“You’re sure you won’t be angry?”
“Ask your questions!”
“Fraulein—have you ever kissed a man?”
“I?” She pondered. “Of course. Hundreds of times.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Thousands of times!”
“You’re joking!”
“It’s true. My Papa!” And she burst into a peal of laughter.
“There you are!” said Pagel when she had finally quieted down. “You haven’t the courage either.”
Vi was indignant. “I haven’t got the courage?”
“No, you’re just as afraid as I am.”
“Well, I have kissed a man. And not just Papa. A young man, a brave man”—her voice almost sang now—“not a weakling like you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true, it’s true. He’s even got a mustache, a little fair one, it prickles. And you haven’t got one!”
“I see,” said Pagel, crestfallen. “And you’re really only sixteen, Fraulein?”
“I’m only fifteen, even,” she declared in triumph.
“I say, but you have got courage,” he said admiringly. “I could never be as brave as that. But, of course, you have never
“I couldn’t do that?” she cried with blazing eyes. “What do you think of me, then?”
He lowered his glance before hers. “Please, Fraulein! I haven’t said anything. Of course you could do it, I believe you. Please, don’t …” But he pleaded in vain. Her flaming eyes, her half-opened mouth, came closer to him, although he tried to retreat. Her mouth laid itself on his.…
And she felt a change come over him, as if her lips had given strength to him. She felt herself crushed in his arms, his lips returned her kiss.… Now she wanted to draw away, now she was afraid.… But the kiss of those lips grew hotter and hotter; she wanted to resist, and she felt herself yielding. Her head, which had been proudly erect, gave way, nestled.… Her back became soft, she hung in his arms.… “Oh!” she sighed and sank into the ecstasy she had missed for so long. “Oh, you …”
But his arms ceased to hold her. His face was again far away; it looked serious, no longer wearing the smile.
“Well, Fraulein, that was that!” he said calmly. “Anyone as weak as you shouldn’t play with men.”
“You are mean!” she cried with flaming cheeks, partly from anger and partly from shame. “A gentleman wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“It was mean,” he admitted. “But there was something I had to know about you, and you would never have told me the truth. Now I know it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket. “I found this letter, this copy of a letter, in the office hidden in a book. I suppose it was yours?”
“Oh, that silly old letter!” she cried scornfully. “That’s why you’re carrying on this performance. Meier must be crazy, making a copy of it. You should have torn the thing up, instead of deceiving me so horribly.”
Pagel looked at her critically while he tore the letter into tiny pieces. “There,” he said, putting the little heap into his pocket. “I shall burn it at once. But there is at least still
“Anyone could type out a thing like that!”
“Quite so! But you are confined to your room—it seems therefore that there is already a suspicion. Without the suspicion the copy would carry little weight. But with it?”
“I’ve got the original back. If I admit nothing, nothing can be proved.”
“But you might be outwitted.”
“Not me.”
“I outwitted you very quickly.”
“They’re not all as crafty as you.”
“Little Fraulein,” said Pagel with kindly admonition, “let’s agree that from now on you’ll be just as polite to me as I am to you. Let’s forget the letter which I have torn up. What I did, doesn’t seem very nice. But it was better, anyway, than if I’d gone to your mother and told tales. Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I didn’t care for that.”
“Don’t be so solemn!” she mocked. “You’ve probably also written love letters and received them.” But her mockery no longer had its old force.
“Very true,” he said calmly, “but I’ve never been a scoundrel. I’ve never yet corrupted fifteen-year-old girls. Come along,” he seized her arm, “let’s go to your mother. She’s sure to be getting worried.”
“Herr Pagel,” she said imploring, resisting. “He’s not a scoundrel.”
“Of course he is, and you know it quite well, too.”
“No,” she declared, struggling with her tears. “Why are you all so unkind to me now? Before it was different!”
“Who is unkind to you?”
“Mamma, who is eternally tormenting me, and Hubert.”
“Who is Hubert? Is
“No. Our servant, Hubert Rader.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes,” she said weeping. “Please let go my arm, Herr Pagel, you are crushing it.”
“Sorry. So the servant torments you, does he?”
“Yes.… He is so mean.”
“And who else knows?”
“No one that knows anything definite.”
“Not Bailiff Meier?”
“Oh, him! But he’s gone away!”
“Then he knows too? Who else?”
“The forester—but he doesn’t know anything definite.”
“Who else?”
“No one—really, Herr Pagel! Don’t look at me like that, I’ve told you everything. Really I have.”
“And the servant torments you? How does he torment you?”
“He is mean—he says mean things, and he puts dirty books under my pillow.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know—about marriage, with pictures.”
“Come along,” said Pagel again, seizing her arm. “Be brave. Now we shall go to your parents and tell them everything. You have fallen into the hands of scoundrels who torture you till you no longer know what to do. Your parents will understand. They are only angry with you because they feel you are lying.… Come along, Fraulein, be brave—I’m the coward of the two.” And he smiled at her.
“Please, please, dear Herr Pagel, don’t do that!” Her face was streaming with tears; she had seized his hands as if he were wanting to run away with the bad news, she caressed him … “If you tell my parents, I swear to you I’ll jump into the water. Why do you want to tell them? It’s all over, anyway.”
“It’s all over?”
“Yes, yes,” she wept. “He hasn’t come for three weeks.”
He became thoughtful. Inevitably the vanished Petra stood before his eyes. When he had felt those lips under his own, felt that body soften as it surrendered itself to the seduction of pleasure, not to the ecstasy of love—her picture had arisen, distant but clear; a face sweet and composed, greeting him from the past. Reluctantly he found himself forced to make comparisons. What would Petra have done here? Would she have said that? She would never have behaved so.…
And the sweet face, seen a thousand times, the face of the girl who had forsaken him, whom he had forsaken, triumphed over this other schoolgirl face, and seemed to admonish him to kindness. She triumphed—and this triumph of the one who had abandoned him at least warned him to be good to this new one, and not to burden
