The General compressed his lips and went on writing. It was bitter—most bitter to him to have to take everything from the full hands of this generous friend, with no power of returning to him anything from his own empty ones—it was too bitter! A cloud came over his eyes; he was forced to break off.
“There is nothing but the signature wanting,” urged Schönau, leaning over his shoulder.
“I cannot do it, Schönau!” said the General.
“I implore you,” cried the Captain, “life and death hang upon it—oh! my God!”
Startled by a sound at the door, he had turned and saw Colonel von Bohl enter the room.
“Too late!” muttered Schönau; and then, with a desperate effort to save what was already lost: “Your signature. General!”
But the General had turned round, and had seen the Colonel. Ottomar then had been to him already—had told him everything; the affair could go no further without consultation with his commanding officer.
The Colonel’s usually severe military aspect had the stamp of a solemn gravity upon it now, as he said, after briefly apologising for his intrusion:
“Have the goodness, my dear Schönau, to leave us. I have a communication to make to the General which will admit of no delay, and which I must make without witnesses.”
A word trembled upon Schönau’s lips, but he restrained himself, and only bowed and said:
“Certainly, Colonel!” and then turning to the General: “May I ask permission to pay my respects meanwhile to Fräulein Sidonie!” then, after a little pause: “In case you should wish, however, to see me again, I think my visit will be a long one.”
He bowed again and went. The General looked after him with fixed, terrified eyes. Evidently there was some understanding between Schönau and the Colonel, although they had not spoken to one another yet; evidently both knew something that Schönau had not said, and that the Colonel had now come to say. He shuddered as before when he had laid down Wallbach’s letter; again there came upon him that agony of fear, only now it was no longer lingering at the threshold; now it had come close to him in the person of this iron soldier, in whom, though he had never formed any intimacy with him socially, he had always seen and honoured the pattern of a soldier after his own heart. The door was shut behind Schönau.
“I know all,” cried the General; and said to himself, at the same moment, that he had spoken falsely.
The Colonel shook his head.
“You do not know all, General; Schönau could not tell you all, or rather, as I suspect from his manner, would not tell you all.”
“Then I am prepared for anything,” said the General in a hollow voice.
Again the Colonel shook his head.
“I wish you were, but I think it is impossible. You must be prepared for the worst; your son’s bills, which fall due today, are all forgeries.”
The General fell back as if he had been shot, his hands convulsively grasping the air. The Colonel sprang forward to save him from falling, but with a frightful effort the unhappy man recovered himself before the other could touch him, and stammered: “I—I thank you—it is over—it is—”
He could say no more, he could bear no more, but fell back into his chair, pressing his cold hands to his throbbing temples, and muttering with bloodless lips: “It is all over—all over!”
The Colonel, who could only with great difficulty retain his own composure, drew forward a chair, and said:
“It is terrible, I can offer you no word of consolation, for I know only too well that you will not take it as an extenuating circumstance that it was your name, his father’s name, in and by which the fraud was carried out.”
“You are right, quite right,” said the General; “the fact is irrelevant—absolutely irrelevant.”
Had he understood? Did he know what he was saying? The Colonel, who had not taken his eyes off him, almost doubted; the dark eyes, usually so steady, stared vacantly into nothing; the voice that had formerly been so strong and decided, sounded harsh and wavering as if his mind were giving way; the Colonel thought it best to recall him to a sense of the reality, however terrible, by a relation of the circumstances.
He related, therefore, in his dry way, that Ottomar had come to him at about , and had immediately on his entrance announced to him, with the calmness of utter, hopeless despair, that he had that morning sent a challenge by Herr von Lassberg to Herr von Wallbach, on account of certain reports, now current in society, concerning on the one hand his relations with Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt, and on the other Fräulein von Wallbach’s conduct with Count Golm, which reports could only have originated with Herr von Walbach. That Herr von Wallbach, without further reference to the truth or untruth of these reports, or to his share in spreading them, had refused satisfaction, until Herr von Werben had cleared himself from the suspicion of having lately made use of improper methods to free himself from his money difficulties. He, Herr von Wallbach, would of course be ready to give satisfaction for this insinuation touching his honour in case it should not be substantiated.
“Unfortunately,” continued the Colonel, “Herr von Wallbach was but too sure of his facts. His informant, whose name, I know not from what consideration, he refused to mention even to Herr von Lassberg, could only be, according to your son’s assertion, the very man with whose assistance this miserable fraud has been carried out; a man whose name, if I remember rightly, has been often mentioned lately in the Wallbach circle—Signor Giraldi.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the General. “My son could not—impossible!”
“I beg your pardon, General,” said the Colonel, “I am repeating to you exactly the account which I received from your son’s mouth, and which I believe to be perfectly truthful. According to him, from the first moment of their acquaintance, Signor Giraldi manifested the most lively interest in
