Chapter II

Five years passed.

Alfred stood in the center of a merry crowd where champagne flowed like a river. Diamonds flashed; silks and velvets rustled. Sparkling fountains, bright shadows on water, penetrating perfumes, splendid gardens,—all this the Demon of Gold had brought together in one place. Alfred, too, has changed. He is heavier and more round bodied. His cheeks glow with health; his eyes shine with contentment. It is evident that he had been drinking from the cup of pleasure, with the careful discernment of the epicure. Over there sits his wife. Is she that beautiful motionless maiden, whose vision had so moved him five years ago? Not at all! The ice of her heart had melted under the glow of Alfred’s blazing ducats. The vision charmed him no more, that had once enticed him. He did not love her and she did not love him. They treated each other courteously before the world, but in private—what a difference.

The lack of character of Alfred was an open secret. Every one remarked about it, yet he carried his head high, and everyone bowed before him. His breast was covered with orders. The highest honors were his. Fathers held him up to their sons as model. “See,”—they say—“how he has advanced.”

In that same garret where he used to sit, there is a pale youth in shabby slippers and ragged coat, dedicating to him a long poem about the exalted goal of human endeavor.

And I—I would rather write an Ode to Gold! Such an one were worthy of the age. Dershawin’s “Ode to God” is old fashioned. It has no merit for our age except the form in which the Emperor of China has preserved it—in letters of gold upon a banner of silk.

Gold is the god of the age! Heaven announces its glory; above the moon (on the dollar), and the stars (on small silver pieces) shines the giant ducat—the sun. Upon earth we pray to it—in the monstrance and the cross. Under different names we serve it; some as faith, love, right, truth,—others in sinful Mammon. For the sake of gold we preach morality, we shed blood on the fields of battle. For the sake of gold—with a dull pen—I write this satire. O! shining, mighty, divine metal—I praise you, prostrated in the dust before you. Surely, Dear Brothers in Gold, you will pardon me this diversion.

A servant resplendent in gold braid, announced to Alfred, that a dirty Jew was waiting who insisted upon coming in.

“Take him to my study,” he ordered.

It is a softly sensuous, luxurious room. From base-board to ceiling, the walls are covered with pictures of beautiful women, gorgeously dressed.

Again Alfred and the ghostly Jew are face to face.

“You are late,” said Alfred, glancing at the clock.

“Yes—on account of bribes,” was the reply. “And I lost a noble character, too, which I bought abroad. On the boundary they confiscated it. One would think character contraband of war.”

“You bring my pawned pledge back, do you?” interrupted Alfred.

“Of course, Your Grace!” replied the Jew, and drew from his pocket the little dirty box.

“Keep it! Keep it! I don’t care anything about it. I am convinced that one lives better without character. But there is something I’d like to sell you.”

“Well?”

“A little feeling of shame that has remained with me—and sometimes makes me uncomfortable.”

Aron shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and laughed disagreeably.

“Nothing doing! The article is out of fashion—something nobody buys. As a proof—Your Grace—I beg you to consider these portraits which hang upon your walls—”