'Wasn't that rather indiscreet, Mr. Engelman?'
'I said nothing that could reasonably offend him. 'Do you know of some discreditable action on the part of Madame Fontaine, which has not been found out by anyone else?' I asked. 'I know the character she bears in Wurzburg,' he said; 'and the other night I saw her face. That is all I know, friend Engelman, and that is enough for me.' With those sour words, he walked out of the room. What lamentable prejudice! What an unchristian way of thinking! The name of Madame Fontaine will never be mentioned between us again. When that much-injured lady honors me with another visit, I can only receive her where she will be protected from insult, in a house of my own.'
'Surely you are not going to separate yourself from Mr. Keller?' I said.
'Not for the present. I will wait till your aunt comes here, and brings that restless reforming spirit of hers into the business. Changes are sure to follow—and my change of residence may pass as one of them.'
He got up to leave the room, and stopped at the door.
'I wish you would come with me, David, to Madame Fontaine's. She is very anxious to see you.' Feeling no such anxiety on my side, I attempted to excuse myself; but he went on without giving me time to speak—'Nice little Miss Minna is very dull, poor child. She has no friend of her own age here at Frankfort, excepting yourself. And she has asked me more than once when Mr. David would return from Hanau.'
My excuses failed me when I heard this. Mr. Engelman and I left the house together.
As we approached the door of Madame Fontaine's lodgings, it was opened from within by the landlady, and a stranger stepped out into the street. He was sufficiently well dressed to pass for a gentleman—but there were obstacles in his face and manner to a successful personation of the character. He cast a peculiarly furtive look at us both, as we ascended the house-steps. I thought he was a police spy. Mr. Engelman set him down a degree lower in the social scale.
'I hope you are not in debt, ma'am,' he said to the landlady; 'that man looks to me like a bailiff in disguise.'
'I manage to pay my way, sir, though it is a hard struggle,' the woman replied. 'As for the gentleman who has just gone out, I know no more of him than you do.'
'May I ask what he wanted here?'
'He wanted to know when Madame Fontaine was likely to quit my apartments. I told him my lodger had not appointed any time for leaving me yet.'
'Did he mention Madame Fontaine's name?'
'Yes, sir.'
'How did he know that she lived here?'
'He didn't say.'
'And you didn't think of asking him?'
'It was very stupid of me, sir—I only asked him how he came to know that I let apartments. He said, 'Never mind, now; I am well recommended, and I'll call again, and tell you about it.' And then I opened the door for him, as you saw.'
'Did he ask to see Madame Fontaine?'
'No, sir.'
'Very odd!' said Mr. Engelman, as we went upstairs. 'Do you think we ought to mention it?'
I thought not. There was nothing at all uncommon in the stranger's inquiries, taken by themselves. We had no right, that I could see, to alarm the widow, because we happened to attach purely fanciful suspicions to a man of whom we knew nothing. I expressed this opinion to Mr. Engelman; and he agreed with me.
The same subdued tone which had struck me in the little household in Main Street, was again visible in the welcome which I received in Madame Fontaine's lodgings. Minna looked weary of waiting for the long-expected letter from Fritz. Minna's mother pressed my hand in silence, with a melancholy smile. Her reception of my companion struck me as showing some constraint. After what had happened on the night of her visit to the house, she could no longer expect him to help her to an interview with Mr. Keller. Was she merely keeping up appearances, on the chance that he might yet be useful to her, in some other way? The trifling change which I observed did not appear to present itself to Mr. Engelman. I turned away to Minna. Knowing what I knew, it grieved me to see that the poor old man was fonder of the widow, and prouder of her than ever.
It was no very hard task to revive the natural hopefulness of Minna's nature. Calculating the question of time in the days before railroads, I was able to predict the arrival of Fritz's letter in two, or at most three days more. This bright prospect was instantly reflected in the girl's innocent face. Her interest in the little world about her revived. When her mother joined us, in our corner of the room, I was telling her all that could be safely related of my visit to Hanau. Madame Fontaine seemed to be quite as attentive as her daughter to the progress of my trivial narrative— to Mr. Engelman's evident surprise.
'Did you go farther than Hanau?' the widow asked.
'No farther.'
'Were there any guests to meet you at the dinner-party?'
'Only the members of the family.'
'I lived so long, David, in dull old Wurzburg, that I can't help feeling a certain interest in the town. Did the subject turn up? Did you hear of anything that was going on there?'
I answered this as cautiously as I had answered the questions that had gone before it. Frau Meyer had, I fear, partially succeeded in perverting my sense of justice. Before my journey to Hanau, I might have attributed the widow's inquiries to mere curiosity. I believed suspicion to be the ruling motive with her, now.
Before any more questions could be asked, Mr. Engelman changed the topic to a subject of greater interest to himself. 'I have told David, dear lady, of Mr. Keller's inhuman reception of your letter.'
