A deeper blush overspread Franz’s face, and a look of anger shot from his eyes, as his father contemptuously let fall those words. Franz loved his wife; but he knew the disparity between them. She was not old to him, for he loved her,—was happy with her; but although to him she was as young as a bride, he knew what others said of her—what others thought of her. For himself he felt that “Age could not wither, nor custom stale Her infinite variety;” yet he trembled at his father’s knowing she was his wife. Schoenlein, who had observed the blush on Franz’s countenance, walked up to him and, placing one hand upon his shoulder, said— “Franz, Franz, beware! You are on the edge of an abyss: the worst temptations of our miserable profession beset you. Beware of that artful old woman:—do not frown, she is artful,—I have heard of her! She has ruined more young men than any woman now upon the stage. She has ensnared you;—do not attempt to deny it,—I see it in your countenance. She has flattered and cajoled you. She has lured you with languishing looks and sweet low words. You are already her dupe;—beware lest you become her victim!” “I cannot,” said Franz, rising wrathfully, “I must not, I will not, hear this language of her.” “You must and shall hear it. Why should I hesitate to utter the contempt I feel for that _refuse_ of a hundred libertines!” Franz was purple with suppressed passion, and, with terrible calmness, said:— “You are speaking, sir, of MY WIFE!” Schoenlein’s lower jaw fell; his eyes became glazed, and, slowly sinking on the sofa, he waved his hand for his son to withdraw. CHAPTER V. The following week Schoenlein was again in Berlin, and playing three nights a-week—a thing quite unprecedented with him. All his repertory was brought forward. A sort of rage possessed him. He was tormented with the idea of producing such an effect upon the public as should perfectly eclipse his rival and son. With true actor’s ingenuity in such matters, he gave the preference to his son’s favourite parts. He hoped, by repeatedly performing them ere Franz arrived, he should weary the public of those plays, and so prevent large audiences welcoming the new actor. He hoped, also, that by this means the public would better appreciate the difference between his finished style and the crude energy of his rival. The consequence of this procedure he expected to be,—small audiences and unfavourable criticisms. By these he hoped to disgust his son, and so wean him from the stage. Unhappily, he was so goaded by the desire to produce a greater effect than heretofore, as to act much worse than heretofore. He overdid every thing. He was too violent; his contrasts were too marked; the elaboration was painful. People lamented his exaggeration, and began to whisper that his day was gone.