“Certainly!” answered the General; “Ottomar shall take the invitation himself. I want to speak to the Captain, and quite reckoned upon seeing him this evening.”
Elsa cast down her eyes to avoid seeing the flush of embarrassment which she felt sure must cover her aunt’s cheeks at that moment.
“Has my son returned?” asked the General of the servant.
“The Lieutenant has just returned from parade, and has gone to his room to dress.” The General commissioned the ladies to inform Ottomar of his wishes with regard to the visit and the invitation, and to tell him that there was a letter for him on his writing-table; he had to attend a board, and was already a few minutes late: he begged them not to disturb themselves on his account.
The General rose, made a stately bow to the ladies, and left the room. He had, contrary to his custom, eaten scarcely anything, and appeared absent and gloomy. This had not escaped Elsa; but she did not venture to ask any questions, any more than she ventured now to ask her aunt what she was thinking of, as she silently and with unwonted energy picked the last remnant of meat from an unlucky wing of chicken. She knew too well that it was not “the difficult chapter” in the “Court Etiquette.” Fortunately Ottomar soon appeared; but neither did he bring cheerfulness: the Major had again been unbearable—the same evolution over and over again; he had blown up the officers after the parade as if they had been schoolboys; it was unbearable, he was sick of the whole business; he had rather throw it all up at once.
Elsa thought the opportunity a bad one for troubling her brother, while he was so put out, with the commission which lay so near her heart, and was glad that her aunt did not start the subject, as she had feared. But the letter which was awaiting him on his father’s table could not be delayed.
“Why was not the letter brought to my room?” said Ottomar to the servant, raising his eyebrows.
“I know nothing about it, sir,” answered August.
Ottomar had already laid aside his napkin, and was rising, but now said: “I dare say it is not very important; will you hand me that dish, Elsa? I am as hungry as a wolf.”
All the same he hardly touched the food, but poured out successively several glasses of wine, which he drank down quickly.
“I am too thirsty to eat,” he said; “perhaps I shall have a better appetite an hour hence. Shall we leave the table?”
He pushed back his chair, and went to the door leading to his father’s study, but stopped a moment on the way and passed his hand over his forehead and eyes. “That confounded parade,” he said; “it would make the strongest man nervous.”
He was gone; his behaviour had struck Elsa painfully. She could not believe that the parade was the sole cause of his bad spirits: he had borne the same wearisome duties easily enough before. But for some time past he had seemed changed: his cheerful spirits and good humour had vanished; in the last few days especially she had been struck by his gloomy, disturbed manner. She thought she knew what was the cause, and had determined more than once to speak to him about it. It was wrong not to have done so, and now it was perhaps too late.
Elsa thought over all this while again walking in her favourite haunt in the garden; she was too much excited to undertake any of her usual occupations. Perhaps Ottomar would come into the garden too; or she might call him when he left his father’s room, the door of which she could see through the open door of the dining-room.
He stayed long, as it seemed to her impatience. Perhaps he was answering the letter at his father’s table; but at last he emerged, buttoning his uniform, and came into the garden; he had no doubt seen her in the walk under the trees.
He had not observed her. With head bare and eyes cast down, still fingering the buttons of his coat, he came slowly towards her. His handsome face was dark as night, in spite of the bright sunlight which shone upon it; Elsa saw how his lips trembled and quivered.
“In heaven’s name! what is the matter, Ottomar?”
“How you startled me!”
“And you me still more! What has happened, Ottomar? I implore you to tell me! Is it the letter?—a challenge?”
“Or a sentence of death, perhaps? Nothing of importance—a registered letter which my father received for me.”
“An unimportant letter—registered! But if it is not the letter, it is what has for so long worried and absorbed you. How do matters stand between you and Carla, Ottomar!”
“Between me and Carla? What an extraordinary question! How should matters stand between oneself and a lady to whom one will shortly be betrothed?”
“Ottomar, look me in the face. You do not love Carla!”
Ottomar tried to meet her glance, but was not quite successful. “You are silly,” he said, with an embarrassed smile; “those are girlish fancies.”
“And is not Carla a girl? And do you not think that she has fancies too?—that she has pictured to herself the happiness that she hopes for at your side?—that for her, as for every other girl, this happiness can only exist with love, and that she, that you both will be unhappy if this love is absent on one side or the other, or on both? Do you not believe this?”
“I do not believe a word of it,” said Ottomar.
He looked at his sister now and smiled; but his eyes were fixed and hard, and his sad yet ironical smile cut Elsa to the heart.
“And yet?” she said sadly.
“And yet! Look here, my dear child; the matter is very simple. I require for my own expenses, and to pay off the debts that I was obliged to incur before I came into
