I knew quite well what had happened. Franzius had returned. Madame Ancelot had told him that I was in the wood. Wishing, no doubt, to find me, he had sent the tune to look for me--the old tune that he knew I liked so well. It was then only that my past relationship with Eloise rose before me. I had said nothing about it; I had even refrained from mentioning her name. I had done this from no ulterior motive. I was not ashamed that the woman I loved should know about Eloise. Had I not brought her to the Pavilion when it was quite possible that Eloise might have returned? Up to this my mind had been so filled with new things, so filled with happiness and extraordinary love, that all things earthly were for me not. "It is a friend of mine, I think," said I. "A violinist. He stays at the Pavilion. And now I want to tell you something." "Yes?" It had seemed so easy, yet now it seemed very difficult. "I told you I had never cared for another woman." "Yes." "Listen! The tune has ceased. Well, there has been only one woman in my life till I met you. You remember little Eloise at Lichtenberg, she who called me Toto?" "Yes." She had placed her hand to her heart, as though she felt a pain there. "Well, I met her again in Paris. She had grown up. She was very poor, and I gave her the Pavilion to live in. She is living there now." "Now!" "Yes," said I, laughing. "And, see, there she is. Wait for me." Franzius and Eloise had just appeared from the wood away down the drive. It was fortunate that Franzius was with her, for now I could bring them both up and introduce them. Their love for one another and their happiness was so evident that it would be an explanation in itself. I ran towards them. Eloise was radiant; Franzius as brown as a berry. "Eloise!" I cried, as I kissed her and wrung both her hands, "do you remember little Carl? Do you remember saying to me: 'Toto, little Carl is a girl'? She is here; she is waiting to meet you. Come." "Where?" asked Eloise. I turned, laughing, to point out the figure of my companion. The drive was empty. The songs of the birds, the shadows of the trees, the golden swathes of light, were there, but of Margaret von Lichtenberg there was no trace. "She has hidden herself amidst the trees," I cried. "Come." But there was no trace of her amidst the trees. "Margaret!" I was frightened at my own voice, at its ghostliness, and the echo of the sweet name that came back from the wood. A wreath of morning mist could not have vanished more completely. I am sure that just then the Franzius' must have thought me mad. CHAPTER XXXVIII THE DRUMS OF WAR Oh, caprice of a woman! To leave me like that in a moment of anger and jealousy, never to wait an explanation; to let fall what might be the curtain of eternal separation with a touch of her hand; to step away from me and vanish into that vast, vague, cruel land we call the world!