With this he drew a brace of pistols from his pocket, pressed one into Peregrine’s hand, and took his ground with the other, crying, “Shoot, coward! shoot!”
Peregrine placed himself, but declared that nothing should induce him to the incurable madness of entering into a duel with his only friend, without even a suspicion of the cause. At all events he would in no case be the first to begin a murderous attack.
At this Pepusch burst into a wild laugh, and in the same moment the ball went through Peregrine’s hat. The latter remained staring at his friend in profound silence, without picking up the hat, which had fallen to the ground, when Pepusch advanced a few steps towards him, and murmured in a hollow voice, “Shoot!” Peregrine fired his pistol in the air.
With the voice and gestures of a madman, Pepusch now flung himself upon his friend’s breast, and cried out, in heartrending tones, “She is dying! dying for you, unlucky one! Quick! Save her! You can do it—save her for yourself, and let me perish in my despair!”
Pepusch ran off so fast that Peregrine had lost sight of him on the instant, and now a fearful foreboding came over him, that his friend’s mad behaviour must have been occasioned by something terrible which had happened to the little one, whereupon he hastened back to the city.
On entering his house, he was met by the old woman, loudly lamenting that the poor princess was on the sudden taken violently ill, and was dying. Mr. Swammer himself had gone after the most celebrated physician in Frankfurt.
With the feelings of death at his heart, he crept into Mr. Swammer’s room that was opened to him by the old woman. There lay the little one upon a sofa, pale and stiff like a corpse, and it was not till he knelt down and bent over her that he perceived her gentle breathing. No sooner had he touched her icy hand, than a painful smile played about her lips, and she lisped:
“Is it you, my sweet friend? Have you come to see her once again, who loves you so unspeakably—who dies, alas! because she cannot breathe without you?”
Dissolving in sorrow, Peregrine poured himself forth in protestations of the tenderest love, and repeated, that nothing in the world was so dear to him that he would not sacrifice it to her. Out of words grew kisses, but in these kisses again words, like the breathings of love, were distinguishable.
“You know, my Peregrine, how much I love you. I can be yours, you, mine. I can recover on the spot—you will see me bloom again in my youthful splendour, like a flower refreshed by the morning dew, and joyfully lifting up his drooping head. … But—give me up the prisoner, my dear, beloved Peregrine, or else you will see me perish before your eyes, in unutterable death pangs. Peregrine—I can no more—it is all over!”
With this she sank back upon the cushions, from which she had half raised herself; her bosom heaved tumultuously up and down, as if, in the death-pangs; her lips grew bluer, and her eyes seemed to break.
In wild anguish Peregrine caught at his neckcloth, from which Master Flea now leapt, of his own accord, upon the white neck of the little one, exclaiming, in a tone of the deepest grief, “I am lost!”
Peregrine stretched out his hand to catch the Master, but suddenly it seemed as if some invisible power held back his arm, and far other thoughts ran through his head than those which till now had occupied it.
“How!” thought he, “Because you are a frail man, and influenced by a mad passion, will you therefore betray him, to whom you have promised your protection? Will you therefore plunge a free, harmless people into eternal slavery, and utterly ruin the friend whose thoughts and words agree? No, no, recollect yourself, Peregrine! Rather die than be a traitor!”
“Give … up … the prisoner … I am dying!” stammered the little one, with failing voice.
“No!” cried Peregrine, while in despair he caught her in his arms, “No! never! But let me die with you!”
And now a fine, penetrating harmony was heard, as if little silver bells were struck. Dörtje, with fresh roses on her lips and cheeks, started up suddenly from the sofa, and, breaking into a convulsive laughter, skipped about the chamber. She seemed to have been bit by the tarantula.
Peregrine gazed in terror on the strange spectacle, and the same did the physician, who stood at the door quite petrified, keeping out Mr. Swammer, who had followed him.
VI
Sixth Adventure
All the passersby stopped, stretched out their necks, and peeped through the window into the coffee room. With every moment the crowd grew greater, the pressure more violent, and the noise louder. All this was occasioned by two strangers, who—besides that their form, their dress, their whole manner had something extraordinary about it, that was repulsive and ridiculous at the same time—played off many wonderful tricks, such as had never been seen before. The one, an old man, of a dirty, disagreeable appearance, was dressed in a surtout of shining stuff. Sometimes he made himself thin and long, sometimes he would shrink himself up to a short fat fellow, winding about all the time like a worm. The other, with powdered hair, motly silk coat, underdress of the same, large silver buckles, and altogether resembling a petit-maître of the last half of the foregoing century, repeatedly flew up to the ceiling, and then gently let himself down again, while, with a cheerful voice, he trilled discordant songs in a language altogether unknown.
According to the host’s declaration, they had both come in—one a short time after the other—like orderly people, and had called for wine. Then they had gazed more and more keenly on each other, and entered into conversation, and although the
