When the door closed behind him he passed his hand over his eyes as if to push away some cloud from his mind. Was he the same Egon von Ernau who had never paid the slightest regard to what others might think of him,--to anything indeed save his own whim of the moment? A strange and sudden change had come over him,--he could not comprehend it.
CHAPTER IX.
[A LETTER AND ITS REPLY].
The heavy clouds which had veiled the horizon in the afternoon had slowly covered all the skies, the night was very dark, the gloom only broken from time to time by dazzling flashes of lightning.
Egon stood at his open window. He felt easier and freer now that he was once more alone, and the spectacle of the beginning of the storm was a relief to him. The old trees waved and creaked in the blast, the rustling of the leaves, the crashing of boughs, and the moaning of the wind were as music in his ears. If only some ray of light could illumine the darkness within him, as the lightning's play lit up the world without!
He had suddenly become aware of the serious importance of existence. Hitherto he had never reflected upon the future, and but seldom upon the past. He had lived in the present, obeying the impulse of the moment, with no thought of the consequences of his actions. He had known no feeling of responsibility, he had lived for himself alone; who in all the world had any claim upon his consideration?
When the insane idea occurred to him of playing the part of Gottlieb Pigglewitch for a little while, it had indeed entered his mind that it might result in some annoyance, but he had thoughtlessly followed the impulse of the moment; he could put a stop to it all whenever he pleased, he still possessed his revolver. He had not been bored, it is true, for a moment since he had changed clothes with Gottlieb Pigglewitch and borrowed his name, but what had he gained? Was he happy? Was life any more attractive to him? No, not in the least. Formerly, when he had thought it worth while to recur to the past, he had done so without regret, without the slightest remorse, he had recalled his past with a kind of weary indifference; today this retrospect begot within him a sensation of shame. His whole past life seemed to him frivolous and insignificant. Bertha von Massenburg had characterized him correctly. It was only by chance that he had not fled from life like a coward. Involuntarily, as the feeling of shame grew stronger, he felt for his revolver in his breast-pocket to toss it from him, and as he drew it forth, a letter likewise was pulled from his pocket and fell upon the floor.
It was the note addressed to the Candidate Gottlieb Pigglewitch, which he had received a few hours before. Egon had forgotten it; he picked it up now and carried it to the table, where a light was burning.
His thoughts had taken another turn; the momentary disgust at the thought of his revolver vanished, he contemplated it with a half-smile, and his thoughts ran thus: "I had very nearly thrown you away forever, old friend. It was only an accident, the appearance of this wretched letter, which prevented me from yielding to the impulse of the moment. Shall I never, then, be master of myself? 'He is a man of no force of character, he has no self-control.' Those were old Sastrow's words, and, by Jove! he is right. Always the sport of the moment! Why should I toss away my revolver? There is no danger in it for me, except by my own will, by my being too great a coward to fight the battle of life. No, old friend, you shall stay by me, not as an aid in my extreme need, but as a warning to me to control myself."
He thrust the weapon again into his breast-pocket, and then turned to the letter in his left hand. It was addressed in a very fine, round hand to the "Candidate Gottlieb Pigglewitch, at Castle Osternau, near Mirbach;" but just after the name Pigglewitch two words, enclosed in brackets, were written, in a handwriting so excessively small as to escape notice at the first glance. Egon held the note near the lamp, and by its light deciphered the words "Fritz Fortune."