"A nice little puppy; and the young beauty is to have him for her husband--is that so?" "I believe so." "And what do you say to that?" "What Hamlet said: 'Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of the world!'" "My evil anticipations are about to be fulfilled," said Oldenburg, through his teeth. "You said?" "I was wondering whether Charles had raised the top of the carriage, so that my little Czika does not sit quite in the open air. I believe, however, she would like it best if she never had any other ceiling above her. During our journey she always was delighted when we travelled at night, and she could see her beloved stars on high." "And may I ask what took you away so suddenly from our neighborhood?" asked Oswald, and his voice trembled. "A matter of business which interests me only indirectly. The illness of a man whose death may be of the utmost importance to two persons who are dear to me." The baron waited to see if Oswald would reply. "I was vain enough to fancy that my departure would make some noise in our society here," he added, when Oswald remained silent; "this seems, however, not to have been the case." "Everybody has been so accustomed for years to see you come and go of a sudden that they no longer wonder," said Oswald; "but I think there is the carriage!" "Where is Czika, Charles?" asked the baron. "She is fast asleep in the carriage, sir," replied the coachman, who had come down from his seat to let down the steps. "I have covered her carefully." "We will take her between us, as the other day when we found her on the high-road on our return from Barnewitz." The baron was already inside. "Is that you, master?" asked the child, awaking. "Yes, my darling!" "Who is the man with you?" "Your friend, the man with the blue eyes." "He must stay with us," Czika murmured, overcome by sleep and pressing close up to Oswald, who had taken his seat. "Czika is tired; Czika wants to sleep in your arms!" "I believe," said the baron, when the carriage was in motion, "you have made an indelible impression upon the child. She often speaks of you, and asks why the man with the blue eyes does not come back again? She always calls you so. The human heart is, after all, a curious thing. The wisest of the wise has no key to it. What trouble I have taken to win the heart of this child! I should like so much to call some one being in this wide world my own! And have I succeeded? I hardly know. She follows me, but only as a child would do when the mother has said: Go with that gentleman, and behave well! I have surrounded her with the tenderest affection, and yet I am to her now only what I was to her the first day. She accepts everything, like a gift which we do not refuse merely because we do not wish to offend the giver."