It is evening in the drawing-room at Tornow, and the air breathes soft
and fragrance-laden through the open window; the monotonous chirp of
the crickets sounds loud and shrill as if to drown the sweet plaint of
the nightingale. Beyond the circle of light cast by the lamps more than
half of the spacious room is quite dark.
The Countess Lodrin is bending over an embroidery frame, busied in
working the Zinsenburg crest upon a hassock; Oswald, Georges, and
Pistasch, who, when the races were over had accepted an invitation to
come to Tornow with Georges, are eagerly discussing a false start.
Oswald, the quietest of the three, glances from time to time at his
mother.
He has, to be sure, succeeded in shaking off his ugly _idee fixe_, and
in regaining his former cheerfulness; but yet, by fits and starts, he
is assailed by a paralysing sensation of dread. Then he takes refuge
with his mother; by her side the odious fancies have no power. There
are times when he is possessed by a wild impulse to deliver Capriani's
message, to ask his mother whether she ever really knew Doctor Stein
and to watch the effect; but at the critical moment his heart has
always failed him, and he has been ashamed of yielding even thus much
to his disgraceful weakness.
When they have exhausted the false start, Georges and Pistasch enter
upon a discussion of the best method of shoeing horses. This
interesting topic absorbs them so entirely that neither perceives that
for several minutes the Countess has been searching for something which
she has mislaid,--finally even stooping to look for it on the floor. It
is Oswald who rises and asks, "What are you looking for, mamma?"
"A strand of scarlet silk."
The two gentlemen of course feel it their duty to offer their services,
but too late; Oswald has already picked up the silk. This trifling
diversion, however, puts a stop to the sporting talk.
"Mimi Dey came to see me this morning; I asked her to dine with us on
Thursday."
"Is Elli Rhoeden coming too?" asked Oswald.
"If I am not mistaken she has gone to Kreuznach," observed Pistasch.
"Yes," said the Countess, "unfortunately we cannot depend upon her, but
you will probably enjoy the society of Fraeulein von Klette. Mimi will
do her best to make her stay at home, but she cannot promise."
"Is she living still,--that Spanish fly?" asked Georges, surprised.
"Indeed she is, and with the same enormous appetite," Pistasch calmly
declared, "I believe she is qualifying herself for the post of Minister
of Finance; her talent for levying taxes is more brilliantly developed
every year. Unfortunately her sphere of action is limited to the circle
of her most intimate friends."
"It appears that she has just embarked in a novel and very interesting
financial enterprise," remarked the Countess with a smile, "she is
raffling a sofa cushion."
"Oh, that famous negro head," observed Pistasch, "she has been working
at it for two years, and she issues a fresh batch of chances every
three months."
"Before I forget it," said the Countess half to herself, "would you not
like to write to Fritz to come to dinner day after to-morrow, Ossi? we
shall be entirely by ourselves. He will feel at home, and I am always
glad to entice him to forget his sorrows, if only for a few hours."
"I paid him a visit yesterday," said Georges, "he is going down hill
very fast in health. He asked eagerly after you, Ossi, and mentioned
that he had not seen you for a long while."
"Ossi avoids Schneeburg, for fear of an encounter with the _Phylloxera
vastatrix_ who, as he prophesies, is to be the ruin of us all," said
Pistasch banteringly.
Oswald had risen to light a cigarette at the lamp; his hand trembled a
little. "I will write to Fritz, mamma," he said, "I am afraid I have
rather neglected him of late."