Baum suddenly drew himself up and, with a bewildered look, gazed over the sparkling surface of the lake. "If the gentleman would like to wait," said the elder boatman to Baum, "the lake will give up its dead at the end of three days." Baum did not care to hear any more; he merely felt in his pocket, to make sure that he still possessed the letter and the blood-stained flower. Having satisfied himself on this point, he stretched himself still more comfortably than before and fell asleep. It was not until the boat struck against the shore that he awoke.
There was no longer any need of hunting up Walpurga; but he did so, nevertheless, in order to show that he had left nothing undone. He went up to the cottage by the lake and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He looked in at the window. Two large cat's eyes were staring at him. The cat was sitting on the ledge. She was the only one who had remained behind. The room was completely dismantled; not a table or even a chair was to be seen. As if in a dream, or under the influence of a magic spell, he walked back again through the garden.
A chattering magpie sat up in the leafless cherry-tree; but not a human being was visible. At last a man passed by. Baum recognized him; it was tailor Schneck.
"Say!" he called out, "what's become of Hansei and Walpurga?"
"They're gone over the mountains. They've moved away and bought a great farm. They call it the freehold; it's way down by the frontier."
Tailor Schneck was in a talkative mood, and inquired whether the gentleman had brought anything from the king and queen. But Baum was sparing of his words. He mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the summer palace.
In the midst of the hurry and excitement, he had retained enough composure to calculate how this event might serve as a springing-board from which he could bound into a higher position. Henceforth, he would be the king's confidant. He alone knew what had happened and how it had all come about. He looked at the hand which the king would press in gratitude, and felt as if the king had done so already. The head chamberlain was old and decrepit; he would surely step into his place. It would have been better, of course, if he could have reported that Irma had been murdered--the gend'arme, like a sleuth-hound, had found a clue--But no; that wouldn't do; it was his brother, after all--although it might be better for him if he were obliged to spend the rest of his days behind the prison bars. He resolved that he would be very good to his mother and brother--that is, after he had become head chamberlain. His sister was dead,--and it was a great pity, too--but he would surely do this, if he got on and if the king should give him lots of money and a good life annuity. Baum was bold enough to tell God that he ought to aid him in obtaining what he wanted, as he meant to do good with it.
As he rode on through the darkness, he would sometimes catch himself falling asleep, for it was the second night he had spent in such unrest--his thoughts were confused and bewildered.
At the last post-house, he left his horse and took a post-chaise.
It was early in the morning when the carriage arrived at the summer palace. They found it difficult to arouse Baum, and it was some time before he was fully awake and could recollect where he was and what he had brought with him.