"And how--how was he?" The mother could only get the words out in jerks, she could no longer speak connectedly, a sudden terror had overwhelmed her, almost paralysing her tongue. "Did he--seem strange?" As in a vision his livid face and the place in the sand near Schildhorn, where the wind was always blowing, appeared before her many a mother's son, many a mother's son--O God, O God, if he had made away with himself! She trembled as the leaves do in a storm, and broke down altogether.
The landlady guessed the mother's thoughts instinctively, and she assured her in a calm good-natured voice: "No, don't imagine that for a moment. He wasn't sad--and not exactly happy either--well, like--like--well, just in the right mood."
"And--oh, could you not give me a--a hint of--where--where he might be?"
The woman shook her head doubtfully. "Who could know that? You see, ma'am, there are so many temptations. But wait a moment." She shut her eyes tightly and pondered. "Some time ago such a pretty girl used to come here, she used to fetch him to go to the theatre, she said--well, it may have been true. She often came, very often--once a week at least. She was fair, really a pretty girl."
"Fair--quite light-coloured hair--a good deal of it and waved over the ears?"
"Yes, yes, it was done like that, combed over the ears, a large knot behind you could not help noticing it, it was so fair. And they were on very friendly terms with each other."
Fair hair--extremely fair. Ah, she had known it at once when she saw him at Schildhorn with that fair-haired girl. Everything seemed to be clear to her now. "You--do not know, I suppose--oh, do you happen to know her name?"
"He called her Frida."
"Frida?"
"Yes, Frida. I know that for certain. But she does not come here any more now. But perhaps he's got a letter from her. I'll look, just you wait." And the woman bent down, drew out the paper-basket from under the writing-table and began to rummage in it.