"She cannot hear us She is in her room; she is asleep."
Bertha was embarrassed.
"How do you know?…" she stammered. "It is impossible—quite impossible!"
"She is going away—away, for a time, as she says … for a time … do you understand?" "Why, yes, to her brother, I suppose."
"She is going away for ever … for ever! Naturally she does not like to say to me: Good-bye, you will never see me again! So she says: I should like to travel a little; I need a change; I will go to the lake for a few weeks; I should like to bathe; I need a change of air! Naturally she does not say to me: I can endure it no longer; I am young and in my prime and healthy; you are paralysed and will soon die; I have a horror of your affliction and of the loathsome state that must supervene before it is at an end. So she says: I will go away only for a few weeks, then I will come back again and stay with you."
Bertha's painful agitation became merged in her embarrassment.
"You are certainly mistaken," was all that she could answer.
Rupius hastily drew up the rug, which was on the point of slipping down off his knees. He seemed to find it chilly. As he continued to speak, he drew the rug higher and higher, until finally he held it with both hands pressed against her breast.
"I have seen it coming; for years I have seen this moment coming. Imagine what sort of an existence it has been; waiting for such a moment, defenceless and forced to be silent!—Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Oh, no," said Bertha, looking down at the market square.