eks, she took up the little dog our
friend Tannemann gave her, and calmly began to hunt for fleas in his
curly hair. This made me so furious that I started up and rushed off
without a farewell."

"But you were appeased the next day," observed Wolf.

"Of course. When my blood had become cool, her composure in the
presence of my love-making inspired respect. Then we became the best
friends, and she remarked: 'Since you no longer say that you love me, I
love you.' And do you remember the Sunday excursion?"

"Certainly. To St Cloud. With Tannemann."

"It was enough to made one die of laughing. Helene intentionally
talked extremely fast, so that Tannemann, who knew little about French,
could not understand her. He was terribly provoked because he was
continually obliged to ask her to repeat everything two or three times.
What a merry breakfast we had on the grass in the midst of the ruins!"

"You carried the two bottles of wine in the pockets of your overcoat."

"And you the ham and the chicken. Helene had the bread and butter and
the dishes in a little basket. Tannemann was to furnish the dessert.
But when the time came for that, he declared that there was some
misunderstanding, nothing had been said to him about it."

"He is still the same skinflint he was then."

"The same old pedant, too? Whenever Helene kissed you, he looked away
indignantly."

"Helene was very loving that day. How you blushed when she said that
the only thing we needed to be thoroughly comfortable was that you
should have brought a little friend too."

Sigmund sighed deeply.

"Yes, we were young then," Wolf said, closing the retrospect.

"And you at least know that you have been young. You possess beautiful
memories, of which nothing and no one can deprive you.

"'Who'er has been clasped in the arms of love,
All poverty's ills is for aye raised above;
E'en though he should die afar and alone,
Still would he possess the blissful hour
When kisses upon her lips he did shower,
And, e'en in death, she would yet be his own.'"

"Yours?" asked Wolf.

"Nonsense, that's no mathematician's poetry. Old Storm."

"The feeling is true, though it is somewhat insipidly expressed.
Memories are indeed wealth, though it arouses melancholy to rummage
amid the treasure."

"Tell me, Wolf--what has become of Helene?"

"I hope she is faring very well."

"You do not know?"

"I will tell you what I know about her. I was goi