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I should demand mine, was intercepted by the imperial authorities. So I was without instructions. I waited for the German government itself to dismiss me. On the morning of August 3, Secretary of State von Jagow called on me. He began by complaining of alleged hostile acts committed by French aviators at Coblenz and Nuremberg. This was the famous legend of the Nuremberg air-planes, which the Germans themselves now admit was false.

I said to von Jagow, 'I have not the slightest knowledge of these facts. They appear to me absolutely improbable. I know that my government has instructed its forces most strictly to refrain from any hostile act. It has pushed its scruples so far as to withdraw its troops ten kilometres from the frontier. How do you suppose, under such conditions, our aviators would drop bombs on Nuremberg, so far from the frontier of Germany?'

Von Jagow replied that the fact could not be questioned; that it had been duly verified by the authorities.

I replied: 'You surprise me greatly. However that may be, even if it were true, it is far less serious than the numerous acts of aggression already committed upon French territory by German troops, against which I have already formally protested. One of your cavalry patrols, commanded by an officer, has penetrated our territory as far as the village of Joncherey. The officer brained one of our soldiers.' After stigmatizing this act in appropriate terms, I continued: 'You will recognize that under no circumstances can this be compared with air-planes passing over foreign territory.'

Von Jagow replied that he had not yet had time to read the note I had handed him. Just then a great student demonstration began in Pariser Platz. Through the open windows of my office, which was on the ground floor, we could

hear the mob singing Die Wacht am Rhein and clamoring against France. We both rose to watch the proceeding. 'I hope,' I said to von Jagow, 'that your cousin, the Prefect of Police, will take the measures necessary to maintain order and protect my embassy.'

Von Jagow replied that he would go at once and give proper instructions. He himself informed me that, since the German Ambassador had asked for his passports at Paris, I would immediately receive mine. I inquired regarding my departure. He assured me that I and my personnel would receive the usual courtesies. At the conclusion of the interview, which was to be our last, he added a few words of polite regret that our previous pleasant relations should terminate in this manner. I asked him if he thought I ought to make a farewell visit to the Chancellor. He advised urgently against it. Mr. Bethmann-Hollweg was in such a state of excitement, that an interview could not fail to be painful for us both.

About six P.M. Mr. von Langwerth brought me my passports. He announced that I could not pass through Holland as I desired, but that I should be provided with every facility to reach either Switzerland or Denmark. I decided in favor of Switzerland. Since I wished to have an interview with the Spanish Ambassador before departing, as the latter was to take care of French interests, it was arranged that I should leave Berlin the following evening. I also wanted time to burn my papers, so that nothing would be left in German hands. That occupied us all the evening and the following forenoon. About an hour later, Mr. von Lancken appeared. . . .

He came to ask me in behalf of his government to request my secretaries to cease dining at the Bristol restaurant, where they were likely to invite public insult.

I asked with some heat: 'Where in the devil do you want them to eat? The patrons of the Bristol are, I suppose, people of good breeding, and surely such manifestations are less to be feared there than in some commoner sort of place.'

Since von Lancken insisted, however, I assured him that my people would no longer patronize the Bristol, and telephoned to a hotel to send meals over to the embassy for all my staff. The hotel refused to do this until authorized by the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

I went that evening to bid my Russian colleague good-bye on his departure. The railway station was heavily guarded, and the provisions for maintaining order were excellent. The Queen of Greece, the Kaiser's sister, was just then leaving. Apparently every proper arrangement had been made for my Russian colleague. A special train was at his disposal. I said to myself: 'It will probably be the same for me to-morrow.'

But one irritating incident followed another. Just as I was retiring that night, von Langwerth called for a second time. I was not to be allowed to

go via Switzerland. If I wished, however, I might travel through Austria. I accepted this, subject to the formal promise that the Austrian government would give me immediate passage to Switzerland; and I put this in an official letter.

The next day, just as I was leaving, a new change. The final arrangement was for me to go through Denmark. You know the details of that journey, the constant vexations to which we were subjected. No ordinary comforts were provided. We did not even have food. Happily, my servants had been foresighted enough to bring a basket of luncheon for themselves, which had to serve for all of us during that interminable ride. I often recall an odd detail of our journey. One of the train men pretended to be an Alsatian, and kept constantly coming to us to deplore the war and to assure us of his pacifist sympathies. He even prepared our coffee. Such solicitude aroused my suspicion, and I had one of my secretaries warn him that, in his own interest, he should not talk with us so much. Probably he was a spy sent to worm secrets out of my staff. If so, it was a rather clumsy ruse.

THE KEY IN THE DOOR

BY SOPHUS MICHAELIS

[Sophus Michaelis, President of the Authors' Society of Denmark, is one of the foremost writers of the short story in his country. Georg Brandes regards him as unequaled in his use of the Danish language, and as ranking high among the writers of fiction in Northern Europe. He was born at Odense, Denmark, in 1865.]

PROFESSOR PEDER ANKER So disliked to observe his birthday each year that he almost wished to pass it by altogether. Disappointment was the secret reason for this feeling. He grieved because the day to which as a boy he

used to look forward eagerly, no longer fulfilled expectations. A birthday nowadays only reminded him how few surprises life has in store, and how destitute of friends a man really is. The greetings he received merely irritated

him because of their stereotyped sameness and total lack of feeling. His housekeeper, Mrs. Madsen, it is true, had decorated the dining-room and had served his favorite dishes at dinner, but that amounted to nothing. He drank a solitary, silent toast to himself and his dying year, and then went out to an open-air theatre to forget everything.

How harmonious and calm the evening was! Not a leaf stirred in the treetops. He chose a place high up on the green slope and looked down over the human swarm in this peaceful emerald bowl. Life and nature seemed melted into one, and he amused himself by dissolving this apparent harmony into a series of circles of living beings that really had nothing whatever to do with one another.

People, animals, plants - each individual lived in a world of its own. Down on the leaf-covered stage the actors strutted about in their varied costumes. They talked, they screamed, some even tried to sing. Behind a screen of foliage invisible musicians played.

From within the thick woods a thrush suddenly sent its trills heavenward, as if desiring a part in the entertainment. But to the feathered singer all this human theatre was invisible. Its singing was but the expression of a need that rules in the world of birds. The forest exists for no other purpose than to furnish a nest; the world is like a little warm, female bird, brooding over shining eggs. How splendid are the woods this evening! Of their own accord the gnats keep dancing right into the thrush's bill. The little stomach is full to overflowing. Here is peace and no danger. The woods should be only for hatching birds. Down there the big animals are making all kinds of noise and uproars. Let us send them a merry trill!

It begins to grow dark. A search-light high above sends down upon the scene

its blinding rays over the heads of the spectators. A moth comes whirling through the broad beam of light, like thistle-down, or a winged somnambulist, impelled through the atmosphere toward its goal by an instinct that only a moth could comprehend. Thus life keeps whirling about in circles, worlds within worlds, every individual deep in his own mysterious doings.

Professor Peder Anker was a professor of biology. He understood how to listen to what nature has to say to her initiates. When he glanced toward the thicket close by, he knew at once what stirred within that gall on yonder oakleaf. His ear caught the workings of the subterranean larva as it struggled toward the surface after lying a year and a day in the impenetrable darkness, conscious of the coming metamorphosis that would bring what it believed to be eternal life.

Circles! Circles! Life in its thousands of aspects. He saw it all as in a vision. Existence itself was but a series of unnumbered existences. We, the wisest of earth's creatures, comprehend only the least of these existences. We never give a thought to the life-waves that sweep the atmospheric regions. We hear the whisperings in the beeches, inhale the aroma emanating from the oak trees, and yet we do not realize what worlds exist beneath our feet or in the balmy air that touches our cheeks.

Professor Peder Anker let his biological fancies roam whither they would. In the pale twilight his eye caught a sudden glimpse of a profile with a dainty little nose of such individuality that he had never looked upon its owner without emotion. Valeria! Was it she? And to-day of all days! Yes, that hair, the color of champagne, was just like hers. His eyes never left her for an instant.

When the performance came to an end at last, he followed her. Even the

short steps, with their quick free swing, were very like Valeria's. Valeria! The old wounds began to bleed again. Then he heard the woman's voice, coarse and common, surely, never Valeria's. But the memory of her kept tugging at his heart.

It was midnight when he returned to his home. The gate to the garden stood open. The rose-bushes leading to the entrance seemed taller than they used to be. The air was redolent with the scent of flowers. Gay moths swarmed about. Professor Anker seemed to be in a trance. Valeria! Always this name, dead to him, yet in his mind constantly alive. This home, built for a little tiptilted nose and champagne-colored hair. A dream-nest that had become a grave with bitter memories. No, this house should be called Vale-good-bye, little Valeria.

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The sight of an open window window that had never been open since little Puck slept within that room, woke him from his dreamy state. Who could have done this? He must have opened it himself. Curious that he should have forgotten.

He took out his key. Now, what was this? If he had not known better himself he would have said that he had taken a glass too many. There, before him, was a key in the door. That was a fact. The door was open to anyone who cared to enter. A whole regiment of thieves might have gone in that way.

But he knew that key well enough; it was genuine, not a burglar's implement. Was Madsen in her second childhood and forgetting things? The key he left where it was: it is never a good thing to disturb evidence. Quietly he entered, but he did not turn on the light. He was not afraid. It would be shame to disturb the peace of the night. Life is so destitute of surprises that even a key in the door gave it flavor. He almost wished there were a burglar.

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So as not to do violence to the mystery, he went into the dining-room and sat down. There was nothing out of the way. All was still; Madsen was asleep. He must ask her about that key, but very carefully, otherwise she might have a stroke through fright.

He pressed button number 2 and heard it ring, up near the top of the house. He rang several times. Madsen must sleep like a rock. Perhaps something had happened to her. He began himself to feel just a little nervous. Suppose someone was lying in wait for him? Cautiously he mounted the stairs, still in utter darkness, and then he heard something stirring in the housekeeper's room.

'Madsen, Madsen!' he whispered. 'Goodness gracious! Is that you, professor? I am coming. Has anything happened? Has the professor been taken ill?'

'Just be quiet, Madsen. Please see if you have your key.'

'My key? Which key? Heavens, how the professor makes me afraid. Is it my watch-key or the key to the pantry? It is in the door.'

'Never mind. Just let me know if you have your street key.'

'My street key? Why, who else would have it? The key is right there on the table next to my bed.'

Madsen opened the door just enough to stick the key through the crack. There was no mistaking; it was the right key.

'Sure enough. Excuse me, little Madsen. I am the one who made a mistake. When I got home I imagined that I had two keys to the street door.'

The professor descended the stairs while Madsen returned to her bed, disturbed by the thought that even so exemplary an individual as her master could come to the point where he saw double.

Was he dreaming?

He went outside to take a look. Sure enough, there was the key in the door and his own key was in his pocket. Someone, then, must have gone through that door during the night. Ah, this was romance. Had little Puck come back? His heart beat so loud that he could hear it. It drove him almost mad every time he thought of the impish creature, once his joy and happiness, now his sorrow and disgrace.

Valeria! He tiptoed back to his chair in the dining-room. He feared to breathe! He was afraid to investigate further, to convince himself. He trembled for fear lest what he had not seen as yet should flee from him like a shadow, a dream- although a rather although a rather peculiar dream, for it had rummaged through his house.

In his honorable and otherwise wellordered life her coming had been a bewitching intoxication. A wild, insane puff of adventure had blown down his house of cards. Fresh from one of his lectures, she had stormed his house, demanding private lessons in biology. She converted his laboratory into a play-room, spoiled his delicate instruments, cut herself on the glass slide of a microscope, and then put her finger into his mouth to stop the blood.

She was the seducer. Afterward she called him a thief and a destroyer of the marriage vow. For she was married and had insisted that he elope with her. They toured together abroad, and he managed to get her a divorce. When he brought her back home, he built a fine house for her and lived like a fool and her husband for a whole half-year.

Oh, yes, he had been married to Puck. And it was all his fault, of course. He had dishonored her, shamed her, brought her low. Their living-room became a hysterical chamber of torture; so that at last he left her to herself and retired to his study, barricaded behind locked doors. But that mattered little

to her. For hours at a time she laid siege to the study, brought copper and tin ware from the kitchen, and made such an unearthly noise that he could no longer work and took flight through the window. It was an exit and an entrance that later he was sorry he ever taught her. And every time, when the quarrel blew over, Tannhäuserlike, he went straight back into the Venusberg.

One fine day she was gone. The window stood open. The bird had flown. On a little piece of paper she had written: 'Good-bye, little Peder. Wait till you see me again.'

Peder waited. He thought it just a whim. Her clothes, her jewels, everything was left behind.

All this was two years and two months since. She had disappeared and he had never heard from her. He might well believe that he had never been married. He had kept her room just as she left it. At times he imagined that ghosts were busy within, or rather he played the ghost with his fancies. Now the window stood open, and there was an old key in the street door, the door of the past. Well, did he want the past to return? Yes, yes, just move back again, you little devil!

She was there. She must be there! The key, the window! All of a sudden he got up rather foolishly, drawn by irresistible longing. Without hesitation he walked along the long corridor until he stood before the well-known door. He gave three low knocks. Open, sesame!

There was no answer, the door did not move on its hinges.

He knocked once more, took hold of the knob, and triumphantly discovered that there was a key in this door, too. His surmise was correct: she was there, she had come back. All the months that lay between were only an evil dream. That key could have been hers alone. He

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