“Most certainly, General, and will do it to the best of my ability.”
“I felt sure you would; but I must draw your attention to one important point. President von Sanden has told me that he has you in his mind, and Elsa confided to me that you were not disinclined to agree to the President’s wish, and accept the situation in question. The post is not in the gift of the Minister of War, but your report will cause ill feeling in more than one department, and we might find ourselves compelled to give up the name of our informant. Have you thought of that?”
“No, General; but I have never been ashamed of my name, and, thank God, have never had reason to be. From the moment that it is named in such company and in this affair, I shall be proud of it.”
The General nodded.
“One thing more: the matter is pressing, very pressing. When do you think you can have the report ready?”
“If I can communicate with Herr von Schönau tomorrow morning, it shall be ready the morning after.”
“But you would have to work all night.”
“I am a good sleeper, General, and I can keep awake too when necessary.”
The General smiled.
“Thank you, my dear Schmidt.”
It was the first time that he had spoken to Reinhold in the unceremonious manner usual from superior officers to their younger comrades. He had risen, and his usually stern glance rested with almost fatherly kindness on the young man who stood before him, colouring with pleasure and pride.
“And now go and amuse yourself for a little while with the young people; you are still young enough yourself, thank God. There comes my son, probably to fetch you.”
“Just so,” said Ottomar, who appeared hurriedly and excitedly in the doorway. “I apologise; but Elsa—”
“Off with you!” said the General.
Ottomar drew Reinhold away.
The General looked thoughtfully after the two young men.
“It is a pity,” he said, “but one cannot have everything at once, and if Ottomar—what do you want!”
“This letter has just been left.”
“A letter, now? How can that be?”
“The hall door is open, sir. The man who brought it said it was lucky, as otherwise he would have had to ring. It was very important.”
“Very odd!” said the General, contemplating the letter which he had taken from the servant.
It was a large, businesslike looking letter, and the direction was in a clerk’s hand.
“Very odd!” said the General again.
He had opened the letter mechanically and began to read it. What was this? He passed his hand over his eyes and looked again; but there it stood quite plain, in clear, bold words. His face became purple.
“Have you any orders, sir?” asked August, who was anxiously waiting.
“No, no! nothing, nothing! You can go,” murmured the General, as he put the letter down and pretended to fold it. But the servant had hardly left the room before he took it up again to read to the end. And then the strong man trembled from head to foot, while with a cautious glance around he quickly folded the letter, and tearing open his uniform, put it in his pocket.
“Unhappy boy!” he murmured.
X
The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the rooms under Sidonie’s directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy. And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had laid her greatest treasures—the album with his portrait and the little compass—on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle, which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing the compass, and to assure herself that “it was still faithful,” and “turned towards its master,” and then opened the album at the place at which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not at the portrait—that was detestable—but at the inscription, “With all my heart,” and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking.
Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a “Good night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?” and had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage leading to his room, he must pass his father’s door. He stood still for a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good night through the open door. This evening he did not do so. “I am tired to death,” he repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this
