Frau von Wallbach’s last words were spoken without the least touch of sarcasm, in the same lazily comfortable way as the former ones, with her pretty head resting sideways against the back of her chair, and her eyes turned away from Giraldi and looking at the ceiling, as if it were all written up there and she were merely reading it off.
But not the most passionate warmth, nor the bitterest attack could have so upset the composure of the man who had sat before her gnawing his white lips, without interrupting her by a word, and who now rose to leave the room with a silent bow, as this imperturbable calmness and blunt sincerity affected him from a woman whom he had hitherto considered a nonentity, as the emptiest of all empty-headed dolls, and who now dared to tell him this to his very face; to unfold the web of intrigue which he had toiled so hard to spin with all the energy of his crafty mind, and to show him the gaps which his sharp eye had overlooked, his most watchful art had not succeeded in covering, and then calmly to tear it from top to bottom like some worn-out rag!
He had hardly entered the dining-room, where a place had been laid for him at one corner of the large table, before he gave free vent to the fury which had nearly choked him. He stamped, he swore, he tore his beard, like a madman, thought François, who handed him his soup as calmly as if monsieur’s wild gestures had been a gymnastic exercise which every gentleman was in the habit of practising before sitting down to dinner after a fatiguing journey and a long drive.
“Why don’t you speak?” shrieked Giraldi.
“I am waiting for monsieur’s permission.”
“Speak, then!”
“I have written all my observations to monsieur with such minuteness—”
“You have written nothing that was worth reading! You did not write me one word about the intimacy that has sprung up between madame and her niece, and which you must have seen if you had eyes in your head. You are either a fool or a traitor.”
“I am unfortunate—”
“Don’t let me hear any of your confounded long words! I have no time for them. What else do you know?”
“Besides what I told monsieur on his arrival, I know absolutely nothing of importance. Ah! by the by, I had almost forgotten that!”
François slapped his forehead suddenly. He had not forgotten it for a moment; he had been considering all the time that monsieur was in the drawing-room with Frau von Wallbach, whether he should say it or not. He could not speak without betraying madame as he had betrayed monsieur, but for what purpose take money from both if not to betray both? So far everything had gone on well; all he had to consider was that each step to right or left should be well paid; and if he were not greatly deceived, now was the moment to take another step on monsieur’s side.
“Will you speak?” cried Giraldi, shaking his fist at him.
“I have forgotten it after all,” said François, looking with impudent coolness into Giraldi’s face, that was white with passion.
Giraldi dropped his arms,
“How much?” he ejaculated.
“I cannot do it cheaply, monsieur. The matter, in case I can recollect it, is one of the utmost importance for monsieur, and as madame has been lately so extraordinarily kind to me, and has given me, through Madame Feldner, so many sterling proofs of her kindness, and monsieur will of course not trust me in future, but this will undoubtedly be the last service which I shall render monsieur—”
“How much!” shrieked Giraldi.
“Ten thousand francs, monsieur.”
Giraldi pulled out a pocketbook from which he took a handful of banknotes, and threw them on the table.
“Count them!”
“There are three thousand thalers, monsieur.”
“Take them and speak!”
François smoothed the notes carefully, put them no less carefully into one side of his pocketbook, and said, as he took a paper from the other side:
“Monsieur’s generosity is adorable, as usual. I should be most deeply ashamed if I were not convinced that monsieur would take this as a fully sufficient equivalent.”
And, with a low bow, he handed Giraldi the paper—a copy of Elsa’s telegram to her father.
François had hoped that the terror which must now be painted on monsieur’s expressive face would produce an interesting variety in the scene; but he flattered himself in vain. Monsieur, who had been trembling all over with rage and fury, and who had gesticulated and raved like a madman, now stood, after glancing in his own rapid fashion over the paper, looking as calm and composed as François had ever yet seen him; and asked, in his usual low inquiring voice:
“When and where was this sent out?”
“This morning, at , from Prora, by a man on horseback, whom I sent myself, after I had taken a copy of the open note.”
“Then your news is not worth a farthing. The telegraphic communication between Berlin and Sundin has been interrupted since this morning.”
“Just so, monsieur. That was what the clerk said who received the telegram, after he had inquired at Sundin and received the
