He is dead, is he? Very well, then; bury
him."
Elias was carried about in triumph, like another Mattathias; but, far
from accepting the proffered glory, he drooped under a profound
melancholy.
He lost flesh, he sighed, he groaned; his nose, already a pretty long
one, seemed to gain in prominence what it lost in solidity, and often in
the evening, as he was passing down the Rue des Trois Fontaines, he might
be heard murmuring--
"Kaspar Evig, forgive me; I did not mean to take your life. Oh, unhappy
Eva! what have you done? By your thoughtless flirting you made two brave
men quarrel, and now the shade of the Seigneur Kaspar pursues me
everywhere, even in my sleep. Oh, Eva! wretched Eva! why did you behave
so?"
So poor Elias moaned in his misery; and he was the more to be pitied
because the sons of Israel are not bloodthirsty, and they know it is
written in their law, "Whosoever sheddeth man's blood by man shall his
blood be shed."
Now one fine day in July, while I was drinking at the Faucon, in walks
Elias Hirsch, just as miserable as ever, with hollow cheeks, hair hanging
in disorder about his face, and downcast eyes.
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