Yes! he, the boy of one-and-twenty, had married a woman of five-and-thirty! It was a mad act—the recklessness or delirium of a boy: but it was an act which has too many precedents for us to wonder at it. He had by this act separated himself, he feared, from his father for ever. His only hope of pardon was, as he fondly thought, dramatic success. Could his father but see him successfully following in his footsteps, he would surely forgive him. It was a proud moment—that boy’s triumphant debut; proud because he had succeeded, proud because his pardon was purchased—as he thought! Franz had only played a few weeks, and Germany was ringing with his praises. So great was his success, that when a few critics and actors whose judgments were all _traditional_, objected that he could not be a good actor because he had not gradually worked his way upwards, they were speedily silenced by the incontestible fact that he _was_ a great actor. A brilliant engagement had been offered him at Berlin; and he was about to appear on the same stage with his father, before that father had the faintest suspicion of his son’s ever having entered a theatre. CHAPTER IV. The curtain fell. Franz had reappeared to receive the enthusiastic homage of the audience, and was now in his room undressing, when the door opened, and his father stood before him. Instead of rushing into his arms, Franz stood confused, blushing, trembling. The haggard sternness of his father’s face told but too plainly with what feelings he was regarded. It was a moment of cruel silence. The position was humiliating. With his clothes scattered about the room; with the paint still unwashed from his face; with his room in disorder;—swords, playbills, theatrical dresses, a wig, a rouge-pot, and washing-stand, lying about; himself in the undignified attitude of drawing on his stockings;—all combined to present the miserable and prosaic side of his profession to the angry glance of an incensed parent. “So!” said the old man, “these are your theological studies! This is the end of all my care! you have disobeyed me. You have destroyed all my hopes, and gone upon the stage, for which you well know my detestation. I find you _thus_!” Franz could make no answer. “While I fondly believed you still at the university, pursuing an honourable career—a career useful to mankind and honourable to yourself—you were like a runaway apprentice taking to this odious life.” “But, sir,—I have succeeded!” “So much the worse!” “Is not that my excuse?” “No; it is your condemnation.” “Surely, father, it proves that I have chosen right. It proves I have a vocation for the stage?”