dead, as lovers and heroes die!''
When they were again alone, he advanced and began to edge round the end of the counter. She was no longer looking at him, did not note his excitement, was thinking only of how to induce him to go. ``Hilda,'' he said, ``I have one last request--a dying man's request--''
The counter was no longer between them. He was within three feet of her. His right hand was in his coat pocket, grasping the knife. His eyes began to blaze and he nerved himself to seize her--
Both heard her father's voice in the hall leading to the sitting-room. ``You must go,'' she cried, hastily retreating.
``Hilda,'' he pleaded rapidly, ``there is something I must say to you. I can not say it here. Come over to Meinert's as soon as you can. I shall be in the sitting-room. Just for a moment, Hilda. It might save my life. If not that, it certainly would make my death happier.''
Brauner was advancing into the shop and his lowering face warned Mr. Feuerstein not to linger. With a last, appealing look at Hilda he departed.
``What was HE doing here?'' growled Brauner.
``He'd just come in,'' answered Hilda absently. ``He won't bother us any more.''
``If he comes again, don't speak to him,'' said Brauner in the commanding voice that sounded so fierce and meant so little. ``Just call me or August.''
Hilda could not thrust him out of her mind. His looks, his tones, his dramatic melancholy saddened her; and his last words rang in her ears. She no longer loved him; but she HAD loved him. She could not think of him as a stranger and an enemy--there might be truth in his plea that he had in some mysterious way fallen through love for her. She might be able to save him.
Almost mechanically she left the shop, went to Sixth Street and to the ``family entrance'' of Meinert's beer-garden. She went into the little anteroom and, with her hand on the swinging door leading to the sitting-room, paused like one waking from a dream.
``I must be crazy,'' she said half aloud. ``He's a scoundrel and no good can come of my seeing him. What would Otto think of me? What am I doing here?'' And she hastened away, hoping that no one had seen her.
Mr. Feuerstein was seated at a table a few feet from where she had paused and turned back. He had come in half an hour before and had ordered and drunk three glasses of cheap, fiery brandy. As the moments passed his mood grew wilder and more somber. ``She has failed me!'' he exclaimed. He called for pen, ink and paper. He wrote rapidly and, when he had finished, declaimed his production, punctuating the sentences with looks and gestures. His voice gradually broke, and he uttered the last words with sobs and with the tears streaming down his cheeks. He signed his name with a flourish, added a postscript. He took a stamped envelope from his pocket, sealed the letter, addressed it and laid it before him on the table. ``The presence of death inspired me,'' he said, looking at his production with tragic pride. And he called for another drink.
When the waiter brought it, he lifted it high and, standing up, bowed as if some one were opposite him at the table. ``I drink to you, Death!'' he said. The waiter stared in open-mouthed astonishment, and with a muttered, ``He's luny!'' backed from the room.
He sat again and drew the knife