Although it was early in the day, there was life and bustle at the inn, which was frequented by the court servants. There was loud carousing, and some liveried servants were inveighing against their masters who, at Count Wildenort's soirée of the previous' night, had kept them waiting in the porter's lodge, and the coachman on the box, for nearly three hours. It was said that Count Wildenort had obtained royal permission to set up a roulette table, that there had been high play, and that the king had also been there, but not the queen.
Walpurga sat behind the screen with the hostess, and was seated on the largest of the chests. She went to the front of the house to look for Hansei, but he did not come. Baum brought her a message that she was to go to Countess Irma, but not until nine o'clock. Walpurga wandered about town as if lost. "How the people run past each other," thought she; "no one knows who the other is, and hasn't time to ask." At that hour of the day, round hats are not seen on the streets. None but the cap-wearing population is now represented. Bakers' men and butchers' boys whistling merrily while at their work, are serving bread and meat. Servant-maids stand at the street corners waiting while milk is measured out to them, and market-women from the country hurry to their posts, with baskets and hand-barrows.
"It'll be just the same to-morrow again, and you'll be gone. Indeed, it don't concern you to-day," said Walpurga to herself, while she looked on at their busy doings. Just then a large bookseller's shop was opened, and her picture hung in the window. What did it matter to her? No one concerned himself about her feelings.
"To-morrow the picture will still be hanging there; it'll be all the same, whether you're here or not. I believe it's all the same, whether you're in the world or out of it," added Walpurga, as a hearse went by and no one cared to inquire whom they were burying. Every one went his own way.
With heavy heart, Walpurga walked on, feeling as if something were drawing her back to the palace and to the child. She went on until she reached the gate by which Hansei must come. But still he came not.
"If he doesn't come at all--if the child at home is ill--if it is dead!" Walpurga was almost frightened to death with thoughts of what might be. She seated herself on a bench near the gate. Horsemen were galloping past, and a blind invalid soldier was playing a merry waltz on his organ.
A clock struck nine, and Walpurga walked through the town. At the palace gate she found Hansei, and his first words were:
"God greet you, Walpurga; you're here at last. Where have you been running to? I've been looking for you, the last two hours."
"Come in here," said Walpurga, leading Hansei into a covered way. "They don't speak so loud here."
It turned out that, in her last letter, Walpurga had told Hansei to come to the palace, and not to the inn. She begged him to forgive her, for she had been so confused while writing, and then she said: "Now let me give you a kiss of welcome. Thank God, all are well. I need lots of love and kindness."