She could not recall the time when she wore the hat; but many a time had she seen it in Madam Speckbom’s drawer, and every time Madam had said that she should have it for her first baby.
Then she must be entirely given up now; her hat, the only thing she owned on earth, was to be given to some one else.
She pressed the hat to her face; but when she smelled the well-known perfume of Madam Speckbom’s bureau, she burst into tears.
For a moment she stood in this way and cried over her baby hat, while her spirits sank and sank, until she heard some one in the hall; then she thrust the hat into her pocket and stole out the way she had come.
It must be past six; Miss Falbe must surely be waiting. Lappen forced herself to go in at the street entrance and up the stairs. But at the Falbes’ door she stopped and listened. Christian was walking up and down, as was his wont; through the keyhole she could only see his shadow, which came and went upon the wall. It was plain that Miss Falbe had not come home yet.
Loppen felt that it was impossible for her to go in while he was alone; she had rather wait without until Miss Falbe came.
But once she thought he was coming to the door; she flew in a fright a few steps up the attic stairs; and while she was standing there and listening, she heard from above tones which she had never heard before.
It was neither the drum nor the flute nor the piano; but long, moaning tones, tender and mysterious, as if they knew all her misery and had come to comfort her.
When she cautiously opened the door to Schirrmeister’s room, she saw the old musician standing erect before the lamp. He was playing the violin.
The light fell fair upon his little wrinkled face; but the humid, drunken eyes had a singular expression, and with an appropriate bow he saluted Elsie.