antly dressed lady, coming from the
opposite direction, suddenly stopped just in front of me. As I was
absorbed in thought, at first I took no notice but passed on. After a
few steps the fleeting perception became a distinct consciousness, and
I involuntarily turned. There the lady still stood, as if rooted to
the spot, looking after me. I went back somewhat hesitatingly, though
curious, she hastily advanced to meet me and, ere I could distinguish
her features through the thick veil, she cried in a stifled voice: 'I
was not mistaken! It is really you! What good luck! What good luck!'
As she spoke she stretched out both hands, clasped mine, pressed them,
and continued to hold them. You have guessed it: Helene. What shall
I say to you, my friend? I felt as if I were in a dream. Before me
stood the woman of whom I so often thought, since your visit more
frequently and more tenderly than ever, the personification of my
happiest moments, the love of my youth, transfigured by memory, for
whom I had longed twelve years, whom I had never expected to see again!
You know that I am not usually sentimental, but my eyes grew dim. I
could say only: 'Helene!' Then we had embraced and kissed each
other--through the veil--as if we were mad, in the public street, and
in the presence of the passers-by, who looked at us curiously. Helene
took my arm and drew me quickly forward in silence. A hack was
passing. Helene stopped it, sprang in hastily, and then asked: 'Can we
go to your home?' 'Certainly,' I cried. 'Then give the driver your
address.' Now we again sat hand clasped in hand, gazing into each
other's eyes, it was a moment full of mingled bliss and pain, such as I
have scarcely ever experienced. Then came another shower of kisses and
caresses, this time with the veil thrown back and even the hat laid
aside--the twelve years of course have not passed over her leaving no
trace, but she is still a beautiful, stylish woman--then followed
questions. I was obliged to relate first how I had fared and what I
had experienced. She rejoiced that I was unmarried, she pressed my
hand when I told her that I had not ceased to think of her. Then she
began to tell her story. She was married. Happily? She really had no
cause to complain. Her husband, of course, was not I, but she made no
comparisons. He treated her kindly. He made a great deal of money.
Only she was bored. Besides, he was jealous. It was absurd, since he