Franz Müller's Wife

"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant
or Dugald Stewart?"

"None of them. I am reading _Faust_."

"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in
the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to
the right about, stick to Shakespeare."

"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women."

"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz,
condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin
Christine Stromberg."

"I do not know the young lady."

"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother
Max was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?"

"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look
alike."

"But you will go?"

"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuse
yourself while I dress."

"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of
Christine."

For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech.
He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the
careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a
familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of
his life for any clew to this familiarity.

He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray,
thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted
up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still
and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the
regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and
Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Müller.
No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in
love with you."

Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love
for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but
the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no
one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are
sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally
willing to respect it.

Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who
fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It
was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never
have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As
soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation
possessed him;