He turned into the Grosse Stern Avenue, which was his shortest way home. Under the great trees it was already so dark that he could only just distinguish the footpath along which he hastily walked; on the other side of the broad road, along which ran a narrower footpath, the trunks of the trees were hardly perceptible in the darkness. How many and many times had he ridden along this grand avenue—alone—with brother officers—in a brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen—how often with Carla! Elsa was right, Carla was a splendid rider, the best probably of all the ladies, certainly the most graceful. They had been so often seen and spoken of together—after all it was quite impossible to draw back now; it would make such a frightful scandal.
Ottomar stood still. He had walked too fast. The perspiration was streaming from his brow; he felt stifled, and tore open his coat and waistcoat. He had never before experienced the sensation of physical fear, but now he started and his eyes peered anxiously into the darkness, as he heard behind him a slight rustle—probably a twig that had broken in its fall.
“I feel as if I had committed a murder, or as if in another moment I should be murdered,” he said to himself, as almost running he continued on his way.
He did not suspect that to the breaking of that twig he owed his life.
Antonio had lingered, as if under the influence of a spell, at the entrance of the avenue, now sitting on the iron railing which separated the ride from the footpath, now pacing up and down, now leaning against the trunk of a tree, always revolving the same dark thoughts, concocting plans of revenge, delighting himself with the idea of the torments he would inflict on her and on him, as soon as he had them in his power, from time to time directing his glance across the Platz towards the entrance of the other avenue, along which the carriage had disappeared with them, as if they must reappear in that direction, as if his revengeful soul had the power of compelling them. He could have spent the whole night there, as a beast of prey, furious at the loss of his victim, remains obstinately in his lair, in spite of the pangs of hunger.
But what was that? There he came across the Platz directly towards him. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, recognised him as if it had been bright day. Would the bestia be such a fool as to venture into the avenue, to give himself into his hands? Per Bacco! he would—there. After a short pause he turned into the avenue; on the other side of the road, true, but so much the better, he could the more easily follow him on this side; he had only to dash across the ride when the moment came; in the deep sand his first steps would not be heard, and then in a few bounds he would reach him and bury the stiletto in his back, or if he should turn round, drive it up to the hilt under the seventh rib!
And his hand closed on the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with the finger of the other hand he repeatedly tried the sharp point, while he glided with long steps from tree to tree—softly, softly—the tiger’s velvet paw could not have fallen and been raised more softly.
They had reached the centre of the avenue. The darkness could not get more intense; it was just light enough to see the blade of the stiletto. One moment more, to assure himself that they were alone in the dark wood—that other and himself—and now, crouching low, he crossed the soft sand, behind the thick trunk which he had already selected.
But, quickly as he had crossed, the other had gained some twenty paces in advance. This was too much; they must be diminished by half. And it would not be difficult. He was in the soft sand of the road, to the right of the trees, while the other was on the hard footpath to the left, where the sound of his steps would overpower any accidental noise. But, maledetto di Dio—his foot touched a dry twig, which broke with a snap. He stepped behind a tree—he could not be seen; but the other must have heard; he was standing still—listening, perhaps awaiting his assailant—at all events no longer unprepared. Who knew—he was a brave man and a soldier—perhaps he was turning to defy his assailant. So much the better! only one spring from behind the tree, and—he was coming!
The Italian’s heart throbbed as if it would choke him, as he now with his left foot advanced prepared for the spring; but his murderous thoughts had affected his usually sharp hearing. The steps were not coming towards him, but going away from him! By the time he became aware of his mistake, the distance between them was quite doubled; and trebled before, in his consternation, he could decide what was to be done.
Give up the chase? There was nothing else to do. His prey was now almost running, and a late cab rolled along the drive which crossed the avenue, and on the other side of the drive were cross paths right and left—he had no certainty of being able to carry out his intention or of escaping afterwards; the moment was past—for
