"Have you spoken now to the landlady about it?"
"No, but I am just going to her," and off he rushed. They both came back together, the landlady and he; a few minutes after, all was settled! In the afternoon they moved! When the good-natured Vangen came hurrying home from his dinner, there sat Kallem in dressing-gown and slippers in the first room to the right, and announced to him that Rendalen had gone to live in Sehested Street, where he, Kallem, used to live; they had changed lodgings. They both laughed.
"And yet he was very comfortable here," said Vangen; but that was the only remark he made.
Of course Edward Kallem speculated much on the reason of this hurried move, and thought he would have a good talk with the servant each time she came to see to the stove or to bring in his lunch or supper, both which meals he took at home; she looked as if she knew something. Marie had a peculiar smile that seemed to say: "Oh, I know the lot of you--you too, you rogue." He got that, the very first time she opened the door for him. She had eyes that were more than half covered by the lids which hung over them in folds. The nose was a turn-up and seemed to drag the mouth upward into a stiff smile, the upper lip projected, showing a row of teeth for which there was hardly room, they glistened through each smile. Everything she said seemed to have a hidden meaning of fun and nonsense, it shot forth from under her eyelids and played about the corners of the mouth. The voice was a soft one. Otherwise a steady girl, well made, clever as old Nick himself, but prudent and cautious both in speech and ways, for all her laughing criticisms. But her laugh seemed always on the lookout for one. When he said: "I am Edward Kallem, I am to live in Rendalen's room," she answered, smilingly: "Oh!" just as if she had known all his secrets from the time he was a boy. If he mentioned Rendalen, she looked as if she had a whole room full of jokes about him; and yet--he never got anything out of her.
The house where he lived now was a corner house, almost opposite the university. The door of the house was in the same street into which Kallem's rooms looked too. They were on the second floor and had the same entrance as his landlord had; that is to say, one of the rooms--the other one, his bed-room, had its own private entrance. Rendalen had had a third room, the corner room further in. Kallem put his card on the door leading into the little hall, below a large door-plate bearing the name of Sören Kule; that was the landlord's name! Next day being Sunday, he went to call on him.
There sat the paralysed, blind man in a large roller-chair. The unfortunate man was still young, barely over thirty, very heavily built, and heavy both in face and in speech. His very "Come in!" when Kallem knocked, was heavy. Kallem introduced himself, the other sat immovable and answered slowly: "Indeed, I am blind. And I can't move about much either." This was said with a Norland accent; each syllable jerked out and jogging heavily along like a London brewer's dray-horse. It was a clever, but full, large-featured face; he came probably of a healthy race. Kallem was sufficiently a doctor to be able to see at once why he was paralysed and blind. A quantity of engravings and photographs from Spain, hanging on the walls, gave him the idea that it was probably there he had received as a gift what that most gallant people distribute with such hospitality.
"Won't you sit down?" he said, at last. His healthy side brisked up as he turned and looked toward a door to the left: "Ragni!" he called. Nobody answered and nobody came. His voice, as well as his seeming indifference and stolid quiet, seemed to make the silence duller. Kallem sat there and looked about him. Were those children's toys? It seemed to him surely he heard children's voices? Were there children here?
"Ragni!" repeated he once more, slowly. Then, more gently: "Perhaps they are in the kitchen busy with the dinner."
Again the same dull, heavy silence; the sound of bells from the street broke through it for a moment, but only to make it all the more evident afterward. The furniture was too heavy and dark for a small Norwegian room in winter; and it was faded and worn. The engravings and photographs were in large frames, which, however, did not fit very well, so that both dust and damp had got in and spoilt the paper. The children's toys and a piano were the most noticeable things; the piano seemed to be perfectly new and by one of the best Parisian makers, it was certainly a concert-grand. "Your wife plays so beautifully?"
"Yes."