During the next eight days the last crows had come to town from the woods, and moved into their winter quarters in the steeples; likewise, it was reported in well-informed circles, that of the noble families who used to spend their winter in Grunwald not one of importance had remained in the country. The increased animation which filled the otherwise quiet streets, proved this sufficiently. At the theatre, the front boxes, which were exclusively reserved for the nobility, now overflowed every night. The good citizens of Grunwald were often frightened out of their first sleep by the noise of furiously-driven carriages, and twelve hours afterwards the same carriages came thundering back again through the streets, when the disturbers of their nightly rest had slept long enough, and felt an irrepressible desire to see each other again after so long an interval, and to exchange their views about the interesting events of the last ball--how often young Count Grieben had danced with the youngest Miss Nadelitz, and what a strange head-dress the Baroness Renrien had worn.
Last night there had been a great ball at Count Grieben's; and to-morrow was to be a great party at the Grenwitz mansion, the first they had given this season. As the local etiquette required that the invited guests should call on their host before the party, as well as after it, visits had to be paid to-day at both houses. The rolling of carriages had, therefore, no end to-day.
When visitors were expected in larger numbers, the large reception-rooms of the Grenwitz mansion, which fronted upon the street, laid aside their reserve and opened their doors to all comers. So it was to-day. A dozen visitors had been there; another dozen were expected. Just now there was a pause. It so happened that only the baron and the baroness were sitting in the parlor.
Any one who should have observed them just now, as they were escorting Mrs. Nadelitz and her three daughters with smiles and compliments to the parlor door, and who should have seen them after the door had been closed, would have been greatly astonished at their altered appearance. The old gentleman sank with an air of thorough weariness into his easy-chair, and Anna Maria sat down opposite to him on a sofa, with a face from which all smiles had vanished to give way to clouds of deepest indignation. There had evidently been a scene between the two before the last visitors came, such as is not unusual in regular family dramas, and the question was now, simply, which of the two was to resume first the interrupted dialogue.
In former days this would have evidently been the privilege of Anna Maria, who enjoyed strife, and felt sure of victory. But strangely enough, husband and wife seemed recently to have exchanged parts. The baron was almost transformed since Bruno's death and Helen's departure from home. Formerly good-natured, yielding, and peaceful, he had become sensitive, grumbling, and obstinate. This change might have been in part the effect of his bad state of health and his decline, which had become very perceptible in the last weeks; but sometimes it looked as if the cause was a deeper one--as if the recent events had roused the old gentleman from his lethargy, and shown him many things and many persons in a very different light from that in which he had seen them before. He who had formerly hardly taken a glass of water without first consulting his Anna Maria, suddenly began to act for himself, even to think for himself, and to have positive views of his own, which he maintained with that obstinacy and pertinacity which is often observed in weak minds. He had had attacks of this obstinacy in former years also, but now the sporadic occurrences seemed to have changed into a chronic disease. People are apt to say of somebody who acts in an extraordinary manner, "he won't live long;" and if there is any reason for this assertion, the days of the baron must have been numbered. Perhaps this was really so, and the baron suspected it secretly, so that he made unheard-of efforts of his mind and his will, exactly as old, very sedate canary-birds are apt to hop about and to flutter with nervous violence a few minutes before composing themselves to sleep.
Such a nervous violence characterized the manner in which the old gentleman, taking a pinch from his gold snuff-box, closed the top, and then said, as if Anna Maria had given him the cue just then, and not half an hour ago:
"Stay! Everything must have an end; we cannot leave Helen forever at Miss Bear's."
"I am not accustomed," replied Anna Maria, taking up her embroidery--she liked to be found busy at work when visitors came--"I am not accustomed to say one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow. Others may think differently about it. We would make ourselves ridiculous before the whole world if we were to take Helen back after four weeks."
"It is nearly six weeks," growled the baron.
"Four or six, that makes no difference."