She boldly returned the man's upbraiding look, and they gazed at each other, until Böhnke had to cast down his eyes. He knew what kind of woman she was; oh, she was much more guilty than he, for he was only the one who had been tempted, but she was the temptress. What if he were to tell what he knew? She was entirely in his power. And still he lowered his eyes. He loved her, oh God, how he loved her!
He trembled at the thought that she might belong to somebody else, to that other one perhaps, who was so young and handsome and strong, and who had lived under the same roof with her since last autumn, during the whole winter, the short days, the long nights. What was it Mr. Tiralla had told him? Even he was full of Martin Becker's praises when they sat together in the evening at the inn. Mr. Tiralla had lately come more frequently to Starawieś; he said he felt ashamed of getting drunk in his own house. The truth was, however--the schoolmaster felt sure he was right--that he also was jealous of the young fellow, and that he did not like to see his wife smile at Becker any more than he, Böhnke, did. But she should not smile at him, no, she must not do so. And if Mr. Tiralla did not forbid it, then he--yes, he would do so.
"You're good friends with Becker," he hissed, and he seized the woman's wrists so firmly, in spite of his trembling hands, that she could not get loose.
She struggled, she would have liked to run away; no, she would hear nothing, nothing at all.
But he whispered in her ear in a hoarse voice that was half choked with grief and fury, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla and me. But if that fool stands it, I won't. Take care. I know everything--I know you well--I will speak--yes, yes, by God I will if you don't----"
"You're threatening me?" she cried, interrupting him with a shrill laugh. She jerked her hand free and flung his away. "You don't intimidate me. Go, inform against me, I'm not afraid. I"--she spread out her arms and an enthusiastic expression transfigured her face--"I should love to suffer. Jesus Christ also suffered on the cross. It would be no suffering for me, it would be a joy." Humbly bending her head she made the sign of the cross.
What did she mean? Why did she say that with such fervour? Böhnke did not understand her to-day, although he had hitherto understood her so well. He did not guess that she was seized with an ardent desire to suffer for her love, if necessary.
What could affect her if she only had Martin, only him? And he would soon be hers, she felt it. The woman looked down on the man from a triumphant height.
Böhnke eyed her in perplexity. He tried to endure her gaze, but he felt so confused that he once more had to lower his eyes.
What a poor wretch he was, a real coward. Her voice was full of deep contempt as she said icily, "Let me go on now, Mr. Böhnke."