"Long live the green-room!" cried Hugo Lübbener.
"Behind the scenes for me," said the Councillor.
The glasses rang together, the riot of mirth rose higher and higher, and finally overwhelmed the last remnants of propriety and good manners.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
The General was working in his study; Aunt Sidonie was probably writing her "Court Etiquette;" Ottomar had not yet returned from parade; Elsa had fulfilled her household duties, had dressed herself, and had now time, before breakfast, to read Meta's letters.
This morning two had again arrived together. Elsa had put them unread into her pocket when they were given to her, knowing that Meta's letters were not of pressing importance. She had now gone into the garden, and was strolling under the tall trees near the wall of the Schmidts' garden, her favourite walk, and with a smile on her face was deciphering one of the letters, the first she had put her hand upon; it did not generally signify in what order they were read. It was no easy task; Meta wrote a characteristic but not a particularly legible hand. Each letter stood by itself without reference to its neighbours on the right or left, and all had a decided objection to the horizontal, and either ran gaily up to the height above or drooped sadly towards the lower regions which belonged properly to the next line. Interspersed amongst them were strange hieroglyphics resembling swords or lances, which were probably meant for stops, but as they were never to be found where they were expected, and, indeed, in their superabundant zeal frequently appeared in the middle of a word, they rather increased than lessened the confusion.
Elsa at length made out the following:
"Cruel one! I understand all now, I may say for the first time in my life; and you--you yourself, your last letter--oh! that last letter! When men are silent stones will talk; if after five long anxious days the unhoped-for, unexpected meeting with the man she appeared to love, only gives the proud Elsa matter for a humorous description of that very meeting, poor Meta may dare to hope, does hope, and--loves! Yes, she loves--loves him whom you scorn, whom you coldly turn your back upon because the skirts of a princess have touched yours! You will say that this is pity--not love! But are not pity and love twin sisters! Yes, I have suffered with him, I still suffer with him; I see his honest blue eyes swimming with tears, I see those tears falling persistently and slowly down the sunburnt cheeks into the curly beard; but the last tear--the very last--before it vanishes in the clouds of tender melancholy, I will myself wipe away--yes, I! I have made up my mind. To-morrow morning papa shall have the horses put to--to-morrow evening you will see the face of one who pities you but is determined not to spare you the indignant countenance of his avenger and of your too happy