"No, father," answered the girl, "not since the last letter, which you remember."
"I do not recollect quite well. Where was she then?"
"At Cannes, I think. Or it might have been San Remo."
"They have gone back again then?"
"Yes, unfortunately. And my aunt wrote in perfect despair."
The desired point had been reached; but his carefully-thought-out plan now seemed to the colonel inexpressibly clumsy and cruel. Nevertheless, he could not let the opportunity go by.
"I am really very much grieved," he said. His voice sounded to himself hollow and flat, like an ill-tuned instrument. But he went on speaking painfully and with difficulty, whilst his fingers kept clutching his collar. "As a matter of fact, Otto von Krewesmühlen committed a crime in marrying at all. He is responsible for an enormous amount of trouble and sorrow. He would have done a better and a nobler thing if he had renounced the idea of happiness in marriage. We cannot but ask ourselves: Was not this marriage simply a source of misery?"
He stopped. Marie looked at him thoughtfully.
Everything was very still in the lofty dining room. The colonel felt as if his words must re-echo like a trumpet-call from the walls, and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
"Of course it requires strength and self-control to give everything up when one is in love. But an honourable man should have both; he is equally to be pitied and respected. And imagine, Mariechen, dear Mariechen--one of our best friends--Senior-lieutenant Reimers--that's how it is with him--just as with poor Otto Krewesmühlen; but he--will renounce his happiness. He is a brave man."