"I could not find either your things or Mimi's maid all this time," he excuses himself for his long delay. "I hope this belongs to you,"

offering her a white crepe shawl.

She takes it, but immediately starts back with a violent gesture. "That belongs to my sister-in-law," she cries; "my things are never so strongly perfumed. Only smell it, how strange!"

"Yes, truly," says he, holding the shawl to his face; "that is a harem perfume which some one brought her from Constantinople. But what is the matter, Snowdrop?"

"I feel the storm approach," she murmurs, tonelessly. "Let us go to the house."

They go. The swallows fly yet lower, the clouds hang heavier, almost touch the black tree-tops. There is a whistling and hissing in the leaves.

Elsa hears nothing. With dragging, and yet overhasty, steps she walks near Sempaly. "Who knows whether he would even say 'poor Garzin' if I should die?" she thinks to herself.

The lawn-tennis party, which Pistasch and the Klette have now also joined, growing more and more animated, has lasted until the first drops of rain have driven them away.

Somewhat dishevelled and heated, her morbid self-consciousness healed by the admiration which Pistasch, escaped from his cousin's control, had unreservedly displayed for her, Linda enters the drawing-room where the Countess, Felix, Elsa and Scirocco are a.s.sembled.

"How did your lawn-tennis come on?" asks Scirocco, as the Countess, vexed at Linda's triumphant look, does not condescend to address her.

"Oh, excellently," cries Linda. "Count Kamenz and my brother-in-law display the greatest talent for this n.o.ble occupation."

"To whom do you give the palm?" cries Kamenz.

"I cannot decide that to-day," says she with as much gravity as if she were deciding upon the fortieth _fauteuil_ of the Paris Academy. "One judges talent not from what it first offers, but according to its subsequent development."

This pedantic phrase from her fresh lips is so irresistibly droll that Pistasch and Erwin laugh heartily, and even Scirocco cannot suppress a slight smile.

"We have come to the conclusion that the ground here is not favorable,"

continues Linda, turning to Scirocco, "and the gentlemen are coming over to Traunberg to-morrow to practise. Will you be one of the party, Count Sempaly?"

"If you will permit me, I will have the pleasure, Baroness," he replies with a bow.

"You are as full of phrases as an old copy-setter to-day," cries she, shrugs her shoulders, laughs lightly, and sinks into the arm-chair which Pistasch pushes forward for her.

Pistasch seats himself opposite her. His light laugh as he leans forward, her satisfied leaning back, the continuous conversation wholly incomprehensible to the others, indicated a dawning flirtation. What did it matter to Pistasch whether Linda's father's name was Harfink or Schmuckbuckling? A man never troubles himself about such a thing when he is paying court to a pretty woman.

Poor Mimi! for years she has treated Pistasch as her exclusive property, she grows nervous, glances discontentedly in the direction of the two.

"Rudi, will you order the carriage?" asks Felix, uneasily.

Scirocco stretches out his hand to the bell, but asks politely, "Will you not wait until the rain has ceased?"

"I have no desire to get wet in our open carriage," interposes Linda.

"I could place a close carriage at your disposal," remarks the nervous Countess, irritated even more by Pistasch's manner than by Linda's victorious expression, and adds constrainedly, "However, I really see no reason for haste."

Hardly can permission to remain be given in a colder tone. But Linda replies with astonishing aplomb, "Neither do I," and has a sweet, nave smile for the Countess, and for Pistasch, on the contrary, a comical, expressive glance which delights him. He finds it quite in order that she should refresh herself with a little impertinence. "She is piquant as an actress," he thinks.

Then the door opens; unannounced, like very old friends, a lady and gentleman enter. She, small, fat, lively, cries out, hurrying up to the Countess, "We flee to thee, Mimi, the rain has surprised us. Ah, you have guests--how are you, Elsa? do I really see you at last?"

He, tall, thin, with a Velasquez nose, Don Quixote manner, and arrogant eyes, looking out through gla.s.ses, has meanwhile chivalrously kissed the hand of the Countess. Now he looks round, recognizes Erwin, greets him heartily, comes up to Felix, starts slightly, goes past him to Rhoeden, as if he had never seen Felix in his life before.

Felix stands motionless, ashy, rigid, with bluish lips and half-closed eyes. Scirocco has lived through many unpleasant moments, but never a more painful one. Still he rapidly collects himself, takes the new guest by both shoulders and turns him toward Felix.

"That is Lanzberg. Did you not recognize him, Max?" he cries.

After that nothing remains for Count L---- but to murmur in apology, so as not to insult the guests of the house in which he is, "I am so near-sighted," and to stretch out two arrogant fingers to Felix.

"Order the carriage, Rudi," begs Felix, very hoa.r.s.ely.

Linda, who has not noticed the little scene, gives Pistasch a glance at the interruption of their _tete-a-tete_, which flatters his vanity.

XVI.

"You have slept badly, mouse; look at your poor eyes. You worry me, you pale person."

With these words Erwin greets his wife the next morning at breakfast, kisses her lightly on the forehead, then reads his letters, swallows a cup of coffee in great haste, greets Miss Sidney, who enters with her little pupil, absently though pleasantly, lets himself, still pleasantly but somewhat pa.s.sively, be embraced by his little daughter, puts his letters in his pocket and hurries away, but turns at the door and cries: "Do not expect me to lunch, Elsa; I have a great deal to do in Radewitz."

Now he has gone, Elsa's eyes have grown sad. For a few minutes after Miss Sidney has led Litzi away Elsa remains at the deserted breakfast table and crumbling a roll, murmurs, "He has forgotten."

To-day is their wedding-day, a day which Erwin has always made much of, which has always been a day of sweetest recollections. She had remained in her room this morning longer than usual, because she had hoped that he would seek her. In vain! Then she, poor Elsa, had expected a little surprise at the breakfast table--in vain!

So now she sits there and hopes that perhaps he will return.

Yes, he returns--his steps rapidly approach, her heart beats fast, the door opens, Erwin bursts in with hat on his head, and cries: "Elsa, don't forget to send the White d.u.c.h.ess to Traunberg. I have not time to give the order," and disappears.

"He has forgotten--decidedly forgotten!" cries Elsa, "for the first time!" Then she leaves the breakfast room.

Time pa.s.ses slowly and sadly for her. "It is a trifle not worth speaking about," she tells herself again and again. "I should have reminded him," but then she feels herself grow hot.

"He did not forget Linda's horse," she murmurs bitterly, and adds still more bitterly: "He is bored. Every diversion is welcome to him. Poor Erwin!"

The day pa.s.ses--the dinner hour draws near, several minutes before five Erwin at length returns. Heated and irritable he seeks her in her room.

"How vexed I have been!" he cries as he enters.

She smiles, a little excitement overcomes her. But soon it turns out that he has not been vexed at his forgetfulness--oh, no!--only at the cheating and roguery of his sugar factory director.

"It serves you right," remarks Elsa, coldly. She cannot deny herself the satisfaction of making some sharp remark to him. "When he introduced himself to you, you told me 'the man is repulsive to me!'

and when he came back again you engaged him. You always do so. At the first glance you judge men according to your instincts, and very justly; at the second glance you judge them by the universal statutes of lofty philanthropy, and always falsely. I know no one for whom it is more unpleasant to believe ill of his neighbor than you."

"G.o.d be praised and thanked that the counterbalance of a desperately distrustful wife is given me, then," cried Erwin, somewhat irritably.

Then a pair of large eyes meet his gloomily. "My distrust is a disease, and you know the cause," says she, earnestly.

The shrill dinner-bell at this point interrupts the conversation.