Antonio had discovered long ago from the artists, who were greater frequenters of the theatre than himself, who Bertalda was.
“I will see the lady safely home by-and-by,” he said, with an equivocal smile.
The blood flew into Ottomar’s face.
“Insolent fellow!” he cried between his teeth, as he lifted his hand.
Antonio started back and put his hand to his breast pocket. Bertalda threw herself almost into Ottomar’s arms, and drew him on one side. At that moment, a perfect swarm of men, who had assembled for a game of pool in the billiard-room, poured into the conservatory between the disputants.
Their startled countenances, their violent gesticulations, their loud and confused words, all proclaimed that something unusual had occurred, and that they brought terrible news. But the terrible news had already spread from the other side—from the vestibule into the supper-room. It had already reached the dancers above, who were hastening down the broad stairs, whilst many others met them from the supper-room. “Is it possible?—Have you heard?—Good heavens!—Pretty work!—Who would have thought it!—A man like that!—Let us get away—No one can get away till the house has been searched!—We shall see about that!—Good gracious! where is papa?—A glass of water. For heaven’s sake! don’t you hear?”
No one heard. Neither the servants, nor the guests, who were streaming out of the rooms into the vestibule and cloakroom, where there was soon a positively dangerous crowd.
It was in vain that some calmer people attempted to quiet the mob; in vain that the released police officer and his men tried to stem the current. The terrified people crowded in confused masses from the brightly-illuminated house, which was still echoing with the noise of the festival, into the dark streets, through which the midnight storm was howling.
Book VI
I
“Has Friedrich not come back yet!”
“No, General.”
August, who had his hand already upon the door, was just leaving the room.
“One moment!” said the General.
August obeyed with a face of much embarrassment; the General had come close up to him, and there was in his countenance, not anger, as August assured himself by one nervous glance upwards, but something peculiar; while the deep tones of his voice did not sound peremptory but very strange, thought August.
“It is of great importance to me to know where my son is at this moment; Friedrich will perhaps not return immediately, and I am losing precious time. You do not know where Friedrich was to take the things?”
The faithful fellow trembled, and his broad, honest face quivered as if tears were not far off; it was only with an effort that he could answer: “Yes, General; Friedrich told me, and he has already two or three times had to take things there when the Lieutenant did not come home; she is called Fräulein Bertalda, and lives in ⸻ Street, and is, with all due respect, a person who—”
“Good!” said the General, “you need not send Friedrich to me now. It is possible that I may require to send you out. Be ready, therefore!”
“Breakfast will be ready. General—”
“I shall not breakfast today.”
“Fräulein Sidonie was coming to speak to you, sir; can she come now?”
“I am very sorry—I am busy—you must tell Fräulein Sidonie.”
The General turned back into the room. August, in his heartfelt anxiety, longed to say: “If only our young lady were here!” But he did not venture, and so slipped out.
“Part of it was true then,” murmured the General, “so I suppose the rest will be also.”
He went up to his writing-table, on which lay an open letter that he had received a quarter of an hour before from Herr von Wallbach. Bending over it in vague bewilderment, supporting himself by one hand on the table, he almost mechanically perused it again, then raised himself with a long-drawn breath and passed his hand over his bushy brows, as if trying to sweep away from his mind, like a bad dream, the fearful thing which he read there. Not merely what he read! between the lines there flitted to and fro terrible things which he himself had mentally inserted whilst he read, as in a bad dream the most dreadful part is not in the images which a terror-stricken imagination calls up, but in the expectation of horrors that are still to come. And yet! what more could come, when an alliance with the Werben family was declined as dishonourable! when satisfaction was denied to a Werben!
The latter point, as the most comprehensible, was that to which the unhappy man’s wandering thoughts returned and clung most persistently.
A betrothal broken off was a thing that had happened before and might happen again; it was a trifle even, a mere nothing, if only honour were untouched by it, if only Ottomar could stake his life upon his unimpeachable honour. Might not Wallbach’s cowardice—he had always thought the man a coward—be taking advantage of Ottomar’s difficulties, which “had reached a height and assumed a character that made it dubious, at least, if Herr von Werben were still entitled to demand satisfaction as an officer and a gentleman, or even from the standpoint of ordinary honesty.”
This must be cleared away! He had thought since that last affair, when in the autumn he had paid the bills which had come into his hands, that everything was settled, since no more bills had been presented to him—he had erred, grossly erred. Ottomar in his need had drawn more bills—he himself was the cause of Ottomar being in such need!—why had he at that time so sternly refused him any further assistance? Might he not have known that such embarrassment cannot be at once ended? that when a man’s true friends refused their assistance he would turn to false friends who would ruthlessly make profit out of his position, as had evidently been the case here? No matter, no matter! all should be forgiven and forgotten, if Ottomar would only confide in him again, would only allow him
