“I think I already know,” said A. Z., “his father showed me the letter he had written the day he had shot himself. Does Mademoiselle Rosenberg know that she was the cause?”
“But too well, as you will perceive from my journal,” answered Hamilton; “you really seem to know everybody and everything, which, however, no longer surprises me, as I am myself willing on so short an acquaintance to confide in you. I suppose other people have done the same.”
“Not exactly,” answered A. Z., “but as I know the Zedwitzes, the Raimunds, the Bergers, and even Mr. Biedermann, and as you, from the peculiarity of the commencement of our acquaintance, rather interested me, I have thought it worth while to listen, and remember all I have heard about you.”
“How very kind!” said Hamilton.
“You say that thoughtlessly,” observed A. Z., laughing, “but it really was kind of me, for I greatly prefer talking to listening on most occasions.”
“Will reading my journal bore you?”
“Not in the least. I shall be curious to know the impression made on you by all you must have seen of the domestic manners you were so anxious to become acquainted with last year. Have you given up all idea of writing a book on the subject?”
“I have been a much too greatly interested actor to have thought of anything of the kind, as you will see.”
“Before I read your journal,” said A. Z., “that is before I feel any interest in this Hildegarde, you must allow me to point out to you all the disadvantages of the step you propose taking, and remind you that the sacrifice of parents, relations, the friends of your youth, your country, and your native language, ought not to be lightly made. I speak from experience.”
“But you told me,” said Hamilton, “that you felt quite naturalised—that you had become a very Bavarian! I know, too, you are more than contented; you are happy. The Countess Zedwitz told me so.”