"In half-an-hour, sir."
"I shall leave by the mail, then. Secure me a seat in the coach, and bring the bill," said Oswald, already busy packing his things.
"Yes, sir, directly."
"Yes! yes! I must leave here," murmured Oswald, passionately, strengthening himself more and more in his resolution. "Away from here before more ill luck befalls me!"
"The bill, sir!" said the waiter, coming back again. "Much obliged to you, sir. Need not be in such a hurry, sir; you have twenty-five minutes left; the office is close by here. Thought you would stay over night, sir. Might have given this room to a lady, sir, if we had known, who has just arrived; she has taken the parlor next door, and two rooms on the other side. We had to give her those rooms, although they are not good enough for such a grand and beautiful lady."
The waiter uttered these words in a whisper, which made it clear that the doors of the Kurhaus were not exactly impenetrable to sound.
"Who is the lady?" asked Oswald, locking his trunk.
"A Frau von Berkow; old customer of ours. Told you this morning about her, sir. Will send the porter directly to carry your trunk to the office. Anything else, sir?"
The waiter left the room, waving his napkin in a most graceful manner. Oswald rose. His face was deadly pale. He had to support himself on the table; his limbs trembled.
Had he heard right? Melitta here? In this house? Next door? How did she get here? What did she come for? To this place, which had such mournful associations for her? Was it an accident? Was it purpose? Could she have come for his sake? Could she have found out the purpose of his journey? Was she looking for him? Had she failed to receive the letter which he wrote to her after Bruno's death, and an hour before his duel with Felix--that letter in which he told her with unfeeling cruelty, though he thought it heroism then, that "his heart was no longer exclusively hers, that he did not intend to deceive her and himself, and that he was bidding her--and perhaps life itself--an eternal adieu?" Or had she received it, and read it with the incredulity of a loving heart, which does not comprehend faithlessness, because it knows itself no other love but true love? Had she come to tell him that she had forgiven him?--that she was still his Melitta? If he were to hasten to her and to fall at her feet, would she raise the repentant lover and tell him that all was forgiven and forgotten?--that she had never ceased to love him?