And indeed, so far as he was concerned, this was the case. He came back sooner than I had supposed it possible, to inform me that, having been able to say he was not from Budissin, he had been received with civility, and permitted to wait at the guard-house of the north entrance while my letter was carried to the palace. After a short time, the messenger who had taken charge of it had returned, demanded and carefully noted my name, qualities, and exact whereabouts, and bidden him go back to his master with the assurance that the Princess would send her answer.
I waited, tramping the short breadth of my miserable room like a caged wolf, anxiously peering every other minute through the rain-stained window which overlooked the high road.
Reason seemed to offer but one conclusion concerning the result of the last appeal: she would come back to me. My offence—bad as it had been, unmanly towards the woman who had lain in my arms, unworthy of a gentleman towards the lady whom he had resolved to acknowledge as his wife—my offence was not one that so true a penitence might not amply atone for. That was what reason said. But, as often as confidence began to rise in my heart, an instinctive dread overcame it, an unaccountable, ominous misgiving that the happiness I had once held in my hand and so perversely cast from me was never to be mine again. And, as the hours slowly fell away, the dread became more poignant, and the effort to hope more futile.
János had returned with his message about noon. It must have been at least five o’clock (for the world outside was wrapped in murky shadow) when there came a sound on the road that made my heart leap: a clatter of horses’ hoofs and the rumbling of a coach. I threw open my window and thrust out my head. How vividly the impression comes back on me now!—the cold rain upon my throbbing temples, the blinding light of joy that filled my brain as I strained my eyes to distinguish in the dusk the nature of the vehicle which announced its approach with such important noise. It was a carriage, guarded by an escort of dragoons, who rode by the door, musket on thigh. An escort! It must be the Princess herself: the Princess come in person, the noble and gentle lady, to bring me back my wife, my love!
Fool! Fool! Fool thrice told! for my vainglorious self-conceit, my loving, yearning heart!
My spirits bounded at one leap to their old important, arrogant level. I threw a hasty glance in the mirror to note that the pallor of my countenance and the disorder of my unpowdered hair were after all not unbecoming. As I dashed along the narrow wooden passage and down the breakneck creaking stairs I will not say that in all the glow of my heart, that had been so cold, there was not now, in this sudden relief from the iron pressure of anxiety, a point of anger against the little truant—a vague determination to establish a certain balance of account, to inflict some mild penance upon her as a set-off against the very bitter one she had imposed on me. A minute ago I would have knelt before her and humbled myself to the very dust: when I reached the door of the drinking-room I was already pluming myself upon a resolution to be merciful.
I broke into the room out of the darkness with my head high, and was at first so dazzled by the light within, as well as by the reeling triumph in my brain, that for an instant I could distinguish nothing.
Then, with a sickening revulsion, with such rage as may have torn the soul of Lucifer struck from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, I saw the single figure of Captain von Krappitz standing in the middle of the floor with much gravity and importance of demeanour. Flattened against the walls, the boors stood open-mouthed, all struck with amazement; and the little host was bowing anxiously to the belaced officer. Two dragoons guarded the door.
Before even a word was uttered I felt that all was over for me.
Concentrating my energies, then, to face misfortune with as brave a front as I might, I halted before my friend of yesterday, and waited in silence for him to open proceedings.