Meanwhile Leimann had noisily opened the door leading into the corridor, and now stepped into the room where his wife was waiting.
For a moment he halted at the door. He thought he discovered the scent of cigarette smoke. Then he felt his way towards the table, found a box of matches, and lighted a candle. Then he saw his wife recumbent on the sofa.
The sight touched him. Had this faithful soul awaited his coming so long, in order to offer him a cup of coffee? Doubtless sleep had overtaken her, and she had not heard his step. So he cautiously approached her and imprinted a kiss on her forehead.
A nervous cry escaped her, and she quickly rose.
“Oh, it is you, Franz. Where did you stay so long?”
“Do not be angry with me, my angel, that I kept you awake so long; but I really never dreamed that you would do this. Why did you not retire long ago?”
The words sounded so full of affection,—almost like an excuse, like a prayer for forgiveness,—but they did not touch her; she simply yawned with some affectation, and stretched her arms as if dying for a sound sleep.
“Why, you know, Franz, that I had to wait for you; you were again in a fearful condition. When I saw you sitting in that way I felt so miserable that I could bear it no longer, and went home.”
“Alone,—so late at night? Why did you not have one of the orderlies escort you?”
“Borgert took me as far as the door; he offered to be my escort.”