There was some noise of voices outside. I listened, for I still felt unable to rise. The talking grew louder—doors were opened and shut—then came a lull—then more slamming of doors, and more talking—then all was still again—and at last I heard the steps of people as if retiring, and in a few minutes after the carriage door was jammed to, and again the heavy tramp of the horses rattled over the pave. At this instant Antoine entered.
“Well, Antoine,” said I, in a voice trembling with weakness and agitation, “not them yet?”
“It was his Grace the Grand Mareschal,” said Antoine, scarcely heeding my question, in the importance of the illustrious visitor who had arrived.
“Ah, the Grand Mareschal,” said I, carelessly; “does he live here?”
“Sappermint nein, Mein Herr; but he has just been to pay his respects to his Excellency the new Charge d’Affaires.”
In the name of all patience, I ask, who could endure this? From the hour of my arrival I am haunted by this one image—the Charge d’Affaires. For him I have been almost condemned to go houseless, and naked; and now the very most sacred feelings of my heart are subject to his influence. I walked up and down in an agony. Another such disappointment, and my brain will turn, thought I, and they may write my epitaph—“Died of love and a Charge d’Affaires.”
“It is time to dress,” said the waiter.
“I could strangle him with my own hands,” muttered I, worked up into a real heat by the excitement of my passion.
“The Charge—”
“Say that name again, villain, and I’ll blow your brains out,” cried I, seizing Antoine by the throat, and pinning him against the wall; “only dare to mutter it, and you’ll ever breathe another syllable.”