Bertha knew for a certainty, at that moment, that Herr Klingemann would
have smiled sarcastically had he seen that portrait.

Later in the evening she sat down at the piano, as was a not infrequent
custom of hers before going to bed, not so much because of her enthusiasm
for music, but because she did not want to retire to rest too early. On
such occasions she played, for the most part, the few pieces which she
still knew by heart--mazurkas by Chopin, some passages from one of
Beethoven's sonatas, or the Kreisleriana. Sometimes she improvised as
well, but never pursued the theme beyond a succession of chords, which,
indeed, were always the same.

On that evening she began at once by striking those chords, somewhat more
softly than usual; then she essayed various modulations and, as she made
the last triad resound for a long time by means of the pedal--her hands
were now lying in her lap--she felt a gentle joy in the melodies which
were hovering, as it were, about her. Then Klingemann's observation
recurred to her.

"With you music must take the place of everything!"

Indeed he had not been far from the truth. Music certainly had to take
the place of much.

But everything--? Oh, no!

What was that? Footsteps over the way....

Well, there was nothing remarkable in that. But they were slow, regular
footsteps, as though somebody was passing up and down. She stood up and