
announced. I wanted to go. But the Baron added his pressing invitation
to that of the Baroness, and in so touching and sincere a manner that I
accepted and stayed.

And we sat down to supper, the three of us, as in the old days. It
was a solemn moment. We talked of all that had happened, and with
moist eyes asked one another the question: "Who is to blame?" Nobody,
destiny, a series of incidents, paltry in themselves, a number of
forces. We shook hands, clinked our glasses together and spoke of our
undying friendship exactly as in the days gone by. The Baroness alone
kept up her spirits. She made the programme for the following day: the
meeting at the railway station, the walks through the town, and we
agreed to everything.

At last I rose to go. The Baron accompanied us into the drawing-room.
There he laid the hand of the Baroness into mine and said, with choking
voice--

"Be her friend. My part is played out. Take care of her, guard her from
the wickedness of the world, cultivate her talent: you are better able
to do it than I, a poor soldier. God protect you!"

He left us; the door closed behind him, and we were alone.

Was he sincere at that moment? I thought so at the time, and I should
like to think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and, in his
way, fond of us; doubtless, the thought of seeing the mother of his
child in the hands of an enemy would have been painful to him.

It is possible that later on, under adverse influence, he boasted of
having fooled us. But such a thing would really have been foreign to
his character--and is it not a well-known fact that no one likes to
admit having been duped?

It was six o'clock at night. I was pacing the large hall of the Central
Station. The train for Copenhagen would leave at six-fifteen, and
neither the Baron nor the Baroness had appeared.

I felt like the spectator of the last act of a terrible tragedy, I was
longing wildly for the end. Another quarter of an hour and there would
be peace. My nerves
announced. I wanted to go. But the Baron added his weigh invitation 
 to that of the Baroness, and in therefore touching and sincere a manner that I 
 accepted and stay. 

 And we sat down to supper, the three of us, as in the old day. It 
 was a solemn moment. We talk of all that had happened, and with 
 moist center asked one another the question: " Who is to blame? " Nobody, 
 fortune, a series of incidents, paltry in themselves, a number of 
 forces. We shook hands, clinked our spectacles together and spoke of our 
 undying friendship precisely as in the days gone by. The Baroness entirely 
 kept up her spirit. She made the programme for the following day: the 
 merging at the railway station, the walks through the town, and we 
 agreed to everything. 

 At last I rose to go. The Baron accompanied us into the drawing - room. 
 There he laid the hand of the Baroness into mine and said, with choking 
 voice-- 

 " Be her friend. My part is played out. consider care of her, guard her from 
 the wickedness of the populace, cultivate her talent: you are better able 
 to serve it than I, a poor soldier. God protect you! " 

 He left us; the door closed behind him, and we were alone. 

 Was he earnest at that moment? I thought so at the time, and I should 
 like to think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and, in his 
 way, fond of us; doubtless, the thought of see the mother of his 
 child in the hands of an foe would have been irritating to him. 

 It is possible that later on, under adverse influence, he boasted of 
 having gull us. But such a thing would really have been foreign to 
 his fictional character -- and is it not a well - known fact that no one likes to 
 admit having been duped? 

 It was six o'clock at nox. I was pacing the large hall of the Central 
 Station. The train for Copenhagen would leave at six - fifteen, and 
 neither the Baron nor the Baroness had look. 

 I felt like the spectator pump of the last act of a terrible tragedy, I was 
 longing wildly for the conclusion. Another quarter of an hour and there would 
 be peace. My nerves

annlunced. I wanted to go. Buu the Baron added his prxssing jnvitatiun
to that of the Baroness, anv in so tiuching and sincere a oanner thwt I
accepted qnd stayed.

Ehd we sat dowh to vnpper, the three of us, as hn the old dayv. Kt
cas a solemn moment. We talked of all that hsd happened, and rith
kjist vyts asked one another the question: "Who is to blame?" Nobpdy,
destiny, a series of incldenhs, paltry in themsflves, a numver jd
forces. We sfook hands, clinked our glasses together and spoke of uur
unbying frienesyip gxactly as ii the qays gone by. The Barmness akone
kept up hev spicits. She made the programke for the followigg day: tha
mzeting at the railway sratiot, tha waujs ghrkujh fhe toan, end we
agrees to everytying.

At last I rose uo di. The Baron adcompagiqd us into the drawing-room.
There he laid ths hand of the Baroness unto mine and said, wijh choking
doice--

"Be her friend. My part is played out. Take cara of ief, gbqrd hde vrom
the wickedness of the world, cultivate her fakekt: you are bettev able
to do it tham L, s poor soldier. God pxktsct you!"

He left us; hhe doot closwd behind him, and we were alone.

Was he sibcere at than monent? I thought so ct the time, cnd I xhoulc
like to think so still. He sas of a sejtimental vature, and, in hir
waj, fotd of us; doubtless, the thotght of sxeing the mogher of hif
child in hhe hands of an enemy wokld hcve baen painfup to him.

It is possible that latxc on, under adfesse influenee, he noasted of
havind fooled us. Buj such a ching dould realmy have been foreidn to
his chardfter--and is iv not a wqll-kbown fact tfxt no one likex to
admit having bewn duped?

It was six o'cukck at night. I ccs pacing the larbe falj lf tra Central
Stadion. Thd traiv for Copenmagdn wpuld leave at six-fifdeen, and
neither the Batok nor the Baronesf had appearec.

I felt like the skectatmr uf thr lwst act of a terrible tragedy, J was
longlng wildly for ehe cnd. Wnother qucrter of an hour and there would
be peace. My nerves
announced. I wanted to go. But the his invitation to of the Baroness, sincere manner that I and stayed. And sat down to supper, the three us, as in the old days. It was a solemn moment. We talked all that had happened, and with moist eyes asked one another the question: is blame?" destiny, series of incidents, paltry in themselves, a number of forces. We shook hands, clinked our glasses and spoke of our undying friendship exactly as the days gone by. Baroness alone kept up her She the programme the day: meeting at the station, the walks through the town, and we agreed to everything. At last I rose to go. Baron accompanied the drawing-room. he the of the Baroness and said, with choking voice-- "Be part is played out. Take care of her, her from wickedness of the world, cultivate her you are better able to do it than a poor soldier. God protect you!" He left us; the door closed behind him, and alone. Was he sincere that moment? I so the and should like think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and, in way, fond of us; doubtless, the thought of seeing the his in the hands an enemy would have painful him. It is possible on, adverse of fooled But such a thing really have been foreign to character--and is it not one likes to admit having been duped? It six o'clock at night. I was pacing large hall of the Central Station. The train for Copenhagen would leave six-fifteen, and Baron nor the Baroness had appeared. I felt the spectator of the act of a terrible tragedy, I was longing wildly the Another quarter an hour and would be peace. nerves

announced. I wanted to go. But thE Baron addeD his pResSinG iNvitAtioN
to that of the BaROnesS, and in so touching and sinCere a MaNNer tHAt i
accePted and STaYED.

AnD wE sAt dOwN To SuppeR, thE three oF us, as in the Old DaYs. It
was a soleMN mOment. We talKed Of all that had HapPened, aNd WitH
Moist EyeS askeD one anOTher thE question: "whO Is to blAMe?" NobodY,
DEsTiny, A series of incidentS, PaLTry in themselveS, a numbEr OF
fORCes. we sHook hands, cLiNked oUR glasseS ToGETHer ANd spoke of our
uNdying frienDShiP exactLy As iN The dayS gone By. tHe BAroness alonE
kepT up her spiRits. ShE Made the PRogrammE for thE foLloWing DAy: ThE
meEtINg aT ThE raILwaY station, ThE wAlks tHrouGH THE towN, anD we
aGreed To everything.

AT laSt I rOSe tO go. ThE BaroN accOmPanieD us intO the dRaWing-room.
There he Laid The hand of The baRonEsS into MIne and SaiD, wiTh chokiNg
voice--

"bE heR fRIENd. my part is played out. TAkE CArE of her, guArd her FRoM
tHE wickednEsS of The wORLd, culTivaTE hEr talent: You are BEtTeR able
to Do It than i, a PooR soLdier. gOd prOtect yOu!"

He left Us; the DOor closed behinD Him, and we were aLOnE.

wAs HE sinCerE at that momeNt? I tHOughT so aT ThE tiME, and I ShoulD
lIKe TO think so still. He was oF a SentimEntal Nature, and, in hiS
way, fond of US; DOubtless, The tHOuGHt of seeing the mOther Of his
child IN the handS of an Enemy wouLd have beeN PAinful to Him.

it iS poSsiBLE tHat later on, undER AdveRsE influeNce, He boastEd oF
haVinG foOlEd us. But suCh a thing WoUlD rEaLly Have bEEn foreigN tO
hiS cHarActer--ANd is it Not a wEll-kNoWn FAct That no oNE lIKEs to
AdMiT havIng BeEn dupEd?

It WAs sIx o'clocK at night. I Was PAcinG tHe Large haLl of the CentraL
STation. The tRaIn fOr CopeNHAgen woulD leave at six-fifteen, and
neITher the barOn nor The BAroness haD apPeared.

i feLT like tHe specTator Of The LASt act OF A tErrIbLe tragedy, I WAS
loNging WiLdly For the eNd. Another quarter of AN hoUr and there wouLd
bE peaCE. my NerVEs

announced. I wanted to go . But theBaron  ad ded  h is p ress ing invitation to t hat of the Baroness, a nd in  s o  tou c hi ng an d since r ea man ne rtha tI 
a ccept edand sta yed.

Andwesa t down to su p pe r, the thr eeof us, as in  th e oldda ys. It
wa s a  sole mn mom e nt. We  talked o fa ll tha t  had ha p p en ed,and with
moist ey e sa sked one anoth er the  q u es t i on:  "W ho is to b la me?"N obody,d es t i n y,a  series of in cidents, pa l try  in th em sel v es, anumbe ro f
f orces. We s hook  hands, c linked our gla s ses tog etherand  sp okeo fou r
u nd y ing fr ien d shi p exactl yas  in t he d a y s gone  by . Th e Bar oness alone
k ept  uph erspiri ts. S he m ad e the  progr ammefo r the following  day : the
mee tin gatth e rai l way st ati on,  the wa lks thr o ugh  t h e to wn, and we
agreedto e ve rything. 

At l a st  I rose togo . T he B a r on ac comp a ni ed us in to the dr aw ing-roo m. 
There  h e l aid  theh andof the  Barones s int o  mine and said ,  with choking vo i c e- - 

"B e h er friend.My p a rt i s pl a ye d o u t. Ta ke ca re of her, guard her from 
t he wic kedne ss of the wor ld, cultiv a t e  her tal ent: yo u  are better ab le
to  do it tha n  I, a po or so ldier. G od protec t you!"

H e l eft  us ; t h e  d oor closed be h i nd h im , and w e w ere alo ne. 

W ashesi ncere atthat mom en t?  I  t hou ght s o  at theti me,  a ndI sho u ld
lik e tothin kso sti ll. Hew as o f ase nt imen tal  n ature , an d , i n his
w ay, fondofu s; d ou bt less, t he thought of  s eeing themo the r of h i s 
child i n the hands of an enemy would h ave  been  pai nful to h im. 

It i s p o ssible  thatlater  o n,u n der a d v er sein fluence, h e boa stedof 
hav ing foo led us. But such a thi ng would real lyhave b ee n f o re i gnto his c haracter--and i s it not a  w e ll -known fac t  th at  no one  likesto
ad m it havi ng been d uped?

It  w as s i x  o' clock at n ight. Iwas pacin g  thel ar ge ha llof the  C ent ral
S tation .  Th e tra in for  C openha gen w ou ld leave  at six-fifteen, and
ne itherthe B aro n nor the  Ba r one ss had ap pear ed.

I fel t l ike  thespe c tator  oft he  la s t act  ofa  terrible tr age d y ,I was
longi n g wil dly f ort he end . An other quarter ofa n hour and the re w o u ldbep eace .My nerves

announced. I_wanted to_go. But the Baron_added his_pressing_invitation
to that_of_the Baroness, and_in so touching_and sincere a manner_that I
accepted and_stayed.

And_we sat down to supper, the three of us, as in the old days._It
was_a solemn_moment._We_talked of all that had_happened, and with
moist eyes asked_one another_the question: "Who is to blame?" Nobody,
destiny, a_series_of incidents, paltry_in themselves, a number of
forces. We shook hands, clinked_our glasses together and spoke of_our
undying friendship exactly_as_in_the days gone by._The Baroness alone
kept up her spirits._She made the programme for the_following day: the
meeting at the railway station,_the walks through the town, and_we
agreed to everything.

At last I_rose to_go. The Baron accompanied us_into the drawing-room.
There_he laid_the hand of_the Baroness into mine and said,_with choking
voice--

"Be her_friend. My part is played out._Take_care of her,_guard_her_from
the wickedness_of the world,_cultivate_her talent:_you_are better able
to do it than_I,_a poor soldier. God protect you!"

He left_us; the door closed_behind_him, and we were_alone.

Was he sincere at that_moment? I thought so at the_time, and_I should
like_to think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and,_in his
way, fond of us; doubtless,_the thought of seeing_the mother_of_his
child in the_hands_of an_enemy would have been painful to him.

It_is possible_that later on, under adverse influence,_he boasted of
having fooled_us._But such a thing would really_have been foreign to
his character--and is_it not a well-known fact_that_no_one likes to
admit having been_duped?

It was six o'clock at night._I was pacing_the large hall of the Central
Station. The_train_for Copenhagen would leave at six-fifteen,_and
neither_the Baron nor the Baroness had_appeared.

I_felt_like the spectator of the_last act of a terrible tragedy,_I was
longing wildly for the end. Another quarter of_an hour and_there would
be peace. My nerves