“Because I naturally supposed that you would not choose just the most unsuitable time. You know that I must pay off that mortgage tomorrow.”
“Why did you give notice to pay it off? It was most imprudent. I told you so from the first.”
“I wanted to save the interest; and if you can get back two million for one—in the meantime—of course—as things stand at present—”
“You may be thankful that the directors have postponed the date of payment of the second instalment, which was due tomorrow.”
“Certainly,” said the Count; “it is very kind of the gentlemen. I should have been in a terrible position; but it has not made my situation even now particularly pleasant. That confounded mortgage! My creditor is most disagreeably pressing; he says he must have the money back.”
“Perhaps it may now transpire who this creditor really is whom you make such a mystery about?”
“I have given my word of honour—”
“Then say nothing. It is all the same to me, moreover; and if you can pay half a million tomorrow to the gentleman in question, you can also raise my five thousand!”
“I do not know yet whether I shall be able to pay!” cried the Count impatiently—“Lübbener—Haselow and Co.—I could not stand Lübbener any longer—unlimited orders to sell; but if tomorrow our shares go down still further—they stood the day before yesterday at forty-five—”
“And yesterday at twenty-five!”
“Impossible!” cried the Count.
“Good heavens, man! have you never troubled yourself to inquire, then?”
“I—I—my letters lately—the presence of the ladies here—there are so many claims upon me—”
“So it seems,” replied Herr von Strummin, taking a letter out of his pocket. “I got my banker to write to me yesterday, as I saw what was impending, and have carried his letter about with me since this morning. I have already been over to Golm, too, to tell you of it.” He unfolded the letter: “ ‘Sundin-Wissows were offered freely today at thirty-five; no buyers. They then rose to forty-five on large purchases. When it became known, however, that Lübbener himself was the buyer, merely to keep up the price, they fell rapidly, and closed at twenty-five! Please telegraph distinct orders whether to sell at any price. A further fall is inevitable.’ There you have the whole affair.”
“It is certainly bad,” murmured the Count.
“And whom have we to thank for all this?” cried Herr von Strummin. “You—you only! You first led us into the affair, and promised all sorts of things, and then prudently left us in the dark until you had pocketed your profits as promoter. Then we fell further into the trap, and had to pay up heavily; and finally you throw half a million into the market, and bring down the value of our own shares. And I, like a fool, gave you the last penny I had; and instead of looking after your own affairs, as it was your bounden duty to do, you hang about here with the women, and—”
“I think that last clause has nothing to do with the matter,” said the Count, getting up.
“Nothing to do with it!” cried the other, also springing to his feet. “Very well! very well! ruin yourself if you please, but at least leave other people out of the game. And I tell you, that if by the day after tomorrow my five thousand thalers, which I lent you on your word of honour, are not lying on my table at Strummin to the uttermost farthing—”
“For heaven’s sake do not speak so loud,” said the Count; “you shall have your money, although I am convinced that the great trousseau is only a pretext—”
“A pretext? a pretext?” cried Herr von Strummin, raising his rough voice if possible still louder; “pretext indeed! when Meta is herself gone this morning to Berlin, to—”
“This morning?” said the Count, with a jeering laugh; “excuse my remarking, mon cher, that was very imprudent of you! Our shares may rise again, and—the stonecutter will not run away.”
Herr von Strummin’s light blue eyes almost started out of his burning face. He became suddenly hoarse with passion.
“What, what, what!” he snarled. “A stonecutter? An artist! and a great artist, who every year makes his six to ten thousand—a stonecutter?”
“I only say it because you always call him so yourself.”
“I can call my son-in-law anything I choose, but if anyone else permits himself to do so, he shall eat his words as sure as I—”
“You gentlemen must certainly have grown very impatient,” said Carla, who came out of the door just at this moment.
“Not at all,” said the Count, turning on his heel and hastening towards her.
“Yes, very impatient!” cried Herr von Strummin, who had suddenly recovered his voice. “I was only waiting to take my leave; I must be at Strummin in half an hour. I hope the conversation will get on better without me; I have the honour—”
He snatched the reins of his great strong-boned black horse out of the groom’s hand, swung himself into the saddle, and sticking his spurs into the animal’s sides, galloped out of the courtyard.
“Good gracious!” whispered Carla, “what does it mean?”
“A little row,” said the Count, hiding the excitement into which the altercation had thrown him as well as he could under a forced smile; “nothing uncommon between old friends.”
“And the cause?”
“A last attempt, it seemed to me, to get a Count for a son-in-law, before accepting a sculptor.”
The Count had assisted Carla into her saddle, put the riding-whip into her hand, and was now arranging her skirt.
Carla bent towards him: “You bad man, I will give you a lecture on the way.”
“Pity it cannot be without a witness,” whispered the Count, with a look towards the groom, who was holding the reins of the other two horses.
“You are really too bad!”
“At your service,” said the Count out loud, and he stepped back and signed to the groom. He swung himself on to his horse, and started off with Carla, followed
