And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to be counted among the great lovers of all time. * * * * * One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips: "Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?" He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business lady?" They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal. His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth squandered.... And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their foreheads against each other, and wept. AUTUMN Chapter I. It was on a sunny afternoon in October. Human masses streamed through the alleys of the _Tiergarten_. With the desperate passion of an ageing woman who feels herself about to be deserted, the giant city received the last caresses of summer. A dotted throng that was not unlike the chaos of the _Champs Elysees_, filled the broad, gray road that leads to Charlottenburg. Berlin, which cannot compete with any other great European city, as far as the luxury of vehicular traffic is concerned, seemed to have sent out to-day all it possessed in that kind. The weather was too beautiful for closed _coupes_, and hence the comfortable family landau was most in evidence. Only now and then did an elegant victoria glide along, or an aristocratic four-in-hand demand the respectful yielding of the crowd. A dog-cart of dark yellow, drawn by a magnificent trotter, attracted the attention of experts. The noble animal, which seemed to feel the security of the guiding hand, leaned, snorting, upon its bit. With far out-reaching hind legs, it flew along, holding its neck moveless, as became a scion of its race. The man who drove was sinewy, tall, about forty, with clear, gray eyes, sharply cut profile and a close-clipped moustache. In his thin, brownish cheeks were several deep scars, and between the straight, narrow brows could be seen two salient furrows. His attire--an asphalt-gray, thick-seamed overcoat, a coloured shirt and red gloves--did not deny the sportsman. His legs, which pressed against the footboard, were clad in tight, yellow riding boots. Many people saluted him. He returned their salutations with that careless courtesy which belongs to those who know themselves to have transcended the judgment of men. If one of his acquaintances happened to be accompanied by a lady, he bowed deeply and respectfully, but without giving the ladies in question a single glance. People looked after him and mentioned his name: Baron von Stueckrath. Ah, that fellow ... And they looked around once more.