That evening, when he was again in the handsome, luxurious villa, everything seemed strange and distasteful. In the brightly lighted drawing-room, chatting in a low tone, Van Lieverlee sat close beside the lady of the house, with an intolerable air of being the rightful lord of the manor. Johannes merely wanted to bid them good-night.
"Have you found your poor friend?" asked Van Lieverlee, in his most condescending manner.
"Yes, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. And then, after some hesitation: "Can anything be done to get him out promptly?"
"My dear boy," said Van Lieverlee, "it is not to be desired, either for his own sake or that of society. I am not a doctor, but that he belongs where he is I can see at once, as could any layman. What do you think, Dearest?"
Dolores nodded languidly, and said: "My heart was touched for the man—he has a fine face. And have you noticed, Walter, what a splendid baritone voice he has?"
"Yes," said Van Lieverlee; "it is a pity he is out of his head. What a good singer of Wagner he might be! An excellent Parsifal! Do you not think so, Dolores?"
"A splendid Parsifal! Perhaps he may get well yet," added the countess.
"Oh, no," said Van Lieverlee. "That sort of prophet-frenzy is incurable. I know indeed of so many cases."
For an instant Johannes stood hesitating. Should he give vent to what was boiling in his breast?
But he was older now, and he curbed himself. Before he went to sleep he resolved: "This is my last night here."