The world had, however, not quite forgotten him, as he had said in his anger. A visitor was announced. He hurriedly put the cigar away. The world was not to see him smoking, and was not to imagine that he was unfeeling, or that he did not mourn for his father and sister.
There were many visitors, and Bruno was again and again obliged to display his grief and to accept the sympathy offered him. He now saw how the rumor of Irma's death had spread throughout the city, from the palace to the hovel. People whom he hardly knew, and others who were even ill-disposed toward him, came. He was obliged to receive all politely, to thank them, and to accept their assurances of sympathy, while he fancied he could detect malicious pleasure in many an eye. But he was obliged to ignore this and, although now and then a nervous twitching of his features almost betrayed him, he managed to keep up the semblance of all-absorbing grief.
His companions in pleasure also visited him, and it was quite curious to witness the grave air which the young cavaliers assumed, now and then casting a glance at the great mirror in order to see whether the serious expression became them well.
It seemed almost comical to think that the man who was always the merriest in the party, and who could make the best and most unequivocal jokes, should now be so downcast. They seated themselves; they straddled the chairs and rested their arms on the backs; they lit their cigars, and much was said of their respective "papas."
"My papa has been dead this two years."
"My papa is ill."
"My papa intends to retire on his pension."
Some one asked: "Bruno, how old was your father?"
He did not know, but answered at a venture:
"Sixty-three."