Mrs. Tiralla's dress no longer flew about as it had done during the first part of the evening. She was standing in the cloak-room with Mariechen Rózycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl, "my beautiful blouse!"
The forester's pupil, the idiot, had poured a whole glass of beer down the front of it, when she was tenderly leaning against him just before they left the table. She was beside herself with grief.
"You can send it to Spindler in Berlin," said Mrs. Tiralla consolingly. "There is also a very good dry cleaner in Posen. Why, child!" she exclaimed, putting her finger under the girl's chin and raising her face, that was quite swollen with crying, "surely you aren't crying for the sake of a blouse?"
All at once it seemed so infinitely futile to cry on account of a spoilt blouse. Mrs. Tiralla had quite forgotten that she also had shed tears on account of her hair just before she had left home. She felt so much more unhappy now, really so miserable. She would have liked to stop up her ears so as not to hear that twanging music. The dancing disgusted her. She had never gone to a dance as a child. What would her priest have said if he had seen her that evening? Father Szypulski was not so strict; but she would be strict with herself. She wouldn't go into the ballroom again, she would drive home and sit by Rosa's bed and be her guardian angel. Perhaps she would then see some of those wonderful things that had been revealed to the child. She would pray for it, pray for happy dreams. She longed so ardently, so impatiently for happiness.
She called to a waiter who was running past in a short black jacket and a white apron spotted with gravy, and sent him back to her husband. Would Mr. Tiralla kindly tell them to bring the carriage round, it was time to be going? The cocks were already crowing in the little yards behind the labourers' cottages.
She remained standing in the cloak-room, gloomily gnawing her Up, with Mariechen, who was still sobbing on account of her blouse, as her companion. She had hidden herself behind the clothes-rack, nobody would discover her there. Vain hope! Scarcely had the waiter given the message than the whole flock of her partners came rushing in. Sophia Tiralla wanted to go--go away now? But they wouldn't let her go, even if they had to make a wall of their bodies before the door. Ziëntek wrung his hands in despair; if she went away the whole cotillon would be spoilt, that up-to-date cotillon with all those bouquets.
They discovered her and brought her out from behind the rack. They begged, flattered, teased, threatened, and swore loudly that they wouldn't let her go, she would have to remain and dance.
"Of course she'll stop and dance!" bawled Mr. Tiralla from the doorway leading into the ballroom.
What, he as well? No, she wouldn't stop, not even a quarter of an hour longer, hissed the woman like a serpent that has been trodden on. "Tell the carriage to come round," she said to the waiter in a curt, shrill voice. Then, without looking at her husband, she added, "I'm going. If you don't want to go, you can stop. I'm going."
Mr. Tiralla looked very discomfited; but then he grew angry. What, to be so horrid to him before all those people? A wife had to obey. He was the one who had to decide. He was very drunk, or it would never have occurred to him to oppose his wife's wishes in this way. And that was what made him now shout, "Confound you, woman! You shall not drive; for I intend stopping here as long as I choose--until six, seven, or eight o'clock, if I choose."