CHAPTER V.
ACQUIESCENCE AND RELUCTANCE
It was already night when Eric reached Mattenheim. The Weidmann family had entered their winter residence, as they called the beautiful, bright rooms on the upper story of their house, with pictures on the walls, and open fires burning on the tasteful hearths.
Frau Weidmann was sitting with her daughter-in-law behind the table on which stood the lamp, while her son was reading aloud. Herr Weidmann was in his study.
Eric begged leave to seek him there, and found him among the alembics and retorts of his laboratory.
"I cannot shake hands," cried he gayly; "but, first of all, turn your mind from the weight which oppresses you. That will help matters. You see you find me in a cheerful mood. We are trying to profit by a new discovery. We have found that a new sort of printer's ink can be prepared from the skins and grounds of grapes. The matter promises well, and our friend Knopf is probably already writing a poem on this subject. He wishes, that, in future, all lyrics, but especially drinking songs, should be printed only with ink prepared in this manner. Look, here is the new stuff boiling. But you had better wait in the next room, where you will find some very interesting newspapers. Wait a little while, and I will be with you."
Eric, going into the adjoining apartment, found the table strewn with American newspapers, containing accounts of violent election struggles between the Republicans and the Democrats. The latter name had been assumed by those who wished to enforce State rights so far as to be incompatible with the existing Union; their true and chief object being the preservation of slavery. On the other hand, the Republican party was united in the name and spirit of Abraham Lincoln.
"In these days in which we live," thought Eric, "the great cause is being decided in the New World. In what state of mind is Sonnenkamp awaiting the result of this struggle?" He read on without knowing what he read.
Weidmann came in, saying that he had expected Eric, and asked how Sonnenkamp's children had endured the publicity of this affair. He declared his readiness to serve, as soon as Eric had explained to him the plan of the jury. He added, that he could not as yet foresee any permanent result that could come from it, but that at least a clearer insight into the matter would be obtained by this means, and, perhaps, the power of putting the children in the position due to them.
Weidmann was the first person out of the family, with the exception of the Major, to whom Eric communicated his connection with Manna. He was not in the least surprised, having looked upon this relationship as inevitable, from all that he had heard of Manna, in connection with what he knew of Eric. He even added, that it was on Eric's account that he had instantly acquiesced in the plan proposed, knowing how nearly the restoration of the honor of the house, in such measure as was possible, must concern him, and feeling that it was the duty of his friends to stand by him.
"Oh, I was so proud of my integrity!" lamented Eric; "and now" —
"You may remain so," interrupted Weidmann; "and I can put your mind at ease on one point. It is certain that the greater part of the wealth of this man at Villa Eden was not gained through the slave-trade. That I know from my nephew."
"Pray, assure our Roland of that, first of all."
"I will. Send him to me as soon as possible."
He asked how it happened that Herr von Pranken continued to consider himself as the son of the house, clinging to this connection with inexplicable tenacity.
Eric could only say that he and Manna, in order not to cause more confusion at this juncture, had kept their affection a secret with the greatest care.
Weidmann urged that it should be made known before the trial; and Eric gave him his word that it should.
His friend then returned at once to the preparations for the jury, saying, —
"One other thing will be hard to arrange. I think that we ought to include the negro Adams."
Eric doubted whether Sonnenkamp would consent to this; but Weidmann repeated that the blacks had precisely the same right to judge the whites, as the latter had to judge them. Eric promised to propose this, but begged Weidmann, meanwhile, not to make his participation in the business dependent on this.
While they were sitting cheerfully at the table, came a new guest, the Doctor. He had been attending a patient in the neighborhood, and was in high spirits, having just performed a successful operation. Soon turning to Eric, he said, —
"There you have an example. Oh, if we could only prescribe a sedative that would quiet for weeks or months!"
He told them about the man whom he had just left, adding, —
"See how much the fine doings of nobility and virtue signify. The man from whose estate I came is an illegitimate Royal son, and his children are already allied by marriage with the clan of high society. So, in twenty years, no one will ask whence came the wealth of our Roland."
When he had heard of the jury, and how his assistance was taken for granted, and as a fixed fact, he cried, —
"Yes! That is the way with the old tyrants! They love a mock burial. But you won't see me in the funeral-procession. Do you really believe that he will submit to your decree? His only object is to compromise other men. He is deceiving you all; and you, dear Dournay, have interfered enough on this man's behalf. I advise you to leave matters as they are. You are trying to help a negro, no, a negro-dealer, to wash himself white."
The Doctor, as he proclaimed his opinion, gave his jolly laugh, which no one could hear without laughing too.
"The fellow would be quite to my taste," he went on; "he would have been a good, healthy scoundrel of the old sort, only that rascals nowadays, alas! are all so reflective, so self-conscious. They are not satisfied to act as one of Nature's elementary forces, but they are constantly making outrageous attempts at logical self-justification. If this Herr Sonnenkamp really wished to change himself, it would be despicable cowardice."
"Cowardice?" interrupted Weidmann. "He who has not a good conscience can easily be overthrown, and has no persevering fortitude. He can be bold, he can be foolhardy; but temerity is not courage."
"Ho, ho!" interrupted the Doctor. "Have I not already told you that I have an aversion to all this sentimental fuss on behalf of the negroes? I have a natural repugnance for negroes. I don't see why my reason should brand such an innate physiological antipathy as a prejudice. It shows prejudice, moreover, to say that all prejudices are groundless. I could wish that we had more of such inborn dislikes, and that we did not permit so-called civilization to rob us of those which we have. The slave-trade is not a fine thing, it is true. If I had been a prince, I should, after all, have ennobled the man. I should have said, 'Good friend, take a bath; but then be merry, and the Devil take orthodoxy!' The thing which vexes me most is, that this Professor Crutius has obliged the nobles by firing off his article beforehand. Could he not have waited a day longer? Then Sonnenkamp would have been one of the nobility, and they would have been obliged to swallow it as they could. Would not that have been much better?"
The Doctor seemed determined not to regard the matter in a serious light. When they were leaving, however, and he had insisted on Eric's sitting beside him in the carriage, and tying his horse on behind, he said, —
"As for the rest of it, I acquiesce, and, to tell you the truth, on account of your faith. You believe that the past can be atoned for by an effort of the will; and do you really believe this man will repent? Well, your faith shall remove me, the mountain of unbelief. We will see."
Eric told him that he had been at Wolfsgarten, and was not a little astonished when the Doctor said that the incongruity and want of harmony between Clodwig and Bella had reached a crisis.
"Bella," he said, "seeks a narcotic. She studies Latin, and, while smaller natures intoxicate themselves with brandy, she strives to stun herself with Lord Byron's poetry. I ought not to speak of Byron. I was once too much inspired by him, and now go to the other extreme. I consider this sort of writing to be not wine, but – But then, as I said, I am a heretic, and, indeed, a renegade heretic."
Seeing that Eric shrank back, he added, —
"You are horrified by my heresy; but then, it is only my individual opinion."
The Doctor was going on to abuse Bella again in his old way. Eric said involuntarily, how strange it seemed to him that the Doctor should be so imbittered against her, for whom he had once shown a preference.
"Ah, bravo!" cried the Doctor in a loud voice. "My respects! I admire that woman. So, then, she told you that I had once paid her my addresses? Excellent! A stroke of genius! I admire the adroitness with which she would fain have deprived my opinion of all weight in your eyes. What bunglers we men are! Shall I make you a solemn protestation? No. Do you believe me capable of the villany of speaking so of a woman whom I had loved, even for a minute, or liked even for a second? But I thank you. I am enriched by a goodly addition to my knowledge of humanity. I thank you. My conscience is soothed, for I have not judged this woman too harshly. Recall this day's ride to my mind at, some future time. I tell you, that woman will yet earn some notoriety. How – what? That I cannot tell you; but such a wealth of inventive power will yet bring, something to pass."
All this jarred on Eric's mood. Why must it come at such a time? Was there not a sufficient weight on his spirits? He scarcely heard the Doctor, as he went on to relate how hard a struggle Pranken had had with his noble connections, and to keep his place at court, owing to his refusal to renounce Sonnenkamp.
When they had reached the valley, Eric took leave of the Doctor, unfastened his horse, and rode back to the Villa.
In Sonnenkamp's room there was still a light. He sent for Eric, who informed him that all had agreed to the plan. He said not a word about Adams being proposed as a juryman.
"I thank you, I thank you heartily," said Sonnenkamp, who was seated in his armchair. His voice sounded like an old man's. "One thing more," he said, sitting upright. "Does the Countess Bella know of this?"
"I cannot say; but I do not doubt that the Count will inform her of it.
"Did she say nothing about me?"
"No."
"Nothing at all? Did she speak of no member of this household?"
"Oh! yes. Of the children."
"Indeed! Of the children? Well, I thank you. Pleasant dreams."
Eric went to his chamber. He stood long at the window, gazing out upon the landscape.
The reign of Nature continues through all human revolutions; and happy is he, who, in contemplation of this, can forget himself.
It was a dark night. A black, wide-spreading cloud hung over the mountains. Then a bright streak of light appeared on the edge of the ridge, and stood between the mountains and the cloud, which grew lighter. The moon rose, the black cloud ingulfed it, and now the light shone out on both sides, above and below; but the dark mass was darker than before, while detached masses of a leaden color floated on the right and left.
Eric closed his eyes, and lost himself in thought. When he looked up again, the moon was standing above the dark cloud, and the landscape was bathed in its light, which quivered on the stream. And again, after a time, the moon was hidden by another cloud. Eric looked out long and fixedly, till the cloud had vanished. The whole sky was as clear and bright as steel undimmed by a breath; and peacefully shone the mild sphere of light, high in heaven.
Nature, fixed on firm foundations, works on according to eternal laws. Must it not be so too with human life?
Eric thought of Manna, and with the thought a soft light was spread over every thing, like the radiance now diffused from on high.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BROKEN-OFF TWIG
While Sonnenkamp was carrying on the arrangements for the trial by jury, Pranken returned looking ill; and, on Sonnenkamp's urging him to tell him what was the matter, he drew forth the letters from his pocket.
He first laid before him the one in which he had been notified by the marshal of the Prince's household, that it was impossible for him, as chamberlain to his Highness, to retain any connection with a man who had not only forfeited his honor, but had behaved so wrongly towards the Prince, that the question was still being agitated whether he should not be openly arraigned on a charge of high treason.
Sonnenkamp trembled, but laughed at the same time, in a way peculiar to himself.
"Let me see the letter again," said he.
He read it; then, giving it back in silence, asked what the other letter contained.
Pranken said it was yet more decided; and handed him the document of the military court of honor, calling upon him to give up all intercourse with Sonnenkamp.
"And what do you intend to do?" asked Sonnenkamp. "I release you."
"I shall stand by you," replied Pranken.
Sonnenkamp embraced him. There was a pause, a strange silence between these two men.
"I defy them all," exclaimed Pranken; "but here is another letter. It is for you," giving him the letter of the Cabinetsrath.
Sonnenkamp read it.
The document was drawn up in very polite terms, and contained the request that he would travel for a time, until an opportunity should offer for putting down the party which was now urging his indictment before a court on a charge of treason.
"Do you know the purport of this letter?" he asked.
"Certainly. The Heir Cabinetsrath chose to give it to me unsealed."
"And what do you advise?"
"I second his request."
A convulsive twitching passed over Sonnenkamp's face.
"Prudent, very prudent," he said to himself. "You wish to banish me, and retain my estate."
A horror began "to creep over him as he saw a vision of himself seated in prison; but he drove it off.
"So you are of the same opinion?"
"Yes. But, before you leave for any length of time, allow me to point out a means by which you may earn new honors for us both."
"Is there such a means?"
"Yes. I have already told you that there is another faction, quiet but powerful, which is ours, and we, or, rather, you, have the means of binding it to you yet more closely."
And now Pranken told how he had promised to be present, almost immediately, at a council held by the nobles of this ecclesiastical province (which extended beyond the limits of the principality), in the archiepiscopal palace. The proceedings of this convocation were to be strictly confidential. Its object was to confer on the ways and means of rendering the Pope military assistance.
"You do not intend entering the papal army?" asked Sonnenkamp.
"I would, if I were not bound by the ties of duty, of honor, of love, to remain here at my post."
"That is fine, very fine. Excuse my interruption. And why do you impart this to me? I am not of the nobility, and have no place in this council."
"You belong to them, and will be present."
"I belong to them? I shall be present?"
"I will be brief. You will give a sum sufficient for the formation of a regiment, and I can assure you, I have security for your being not only unmolested, but crowned with honors."
"And, having given the money, can I remain here in honor?" Sonnenkamp said with a smile.
"It would be better, if you were absent for a time."
A look of exultation passed over the face of the questioner. This was better still, he thought. They wished to deprive him at once of a portion of his property, and to get rid of him, into the bargain. He looked at Pranken with an expression of great friendliness, and said, —
"Excellent! Does the priest of this parish know of this?"
"No. I have won over the Dean of the cathedral, though?"
"Will you allow me to send for the Priest?"
"Certainly, I will bring him myself."
"No! Remain here."
He gave through the speaking-tube an order that the Priest should be requested to come to him; then, turning again to Pranken, said, —
"And so you second the request? Most excellent! They sell blacks, buying whites instead, and the whites become snow-white. They even become saints."
"I do not understand you."
"Very likely. I am only pleased at the excellent arrangement of this world. My young friend, I believe that the thing called virtue is taught by means of a system in the Universities: they have a system of morality. We, my young friend, will work out a system of criminality. We will establish a chair in the University: Thousands of auditors will come flocking around us, whom we alone can instruct in the Truth, the real Truth. The world is magnificent! It must nominate me for the professorship of worldly wisdom, which is a science differing widely from the idea hitherto entertained of it. It is time that this moral rouge should be rubbed off. I know, thus far, but one human being whom I shall admit as my colleague into this faculty, and that one, alas! is a woman; but we must overcome this prejudice also. Magnificent!"
"You have not yet told me whether you accede to the plan" —
"Have I not? My young friend, you cannot yet become a professor. You are still a school-boy, learning the elements, the rudiments. I would fain found a new Rome, and, as once the Rome of Antiquity was peopled with a community of mere vagabonds, so I would fill my city from the houses of correction. No nation can equal their inhabitants. They are the really vigorous men."
"I do not understand you."
"You are right," said Sonnenkamp at last in a gentle tone. "We will be very upright and discreet, very moral and delicate. My young friend, I have something very different in view. The mouse-trap of your cathedral dean is too clumsy for me. I shall not snap at this bait cooked in lard."
Pranken was full of wrath. Sonnenkamp's manner of treating him like a boy still in his school-jacket roused his indignation.
He stood up very straight, and looked down at himself from head to foot, to see whether he were indeed a little boy. At last he said, throwing back his head, —
"Respected father, I beg you to desist from this pleasantry."
"Pleasantry?"
"Yes. I have united myself to you – you cannot deny it – with a loyalty that – I have wished to make you my equal in – no, I did not mean to say that at such a time – only I must beseech you not to withhold your concurrence from this project. We have obligations. We, have great obligations; and I demand that you should" —
"Why do you hesitate? Obey! Pray say the word. Yes, my noble young friend, I will obey you. It is fine, very fine. What uniform have you chosen? Shall we raise a regiment of cavalry or of infantry? Of course, we will make Roland an officer at once. Better say cavalry: he sits well on horseback. Look here, revered fanatic, I, too, have my fancy. We will ride over the Campagna. Ha! That is jolly! And we will have the best arms of the newest sort. I understand a little of that sort of thing. I have shipped many to America, – more than any of you know. What do you think of my raising the whole regiment in America?"
"That would be so much the better."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sonnenkamp. "A morning dream! They are said to be the sweetest. Haven't you slept almost enough? Haven't you dreamed out your dream?"
Pranken felt as though chains were being wound around and around him. His sensations were those of a man confined in a lion's cave. He must be gentle, yielding, conciliatory. He dares not rouse the lion. He must allow the brute to play with him, expecting every instant to be torn to pieces by his claws. Oh for some means of escape!
Pranken put his hand to his head. What manner of man was this? What did he want of him?
Sonnenkamp said, with his hand on the young man's shoulder, —
"I have nothing against your piety or your pious acts. It is to me a matter of indifference; but, my young friend, none of my money shall be thrown to those cowled fellows. Fine economy, that! Manna builds a convent; you raise a regiment. And is it for this that I have undergone so much? No, you were only joking; were you not? And now let us say no more about it. Be shrewd, and deceive those who think themselves the most so. You will find that the daintiest morsel. Ah! There is Manna coming into the court! We will call her here instantly."
He called through the speaking-tube that Manna was to come to him at once.
Before Pranken had time to say any thing, the door was opened without a knock, and Manna entered.
"You sent for me, father?"
"Yes. How did you get on at the convent?"
"I have taken leave of it forever."
"Thank you, my child, thank you. You do me good, and you know how much I need it now. So now let me arrange every thing on the spot. You look so fresh, so animated! I have never seen you so much so. Herr von Pranken," turning to him, "you see how Manna has freed herself, and I have your promise to give up the matter of which we have been speaking; have I not?"
Pranken made no answer.
"I did not know that you were here, Herr von Pranken," began Manna, "but now, now it is best that it is so."
"Certainly," said Sonnenkamp decidedly. "You can have nothing to say to me which our faithful friend may not hear. Sit down."
He took, according to his wont, a little peg of wood, and began to whittle.
Manna did not sit down: with her hand on the back of a chair, she said, —
"Herr von Pranken, I wish to prove to you my gratitude for your faithful" – .
"That you will, that you can," interrupted her father, looking up from his peg. "It is well. I need joy, I need rest, I need serenity. You are right. A cordial would now be doubly refreshing. Give our friend your hand now."
"I give it in farewell."
"In farewell?" cried Sonnenkamp, making a deep cut in the peg. He went up to Manna, and caught her hand.
"Pray, father," she interrupted. "Herr von Pranken, you are a nobleman whom I honor and esteem. You have proved yourself loyal to my father: as his child, I shall value you, and remember you with gratitude; but" —
"But what?" demanded Sonnenkamp.
"I owe it to you to speak the truth. I cannot become your wife. I love Herr Dournay, and he loves me. We are one; and no power of earth or heaven can part us."
"You and the teacher, that Huguenot, that word-huckster, that hypocrite? I will strangle him with my own hands, the thief" —
"Father," returned Manna, drawing herself up to her full height, while the heroic courage which shone from her eyes made her appear taller and stronger than she was in reality, – "father, Herr Dournay is a teacher and a Huguenot. It is only your anger that speaks the rest."
"My anger shall speak no more. You do not know me yet. I stake my life on this" —
"That you will not do, father. We children have enough to bear already."
A cry, horrible as that of some monster, burst from Sonnenkamp's breast.
Turning to Pranken, he cried, —
"Leave us! Herr von Pranken. Leave me alone with her!"
"No," was the reply. "I will not leave you alone with your daughter. I have loved her. I have a right to protect her."
Sonnenkamp supported himself by grasping the table. A vertigo seemed to seize him, and he cried, —
"Do you hear, Manna? Do you hear? And will you reject such a nobleman? Revoke your decision, my child; I will implore you on my knees. See, how perverted your mind is! I have enough to bear already. Do not heap this upon me, too. Look at this man! can you refuse such a one? Manna, you are a sensible, good child. You have only been playing with us; you have only wished to test us. See, you are smiling. I thank you, I thank you for this trial. By means of it, you have obtained a fresh proof of his nobleness. Manna, there he stands. Take him in your arms. I will gladly die; I will do whatever the world demands: only fulfil this one request."
"I cannot, father, I cannot."
"You can, and you will."
"Believe me, father" —
"Believe you? – you, who but lately declared with such firmness, 'I will become a nun!' The infirm of purpose cannot be trusted."
"Father, it pains me unspeakably to be obliged to wound you and Herr von Pranken thus."
"Well – it is well: I must bear this too. You can cut my heart out; for, alas! I have a heart. Fie! And is it for this that I have defied the world, old and new? is it for this that I am thrust out of both, – to call a hypocritical rascal my son? Oh these philosophers! these idealists! these humanitarian fanatics! He smuggles himself into my house as a tutor, in order to marry millions. Oh, most practical philosophers, and rascally liars and hypocrites, into the bargain! I will not bear it!"
He bent his fingers like claws, and moved his hands rapidly, crying, —
"Give me something to tear in pieces, or I do not know what I shall do. You" —
Pranken laid his hand on his shoulder. The three stood facing each other in silence. All breathed hard, but Pranken the hardest.
Manna endured her father's gaze calmly; but she had no foreboding of its real meaning. He again called through the speaking tube, —
"Let Herr Dournay come here."
Then he went on.
"Manna, I do not force you; but I desire you to renounce this teacher, Yet more. Did you not tell me that you had sent word to the priest to come hither?"
"Certainly: you ordered that he should be summoned."
"I hear him in the ante-room. Admit him."
The Priest entered, and Sonnenkamp addressed him thus: —
"Sir priest, I announce to you, before these witnesses, my resolution to give my Villa for the foundation of a convent, provided my daughter Manna, here, takes the veil, as she has always wished to do."
Manna could not comprehend this. She could not suspect the cruel game which her father was playing with her, with Pranken, with Eric, with the Villa, with every thing. She knew not how to help herself, when, just as the Priest, turning toward her, offered his hand, Eric entered. He saw at once what had happened.
"Do you know who I am?" were the words with which Sonnenkamp turned upon him.
Eric bowed.
"And do you know who this man here is, and this girl? And when you look into that mirror, do you know whose image you see?"
Then, pointing to the wall where the hunting-whip hung, he cried, —
"And do you know what that is yonder? The back of many a slave" – He broke off suddenly:
Eric looked proudly around him, then said in a calm voice, —
"To be whipped by men of a certain sort is no dishonor."
Sonnenkamp gave a hollow groan, and Eric went on —
"I beseech thee, Manna, to leave the room."
"Thee! —Manna! – " yelled Sonnenkamp, and would have sprung upon him, had not Pranken caught his arm, saying, —
"Herr Sonnenkamp, if any one here is to demand satisfaction from Herr Dournay, I have the first right."
"Very good!" cried Sonnenkamp, throwing himself into a chair. "Yours is the revenge, yours the honor, yours the life, and yours every thing else. Speak yourself; I've nothing more to say."
"Herr Dournay," began Pranken, "I brought you into this family; and I told you in so many words what relation I held to the daughter. Up to this time, I have had a degree of respect for you; and I regret to be compelled to withdraw it."
Eric jumped up.
"I shall not challenge you to fight," Pranken continued. "You have put on a coat of mail that makes you invulnerable to me. Your life rests under Fräulein Manna's protection, and so your life is inviolable, as far as I am concerned. This is my last word to you so long as my tongue can speak. Herr Sonnenkamp, I have one request only to make of you. Give me your hand, promise to grant it to me."
"I promise you every thing but the regiment, every thing else but that."
"Very well: I have your word that you will not harm this man."
He felt about with trembling hands, and then taking out of his pocket a little book, he handed it to Manna. His voice was filled with emotion, as he said, —
"Fräulein Manna, you once gave this to me: the twig is still lying in it, and it is bare. Take it again. As this twig, broken off from the tree, can never grow to it again: so am I detached from you and from every one here."
He looked Manna full in the face; and then closed by saying, —
"Now we are parted forever."
He drew on his gloves quietly, buttoned them, took up his hat, bowed, and left the room.
Manna looked after him with a humble glance, and then seized Eric's hand. The two stood before Sonnenkamp, who had covered his face with his hand, and who now said, —
"Are you waiting for my blessing? To be horse-whipped by a man like me is no disgrace; and such a man as I am can give no blessing. Go, go! or have I no longer any right to command, that you remain so motionless?"
"Herr Sonnenkamp," Eric began, "I might say, and it would be to some extent true, that I intended those severe words for Herr von Pranken, and not for you; but, as they were also applicable to you, I ask your pardon. I was not master of myself, and it was wrong in me to provoke and grieve you so sorely; not merely because you are Manna's father, but because you are a man who has had to endure so much. It was sinful in me" —
"Very well, very well; I know all about sermonizing; it's sufficient. And has not your whole life been a lie? Have you not been a thief? Did I not ask you if you had any such views when I was conducting you over the house? And could you so long play the hypocrite and retail your fine speeches? Curse upon all faith in mankind! I had faith in you, I believed you incapable of a breach of trust; and you've been a hypocrite from that first hour I went with you over the house until the present moment. As to the future – I've torn away the mask."
"Herr Sonnenkamp," replied Eric, "I have wrestled long and desperately with myself, before yielding to this love; but it is stronger than I am, stronger than every thing besides. That I am not seeking for your wealth, I prove by declaring to you that I shall take none of your possessions. I can add no farther assurance; for if you do not believe my simple word, how are you to believe an oath!"
"Indeed? Then you expect still to be believed? Yes, fine, noble, good, magnanimous man, I possess a great deal, but not what you ask, – faith in you. I had this faith once, it was my last illusion. I don't swear it; but I know that it's my last illusion."