“And magnificent ones. Who is the lady in silver grey? What a splendid figure!”
Justus laughed. “You must not betray me. Perfect carnival freedom reigns here. She is a cousin of my colleague Bunzel, alias—his model, alias—”
“Werben! Werben!” resounded from the officers’ table.
“Justus! Justus!” from that of the artists’.
“Hope you will enjoy yourself,” cried Ottomar.
“Same to you,” said Justus; and to himself he added, “poor boy!”
He knew the sad story, and had besides heard lately from Reinhold, with whom he kept up a constant correspondence, new and worse things of Carla, which Meta, who had arrived quite unexpectedly this morning, fully confirmed.
“You will see,” said Meta, “it will turn out badly. Dear Elsa suspects nothing; but I have a pair of sharp eyes, you know, and I am sure that the Count and Carla have got some understanding between them. If only Ottomar would let her go! but he is the sort of man who, if anyone tries to take from him what he ought to be thankful to let go, says, ‘No, not now.’ He is not so sensible as we are, you know. And now make haste and be off to your great party!”
How laughing and beaming were his Meta’s eyes, who by her great good sense had overcome all obstacles—“Tomorrow we will order the furniture to suit your artistic tastes, you know!”—and how darkly and restlessly gleamed the eyes in which he had just looked! “The handsome face sunken and wasted as if in the last ten weeks he had aged twice as many years,” thought Justus, “and in spite of his gay words, how bitter a look there had been upon his lips! Poor boy!”
“What are you making such a wry face for?” cried Kille, the architect, as the newcomer approached the table.
“No mooning allowed here!” cried Bencke, the historical painter.
“He is thinking of the left hip of his Industry, which is so much awry that it is almost dislocated!” cried friend Bunzel.
“Or of Lasker’s speech, which has been cutting everybody up!” cried the architect.
“I am thinking just now of what you are always thinking of, nothing at all!” said Justus, taking a place next to Bunzel’s “cousin,” and passing his hand over his bald forehead to brush away the unpleasant impression.
It would have been hard indeed for even a less cheerful disposition to have given way to gloomy thoughts at this table and in such company. They talked and laughed and joked in the most extravagant way. They had all worked at the great building, especially the architect who had drawn the plan and directed the execution, and now were showing up each other’s mistakes in good-humoured banter. And between whiles came serious and weighty talk upon art and artists, or upon Lasker’s speech, which Justus, who in the sweat of his brow had sat out the whole debate—“for reasons, you know, Meta”—thought splendid beyond all belief, while the architect declared that the man might certainly be right on the whole—there were stranger stories even connected with some of the railroads—but of actual building he knew no more than a newborn babe; till one or the other who thought the conversation was getting too serious, threw in some wild joke, and the laughter that had been for a short time checked resounded again louder and more heartily than ever. And at the other tables, if there was perhaps less mirth, there was no less noise. The champagne flowed in streams. The innumerable servants had enough to do to renew the empty bottles in the silver wine-coolers; and great irritation seemed to be felt at the smallest neglect of the servants in this, matter. Everybody gave orders; everybody wanted the best wine, the second best was good for nothing, People passed the wine or the dishes from table to table, “just as if it had been a public dinner,” said Baroness Kniebreche, surveying the crowd through her eyeglass; “quite like an hotel. I never saw such a thing in a private house before. It is extremely amusing. Do you know, Wallbach, that when you passed behind my chair just now I was within an ace of addressing you as the head waiter.”
“Ha! Very funny!” answered Wallbach absently. “You cannot expect to find the good company and manners to which we are accustomed in such a house as this. It is and will always remain the house of a parvenu. But I was going to ask you, my dear Baroness, if you had kept your counsel as to the last piece of information I gave you, as I asked you to do?”
“The last piece of information?” cried the Baroness; “but, my dear child, you have told me so much, that I positively have forgotten which is the first and which is the last. Why do you want to know?”
“Ottomar avoids me in a way which, notwithstanding that our relations have been disturbed lately, is most marked. Just now he looked straight over my head.”
“Then look over his head, my dear child. I really can give you no other advice. Besides, what is it you want? You can’t wash fur without wetting it. That’s nonsense. If you want to have a row, have it—if not, let it alone; but don’t bother me any more about the matter. And now give me some of that lobster salad—there, at your elbow—it is delicious.”
“The old woman is drunk,” muttered Wallbach, as he returned to his place at the next table.
Philip had excused himself for a quarter of an hour from the old lady to go round the room, and was now going from table to table with his glass, which had to be constantly replenished, in his hand, received here with praises of the splendid feast, there with cordial shouts, “Splendid, my dear fellow!” “Well done, my boy!” and at
