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Then Kien began to understand. He had not hitherto paid the dwarf a farthing of salary, emphatically not, not a word had been spoken on the matter, and yet, instead of asking for his expenses back again, he renounced them. He had dismissed him because his disinterested care for the library had forced him to utter unseemly expressions. He had abused him for his deformity. Only a few hours ago this deformity had saved his life when the entire police force of the capital had been called out against him. He owed the dwarf not only organization and safety, but even inspiration for his acts of benevolence. Out of carelessness he had flung himself on the bed without seeing to the sleeping quarters of the books, and when his servant, as was his duty, reminded him of the inconvenient position and the possible danger to the books, he threw him out of his room. No indeed, he had not sunk so low that, out of sheer obstinacy in his error, he would hold out against the very spirit of his library. He laid his hand with friendly pressure on Fischerle's hump, as much as to say: no matter, others have humpbacked minds; absurd, there are no odiers, for the others are mere human beings, only we two, we happy two, are different. Aloud he said:

'It is time to unpack, dear Mr. Fischerle!'

'Just what I say,' answered the other, forcing his tears back with difficulty. America rose, gigantic, before him, rejuvenated, and not to be submerged by a small-minded double-crosser like Kien.

CHAPTER VI

STARVED TO DEATH

A small party to celebrate their reconciliation brought the two close together. Besides their common love of learning, or in other words, intellect, there were many things of which both had the same experience. Kien spoke for the first time of the deranged wife, whom he kept locked in at home where she could hurt no one. It was true his big library was there too; but since his wife had never shown the slightest interest in books, it was unlikely that, in her ravings, she would realize what treasures surrounded her. A sensitive mind like Fischerle's must surely understand what suffering this estrangement from his library caused him. But no book in the world could be more safely stored than with this mad creature who had but
one
idea —money. He carried the bare essentials round with him, and he pointed to the piles of books which had meanwhile been erected; Fischerle nodded respectfully.

'Yes, yes,' Kien resumed his narrative, 'you would not think such people could be, people who think of nothing but money. You made a fine gesture in renouncing money, even money which had been honourably spent. I would like to prove to you that the expressions I previously uttered against you were the outcome of a mood only, a mood which moreover may well have had its origin in my own sense of guilt. I would gladly recompense you for injuries which you were forced to bear in silence. Look upon it, therefore, as a recompense if I enlighten you on the true state of things in this world. Believe me, dear friend, there are people who do not only think of money
often
, but people who think of it always; every hour, every minute, every second of their lives they think of money! I will go further and even put forward the proposition that they think of other people's money. Such natures are afraid of nothing. Do you know what my wife tried to force from me?' 'A book!' cried Fischerle. 'That would have been comprehensible, culpable though such conduct must have been adjudged. No. A will!'

Fischerle had heard of such cases. He himself knew a woman who had tried something of the kind. To repay Kien's confidence he told him in a whisper the mysterious story, though not without insistently demanding that his confidence would be respected; it might cost him his head. Kien was taken aback when he learnt whose story it was: Fischerle's own wife's. 'Now I can admit to you,' he cried, 'your wife put me in mind of my own at the very first glance. Is your wife called Thérèse? At that time I did not wish to hurt your feelings, so I kept my impressions to myself.' 'No, she's called the Capitalist, she hasn't any other name. Before she was called the Capitalist, she was called Skinny, because she's so fat.'

The name was not correct, but every other detail was. At the tale of Fischerle's will all manner of suspicions were aroused in him. Was Thérèse in secret a professional harlot? Nothing was too low for her. She gave out that she went early to bed. Perhaps she passed her nights under other Stars of Heaven? He recollected that appalling scene when she had undressed and swept the books off the divan on to the floor. A harlot alone would have been capable of such shameless-ness. While Fischerle spoke of his wife, Kien compared the details — the illness, the litany, the attempted murder — with what he remembered of Thérèse and had imparted to the dwarf only a few moments since. No doubt, if the two women were not identical, they must surely be twin sisters.

Later, when Fischerle in a sudden burst of confidence asked him to call him by his Christian name, and, aquiver with friendship, awaited his answer, Kien decided not only to fulfil this wish; he promised to dedicate his next important work to him, possibly that revolutionary thesis on the Logos in die New Testament, although the dwarf was no scholar and his education lay all before him. In this hour of reconciliation Fischerle learned that there were people here at home who spoke Chinese better than Chinamen and a dozen more languages as Well. 'I always thought so,' he said. This fact, if it was a fact, really impressed him. But he didn't believe it. All the same, it was something for a man to be able to pretend so much intellect.

As soon as they got on to Christian name terms, there was no end to their mutual understanding. They worked out their redemption plans for the following days. Fischerle calculated that their capital would last them about a week; people might come with even more valuable books, and to let these go to perdition was a crime worthy of the death penalty. In spite of the unpleasing calculation Kien was enchanted with these words. Once the capital was expended, they would have to take more energetic measures, Fischerle added with a serious face. What he meant by this he kept to himself. To start with he explained the immediate plans to Kien. Their mission would begin at 9.30 and end at 10.30. During these hours the police are busy elsewhere. From earlier experience Fischerle knew that the cordon round the Theresianum withdrew at 9.20 and marched back to its post at 10.40. Arrests are made regularly at eleven; doubtless his dear friend remembered his own narrow escape early this morning. Naturally Kien remembered; it had struck eleven just as they looked up at the church clock. 'You're a sharp observer, Fischerle !' he said. 'Dear friend, when one's lived so long with the dregs! Life there isn't any fun, respectability doesn't pay there, present company excepted, but live and learn.' Kien perceived that Fischerle possessed precisely what he himself lacked, a knowledge of practical life, to its last ramifications.

Next morning, punctually at half past nine, he was at his post, refreshed, relieved and resolute. He felt refreshed because he was carrying less learning about with him. Fischerle had taken over the remainder of the library. 'You can put something into my head,' he joked, 'and if there's not room, I'll cram some into my hump !' He was relieved because the ugly secret of his wife no longer weighed on him, and resolute because he was under another person's orders. At 8.30 Fischerle took leave of him; he wanted to make a small reconnoitring expedition. If he should not come back, then all was in order.

Behind the church he met his staff. The Fishwife, in spite of being fired, had turned up again. She held her nose a good few inches higher than before. The chief owed her twenty schillings, and it lay with her to remind him; relying on his debt to her she dared to approach him. The sewerman was complaining of his wife. Instead of being content with the 15 schillings he had brought home, she had asked him immediately for the other five. She knew everything. That was why he respected her. She had dinned him awake that morning with those miserable schillings he had drunk. "What do you expect,' said the blind man who had been walking up and down groaning behind the church for the last two hours and had not even taken his usual morning coffee, 'what do you expect, if you have only one woman! A man can do with a hundred women!' Then he asked about the sewerman's wife. Her weight made him thoughtful and he said no more. The hawker, torn from his dreamless sleep the night before by the sacristan, had only just remembered the parcel he had forgotten under the bench. Full of fear, although it was only books, he looked for it. He found it; Fischerle was already outside and greeted him with a slight twitch of his nose.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' began the chief, 'we have no time to lose. To-day is an important day. Our enterprise is forging ahead. The turnover is growing. In a few days I shall be a made man. Do your duty and I will not forget you!' He looked at the sewerman blankly, at the blind man promisingly, at the Fishwife forgivingly, at the hawker contemptuously. 'My business friend will be there in half an hour's time. Until then I will instruct you so that you know exactly what you have to do. Whoever doesn t know will be fired !' He took each of them, in the same order as before, and impressed on them the very much larger sums which they were to demand to-day.

The business friend did not recognize the sewerman, which was not surprising as the man's face was no more than a shining turd. He asked the Fishwife if she had not been there yesterday, at which, just as she had been instructed, she complained furiously of her double. That heartless creature had been pawning books for yean, a thing she'd never yet done herself. Kien believed her, for her indignation pleased him, and he paid her what she asked.

Fischerle set his richest hopes on the blind man. 'First of all tell him how much you want. Then wait a minute or two. If he thinks it over, tread on his toes until he pays attention to you, and whisper in his ear: 'Kind regards from your wife Thérèse. She's dead.' The blind man wanted to know about her; he was distressed that her presumably generous dimensions had been reft from him by death. He regretted all deceased women; for men, were they never so dead, he had not the least sympathy. Fat women, who could thus never again be his, made him on his good days almost a body-snatcher, but on button days, only a poet. To-day Fischerle cut short his questions with a reference to a buttonless future. 'First get rid of buttons, my dear sir, then you can think of women! Buttons and women together are impossible!' With such prospects before him, the burden of a dead Thérèse was easy to carry as far as Kien. Her name was safe from oblivion all the way across the haymarket behind the church to the entrance hall of the book section. The intellect and the memory of the blind man, ever since he had been wounded in the war, extended no further than the names and figures of women. When, his eyes wide and gloating on the backside of a naked Thérèse, he pushed open the glass door, he burst out at once with her name, rushed up. to Kien, and, to fulfil the chief's instructions, trod belatedly on his toes.

Kien changed colour. He saw her coming. She has broken out. Her blue skirt gleams. The mad woman, she blued it and starched it, starched it and blued it, Kien himself goes blue and limp. She's looking for him, she wants him, she wants new starch for her skirt. Where are the police; She must be shut up at once, she's a public danger, she's left the library unguarded, police, police, where are the police, ah, the police don t come till 10.40, what a disaster, if only Fischerle were there, Fischerle at least, he wouldn't be afraid, her twin sister's his wife, he knows what to do, he's dealt with her, he'll destroy her, the blue skirt — appalling, appalling, why doesn't she die, why doesn't she die, she ought to die, this very moment, in the glass door, before she gets to him, before she strikes him, before she can open her mouth, ten books for her death, a hundred, a thousand, half the library, all of it, the ones in Fischerle's head, then surely she must be dead, for ever, it's a lot, but he swears it, he'll hand over the whole library, but she must be dead, dead, dead, absolutely dead! 'I'm sorry to say she's dead,' said the blind man with genuine regret, 'and sends you her kind regards.'

Ten times at least Kien made him repeat the joyful tidings. He wanted no details, he could never have enough of the fact alone; he pinched himself doubtfully to the very bone and called himself by his own name. When he realized that he had neither misunderstood nor dreamed it, nor muddled it up, he asked whether he was quite sure and where the gentleman had heard of it? Out of gratitude he was polite. 'Thérèse is dead and sends you her kind regards,' repeated the blind man, annoyed. At the sight of this creature his dream grew lean. His authority was reliable but he could not name it. For the parcel he wanted 4500 schillings, but he must have the parcel back as well.

Kien hastened to pay off his debt in money. He feared that the man might ask for the promised library. What luck that this morning early Fischerle had made himself responsible for it all. It would have been impossible for Kien to carry out his vow on the spot, Fischerle was not here, and whence was he to produce books all of a sudden? In any case he paid up quickly so that the bearer of good tidings should vanish. If Fischerle, of whose whereabouts he was uncertain, were by chance to sense danger, he would come to warn him, and the library would be lost. Promise or no promise, a library was worth more than any promise.

The blind man counted the money slowly. With such a gigantic sum the tip would have been worth having; he might have asked for one, but he wasn't a beggar any longer. He was an employee of a firm with a large turnover. He loved the chief, because he had finished off the buttons. Now if he got a hundred schillings' tip for instance, he could buy himself several women at once. The chief wouldn't mind. In his old manner he stretched out his hollowed hand and said, he wasn't a beggar, just the same he felt he might ask... Kien eyed the door, he thought he saw a shadow approaching, he pressed a note into the man's hand, it happened to be for a hundred schillings, pushed him away with his arm and implored: 'Go now, as quickly as you can, quickly, quickly!'