But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples, “like mad,” said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat, and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon—his shooting-coat—and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar.
The night was very fresh, but the cold did him good; a drizzling rain was falling from the black clouds, but he did not heed it; he stood there looking out into the dark autumn night, and smoking his cigar, confused thoughts whirling through his troubled brain, and the beating of the veins of his temples and the sighing of the wind in the trees prevented his hearing a twice-repeated knock at the door. He started like a criminal when he heard a voice at his ear. It was August.
“I beg pardon, sir. I knocked more than once.”
“What do you want?”
“The General begs you will go to him at once.”
“Is my father ill?”
August shook his head. “The General has not yet undressed, and does not look exactly ill, only a little—”
“Only a little what?”
The man scratched his head. “A little odd, sir. I think, sir, the General—”
“Confound you, will you speak out?”
August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, “I think the General had a disagreeable letter a little while ago; it may have been about . I did not see the man who brought it, and Friedrich did not recognise him, and I believe he went away again immediately. But I was obliged to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face when he read the letter.”
“From a lady?”
August could not help smiling, in spite of his sincere anxiety for his young master.
“Oh no!” said he. “They look different, one finds that out by experience; an important looking letter.”
“Those infernal Jews!” muttered Ottomar. He could not understand what it meant; the next bill was only due in a week’s time; but what else in the world could it be? His father would be in an awful rage again. Well, he would only have to propose a few days earlier, if he must propose, were it only to put an end to these everlasting worries, which left a man no peace even to smoke his cigar quietly in his own room at night.
He tossed the cigar out of window. August had picked up his uniform coat, and was taking off the cotillon orders.
“What is that for?”
“Won’t you put on your uniform, sir?” asked August.
“Nonsense!” said Ottomar. “It would only—” He broke off; he could not say to August, “It would only make this tiresome business longer and more solemn.” “I shall simply tell my father that I do not mean to trouble him with these matters in future, but prefer to allow Wallbach finally to settle my affairs,” said he to himself, while August went before him along the passage with the lamp, the gaslights having been extinguished, and stopped at his father’s door.
“You may put the light down on the table and go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at .”
He had spoken louder than was necessary, and it struck him that his voice sounded strange, as if it were not his own voice. Of course it was only because the house was quite quiet, so quiet that he again heard the blood coursing through his temples, and the beating of his heart.
“Those infernal Jews!” he muttered again through his teeth as he knocked at the door.
“Come in!”
His father stood at his writing-table, above which a hanging lamp was burning. On the console before the looking-glass also the lamps were still burning. The room seemed disagreeably light and formal-looking, although it was exactly as Ottomar had always seen it, as long as he could remember. He had better have put on his uniform after all.
“I must apologise for my dress, father; I was just going to bed, and August seemed to think you were in such a hurry.”
His father remained standing at the table, leaning on one hand, with his back towards him, without answering. The silence lay like a mountain on Ottomar’s soul. With a great effort he shook off his vague dread.
“What do you want, father?”
“First that you should read this letter,” said the General, turning round slowly, and pointing to a paper that was spread out before him on the table.
“A letter to me?”
“In that case I should not have read it; and I have read it.”
He had stepped back from the table, and paced slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back, while Ottomar, standing where his father had stood just before, without taking the letter in his hand—the handwriting was legible enough—read as follows:
“Honoured Sir—I trust your honour will forgive your humble servant, the undersigned, for venturing to call your honour’s attention to a circumstance which threatens seriously to endanger the welfare of your honoured family. It concerns the relations which have for some time subsisted between your son, Lieutenant von Werben, and the daughter of your neighbour, Herr Schmidt, the owner of the great marble-works. Your honour will excuse the undersigned from entering into details, with which he is thoroughly conversant, but which are better consigned to the obscurity in which the parties in question seek in vain to remain, and if the undersigned begs you to ask your son where, and in whose company he was this evening between and , it is only to prove to your honour how far the said relations have been carried.
“It would be both foolish and unpardonable to suppose that your honour is acquainted with all this, and has connived at it till your son is on the point of being betrothed to the daughter of an
