"And now, Franz," she said, "we say au revoir. I have come and it is not seemly that you remain here longer. You go to Germany to make ready for us and I write to your mother to-day. Ah!—the dear Lise! Her heart will rejoice! Where is your room, Franz, and where is Karen's?"
There were three doors in the little sitting-room. She had entered from the passage by one. She looked now towards the others.
Franz opened one, it showed a flight of stairs. "Karen's room is up those stairs," he said, closing it very softly. "And mine is here, next this one where we are. We are very quiet, you see, and shut in to ourselves. There is no other way to Karen's room but this, and her room is at the back, so that no disturbance reaches her. I think that she still sleeps, gnädige Frau; we must not wake her if she sleeps. I will take you to her as soon as she is awake."
Madame von Marwitz, with her unchanging smile, was pressing him towards the door of his own room.
"I will wait. I will wait until she wakes, Franz. Your luggage? It is here? I will help you to pack, my Franz."
She had drawn him into his room, her arm passed into his, and, even while she spoke, she pointed out the few effects scattered here and there. And, with his torpid look of a creature hypnotized, Franz obeyed her, taking from her hands the worn brush, the shaving appliances, the socks and book and nightshirt.
When all were laid together in his knapsack and he had drawn the straps, he turned to her, still with the dazzled gaze. "But this may wait," he said, "until I have said good-bye to Karen."
Madame von Marwitz looked at him with an almost musing sweetness. She had the aspect of a conjuror who, with a last light puff of breath or touch of a magic finger, puts forth the final resource of a stupefying dexterity. So delicately, so softly, with a calm that knew no doubt or hesitation, she shook her head. "No; no farewells, now, my Franz. That would not be well. That would agitate her. She could not listen to all our story. She could not understand. Later, when she is in my arms, at peace, I will tell her all and that you are gone to wait for us, and give her your adieu."
He gazed at the conjuror. "But, gnädige Frau, may I not say good-bye to Karen? Together we could tell her. It will be strange to her to wake and find that I am gone."
Her arm was passed in his again. She was leading him through the sitting-room. And she repeated with no change of voice: "No, my Franz. I know these illnesses. A little agitation is very bad. You will write to her daily. She shall have your letters, every day. You promise me—but I need not ask it of our Franz—to write. In three days, or in four, we will be with you."