“‘At the public-house.’
“‘How do you know?’
“‘Fritz, the stable-boy has just seen him.’
“‘What’s the matter with him?’
“Gretchen hung her head, and the tears streamed down her cheeks,
“‘He is—he is—Oh, Meinherr—it is not the beer—nobody ever gets that way with our beer—it is something he—’
“’ Drunk!’
“‘Yes, dead drunk, and under the table like a hog in the mud—Oh, my poor Wilhelm! Oh, who has been so wicked to you! Oh! Oh!’ and she ran from the room.
“I started on the run, Gretchen and the good landlady close behind. If the Rudesheimer had upset Fiddles it had worked very slowly; maybe it had revived an old conquered thirst, and the cheap cognac at the public-house was the result. That he was not a man of humble birth, nor one without home refinements, I had long since divined. Had I not suspected it before, his manner in presenting me to the old Baroness, and his behavior in the dining-hall, especially toward the servants, would have opened my eyes. How then could such a man in an hour become so besotted a brute?
“And yet every word of Gretchen’s story was true. Not only was Fiddles drunk, soggy, helplessly drunk, but from all accounts he was in that same condition when he had staggered into the place, and, falling over a table, had rolled himself against the wall. There he had lain, out of the way, except when some dram-drinking driver’s heavy cowhide boots had made a doormat of his yielding body—not an unusual occurrence, by the way, at the roadside taverns frequented by the lower classes.