“Does he know?” asked Justus.
“No—by-and-by, perhaps; it is, for the present, a strict secret between Elsa and me. I shall write to the General from Wissow.”
“It is better so,” said Justus.
Reinhold did not answer. The evening of his arrival stood out suddenly, with all its details, in his memory. How eagerly Ottomar had then sought his friendship, how heartily Uncle Ernst had received him, how Ferdinanda herself had welcomed him! And now! It was not his fault—that was at least a consolation.
“Here is an empty carriage,” said Justus.
“Farewell, my dear Justus! Say goodbye again to Cilli for me, and Herr Kreisel, and tell him not to trust in the Sundin-Wissow; and hearty thanks for your friendship and affection.”
“Not a word more, or—I am desperately sentimental today. This love—this horrible—”
Justus smothered the rest of his blasphemy in a mighty embrace, pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, and rushed away.
“Good fellow!” said Reinhold to himself, as he arranged his goods in the carriage. “I never should have credited him with it. Strange! What has restored to me courage, and the old feeling of security, has robbed him of his ready creative power and his cheery humour. And yet the impediments which lie in his way are child’s-play compared to those that surround us. God grant he may soon smile again! Cilli is right—he cannot live without sunshine.”
Reinhold had seated himself. The signal for starting had already been given, when the door was again thrown open, and a gentleman was hastily bundled in by the guard.
“Here, please, I have no more empty carriages. Your ticket at the next station!”
The guard shut the door.
“Good evening, President; allow me,” said Reinhold, taking the President’s great travelling-bag and putting it in the net.
“Good gracious! is it you?” cried the President. “Where are you going?”
“I would not fail to present myself before you in Sundin on the , according to your orders,” answered Reinhold, rather surprised.
“Yes, yes, of course!” said the President. “Pardon me—such a stupid question! I am so worried, so perplexed—once more, forgive me!” And he stretched out his hand to Reinhold with his accustomed gracious friendliness.
“It is quite unnecessary, President,” said Reinhold; “I know that you are busied about more important things and men.”
“Yes, yes, more important things,” said the President—“evil things! And the men—these men, these men—pray sit opposite to me! One can talk so much better, and I am very glad to see an honest face again.”
The President wrapped his rug round his knees. His fine, clever face looked pale and worn, and the touch of quiet irony and sarcastic humour which Reinhold had noticed at their first meeting had altogether failed him.
“I have been four days in Berlin,” said the President, “and should certainly have begged you to come and see me, only, to confess the truth, I have been skulking about like a criminal with the police after him, so as not to be seen by any respectable men, if I could avoid it. Perhaps you know what took me to Berlin?”
“The papers, President—”
“Yes, yes, the papers. Unfortunately there is no longer any decent obscurity. Everything will come out, and if it were only confined to the truth!—but unfortunately it is generally neither the whole truth, nor even the half. What falsehoods have not people—that is to say, the gentlemen concerned in the matter—told about me! I was concerning myself actively in the existence of the railroad, working for it, dinning into the Minister’s ears that the concession must be granted—I, who have fought against it from the first, and warned the Minister most strenuously against it! Then, as that would not do, they attacked me from the other side. I had been an opponent, a determined opponent—I had been convinced at last—Saul had become Paul. That sounded more probable, but not probable enough. I was not convinced—I was simply bought. That was believed at once—it spoke for itself. A President, with his few thousand thalers salary, notoriously devoid of private fortune, the father of six children—how could he withstand such inducements! It is a shame and disgrace that it was believed, as it will be believed tomorrow, that there was not enough offered! The crafty fellow knows only too well what he is worth; he will quietly bide his time, watch for his opportunity, and feather his nest well! That is the worst, you see. Confidence, is shaken in the honour and integrity of our officials. It is the beginning of the end for me—the threatening cloud which foreshadows a future which I pray God I may never live to see!”
The President tugged here and there at his rug which he was generally so careful to keep smooth, unfastened his kid gloves which he had just buttoned, and drew them off his trembling hands. Reinhold himself was moved by the intense emotion of a man usually so cautious and so shrouded in diplomatic mists.
“It would be presumption in me,” he said, “if I ventured to contradict a man of your great experience and judgment. Nevertheless I cannot refrain from suggesting that, just because the case concerns you so nearly, you may perhaps see it in too black a light.”
“May be, may be!” said the President, “but this is no isolated case; there are others which unfortunately speak on my side, where high officials have succumbed to the temptation put before them. And then—”
He was silent for a few minutes, and then continued even more excitedly:
“If the higher powers only had tact, I say—only tact not to strengthen this most dangerous, and I confess exaggerated, tendency of the public mind to suspicion and distrust. But you will feel it painfully—the slightest acquaintance was sufficient to make one honour and respect the man—General von Werben—”
“I know, President,” said Reinhold, as the President again became silent; “and my acquaintance with that excellent man has not been a transient one.”
“Well then, what do you say to this?” cried the President. “Differences
