"Come, come, _mein Herr_, what does that mean? Kiss the little angel, and be thankful you may. The innocent! You ought to be delighted," said she, standing with grenadier-like stiffness beside him.
"He won't bite you, Karl," I said, reassuringly. "He's quite harmless."
Thus encouraged, Herr Linders stooped forward and touched the cheek of the child with his lips; then, as if surprised, stroked it with his finger.
"_Lieber Himmel!_ how soft! Like satin, or rose leaves!" he murmured, as the woman carried the child away, shut the door and disappeared.
"Does she tackle you in that way every night?" he inquired next.
"Every evening," said Eugen. "And I little dare open my lips before her. You would notice how quiet I kept. It's because I am afraid of her."
Frau Schmidt, who had at first objected so strongly to the advent of the child, was now devoted to it, and would have resented exceedingly the idea of allowing any one but herself to put it to bed, dress or undress it, or look after it in general. This state of things had crept on very gradually; she had never said how fond she was of the child, but put her kindness upon the ground that as a Christian woman she could not stand by and see it mishandled by a couple of _men_, and oh! the unutterable contempt upon the word "men." Under this disguise she attempted to cover the fact that she delighted to have it with her, to kiss it, fondle it, admire it, and "do for it." We knew now that no sooner had we left the house than the child would be brought down, and would never leave the care of Frau Schmidt until our return, or until he was in bed and asleep. She said he was a quiet child, and "did not give so much trouble." Indeed, the little fellow won a friend in whoever saw him. He had made another conquest to-night. Karl Linders, after puffing away for some time, inquired, with an affectation of indifference:
"Sure of it. But I didn't know, Courvoisier--so sure as I live, I knew nothing about it!"
"I dare say not. Did I ever say you did?"
I saw that Karl wished to ask another question; one which had trembled upon my own lips many a time, but which I had never asked--which I knew that I never should ask. "The mother of that child--is she alive or dead? Why may we never hear one word of her? Why this silence, as of the grave? Was she your wife? Did you love her? Did she love you?"