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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Six Kroner, my boy," he whispered in my ear. "And another six at the next place, that's twelve." So off we went, and I carried our things. Falkenberg was right; the people at the next farm would not be outdone by their neighbours; their piano must be seen to as well.
Once in the wood we sat down to talk over what was to be done. Was it advisable, after all, for a Falkenberg of the rank of piano-tuner to go walking up to the Captain at Ovrebo and claim relationship? I was the more timid, and ended by making Falkenberg himself a little shy of it. On the other hand, it might be a merry jest. Hadn't he any papers with his name on? Certificates of some sort?
He is stronger now, but no less delicate; he loves not Nature less, but the world more. He has learned to love his fellow-men. Knut Pedersen, vagabond, wanders about the country with his tramp-companions, Grindhusen, the painter who can ditch and delve at a pinch, or Falkenberg, farm-labourer in harvest-time, and piano-tuner where pianos are.
"Not in the least," she reminded him swiftly. "There is the Prince von Falkenberg." "The maker of toys," he murmured. "The maker, alas! of toys which the world were better without," she replied. "But never mind that.
He was talking with a dirty-looking man in a red tie and pince-nez." "I remember it quite well," Julien admitted. "Well, he was the leader writer in Le Jour, Jesen a brilliant man, an absolutely wonderful writer, but shiftless. Do you know what Falkenberg has done?
If he has been stern upon the cause of socialism, it is because he does not believe that socialism, as it is at present preached, is good for Germany. I vote, therefore, that Falkenberg live. "We desire to know," the speaker continued, "who wrote those words. They do not sound like the words of one of our delegates. Johann and Hesler, stand by the door. Turn up the lights.
We want you to write for our paper a series of articles, dated from Paris and signed in your own name, and we want you to attack Falkenberg and the game he is playing. We will arrange for them to appear simultaneously in one of the leading journals here. We want you to write openly of these German spies who infest Paris.
Monsieur Bourgan brought up the rear. Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders. "Really," she declared, with a sigh, "life is becoming altogether too complicated. Never mind, I have got rid of Prince Falkenberg for you, Sir Julien. Between ourselves, I think that he will receive a hint to leave Paris, and before very long. Listen there goes his car."
Prince Falkenberg turned on his heel and left the apartment. Estermen remained for several moments shrinking back in the chair upon which he had collapsed. Then he rose and with trembling footsteps stole to the window, peering out from behind the blind. The man at the cafe opposite was still there!
"Make yourself presentable, man," he ordered. "We sup in the Montmartre and we leave in a few minutes." "What, I?" Estermen exclaimed, springing up. "You and I and mademoiselle," Falkenberg told him. "I have made plans. You may perhaps escape who can tell?" Estermen, with a little sob of relief, hurried into his sleeping apartment.
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