"You are really indignant," said Nordheim, amazed at this sudden outburst. "You forget that Waltenberg has always been wealthy. You and I must work to attain eminence; no such necessity exists for him,--he has always occupied the height towards which we must climb. Such men are rarely fit for serious exertion."
He turned to a passing servant and gave him an order. But Wolfgang stood motionless and gloomy, his gaze still fixed upon the white figure 'compounded as it were of air and Alpine snow, with the white fairylike flower of its waters crowning its fair hair,' and inaudibly but with intense bitterness he muttered, "Yes, he is rich, and so he has a right to be happy."
CHAPTER VIII.
[ANOTHER CLIME.]
Waltenberg's dwelling was somewhat remote from the central portion of the city; it was a fine, spacious villa, surrounded by a garden which was almost a park. It had been built by the father of the present possessor, and had been occupied by him until his death. Since then it had been empty, for the son, always travelling in distant lands, was far too wealthy to think of renting it. He left it in charge of a trustworthy person, whose duty it had been to receive, to unpack, and to arrange the various chests and packages sent home by his master from time to time, until now, after the lapse of a decade, the closed doors and windows were again opened, and the desolate rooms showed signs of occupation.
The large balconied apartment in the middle of the house was still furnished precisely as it had been in the lifetime of its former master. There was no magnificence here as in the Nordheim mansion, but on every hand was to be observed the solid comfort of a well-to-do burgher. The persons present at this time in the room, however, looked strangely foreign. A negro black as night, with woolly hair, and a slender, brown Malay lad, both in fantastic Oriental costume, were busy arranging a table with flowers and all kinds of fruits, while a third individual stood in the middle of the room giving the necessary directions.
The dress of this last was European in cut, and seemed to be something between the garb of a sailor and that of a farmer. Its wearer was an elderly man, very tall and thin, but at the same time most powerfully built. His close-cut hair was grizzled here and there, and his furrowed, sunburned face was scarcely less brown than that of the Malay. But from the brown face looked forth a pair of genuine German, blue eyes, and the words that issued from the man's lips were such pure, unadulterated German as is spoken only by those to whom it is the mother-tongue.
"The flowers in the centre!" he ordered. "Herr Waltenberg wishes it to be romantic; he must have his way. Said, boy, don't stand the silver épergnes close together like a pair of grenadiers; put them at either end of the table, and the glasses on the side-table where the wine is to be served. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, master," the negro replied, in English.
"And speak German. Do you not know that we are in Germany, on this God-forsaken soil where you freeze stiff in March, and where the sun appears once a month, and then only at the command of the authorities? I detest it, as does Herr Waltenberg. But you must learn German, or, true as my name is Veit Gronau, you'll repent it. You're still half a heathen, and Djelma there is a whole one. See how he stares! Do you understand a word I say, boy?"