Franz Müller's Wife - Page 2

his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a
brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare
exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty
and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching
him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what
questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the
clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her.

"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured--"I wonder where
it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels,
and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was
only to take it up again in dreams.

As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One
has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness,"
he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the
waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but
dawning day.

"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his
love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any
probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had
found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite
avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again.

He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr.
Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered,
and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to have
breakfast," she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Müller, and
have a cup of coffee with us."

Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it out
as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked in
her long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows of
pale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he
made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had
not the slightest conception.

A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily suffered
some wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste like
ordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls
became sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite
sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as
that breakfast on the avenue.

When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride.
They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the
trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and
the spring airs