“Lieschen Flemming’s. Oh, yes! pretend astonishment; but I see clearly enough. Your tenderness _on_ the stage with her is so well acted, because you have so often rehearsed it in private.” “Clara! Clara! this jealousy is insupportable!” “Yes, yes—that is the answer I always receive; but it is no answer to my accusation.” “Why, Lieschen is betrothed to Fechter!” “What matters that? Are _you_ not married to me—and does that interfere with your making love to her?” “This is perfectly ridiculous! Last week you were jealous of Rosa Behr, because she played Juliet; now it is Lieschen Flemming, because she plays Gretchen. I presume every actress whom I have to make love to on the stage will come under your suspicions?” “Every one to whom I see you making evident love. I know I am old. I have lost the charm I once had in your eyes.” “This is not the way to regain it,” he said, as he put on his hat and angrily left the room. He that day confessed to himself that she was old, that she had lost the charm which once had captivated him! But Franz was a man of honour; and although he found himself in this false position, he resolved to support his lot with courage. He was wedded to a woman too old for him, unsuited to him; but the wedding had been his act and desire. It had been the crown upon his hopes. He had loved her—been happy with her. He could not forget that. And although divorces are easily obtained in Germany, he could not bring himself to abandon her, to separate from her, now she was past her prime. He had offered her an independence if she wished to part from him; but she did not wish to part—she still clung to the idea of regaining his lost affection—and made home miserable as a means of regaining it! For five years did Franz drag about with him this load of wretchedness. To render his situation still more pitiable, he became conscious that he loved another. Madame Röckel’s youngest daughter—a sweet innocent girl of eighteen—had conceived a passion for the young tragedian, which her artless nature had but ill concealed. Franz read it in her eyes, in her tones, in her confusion; and reading it, he also read in his own heart that her passion was returned. He left Berlin in two days after the discovery, with bitter curses on his youthful error, which had yoked him to a woman he could no longer love, and which had shut him for ever from the love of another. Then, indeed, the thought of a divorce rose constantly before him; but he wrestled with the temptation, and subdued it. He resolved to bear his fate. His only hope was that death might interpose to set him free! CHAPTER VI. If in these brief sentences I have indicated the misery of Franz’s condition—the depth of the shadows which accompanied the lustre of his success—if I have truly presented the main outlines of his domestic history, the reader will imagine Franz’s feelings when a hand as friendly as that of death did interfere to set him free.