“If it was someone who wished to separate Eva and me at any price, he
has gained his end. God's curse be on him!”
Herr Mack looked at me suspiciously. He murmured something about the
fine funeral. Nothing had been spared.
I sat admiring the alertness of his mind. He would have no compensation
for the boat that my landslide had crushed.
“Oh, but surely,” I said, “will you not have some payment for the boat
and the tar-bucket and the brush?”
“No, my dear Lieutenant,” he answered. “How could you think of such a
thing?” And he looked at me with hatred in his eyes.
For three weeks I saw nothing of Edwarda. Yes, once I met her at the
store: when I went to buy some bread, she stood inside the counter
looking over some different sorts of cloth stuff. Only the two
assistants were there besides.
I greeted her aloud, and she looked up, but did not answer. It occurred
to me that I could not ask for bread while she was there; I turned to
the assistants and asked for powder and shot. While they were weighing
it out, I watched her.
A grey dress, much too small for her, with the buttonholes worn; her
flat breast heaved restlessly. How she had grown that summer! Her brow
was knit in thought; those strangely curved eyebrows stood in her face
like two riddles; all her movements were grown more mature. I looked at
her hands; the contour of her long, delicate fingers moved me violently,
made me tremble. She was still turning over the stuffs.
I stood wishing that Æsop would run to her behind the counter--then I
could call him back at once and apologise. What would she say then?
“Here you are,” said the storekeeper.
I paid for the things, took up my parcels, and took my leave of her. She
looked up, but again without speaking. Good, I thought to myself. She
is the Baron's bride already, as like as not. And I went, without my
bread.
When I got outside, I looked up at the window. No one was watching me.