Another lady entered, one whose corpulency and unskilfully powdered face and arms made an unpleasing contrast with a badly fitting robe of black and yellow. She ran up to Frau Clara and squeezed her hand in her wobbly fingers, expressing joy at the invitation. To the gentlemen who sidled up to her one after the other she extended that same chubby hand with a fatuous smile, but holding it so high that they could not do otherwise than touch it with their lips.
This was Frau Captain Stark, the latest spouse in the regiment, though probably past the demi-century line.
Her lord, likewise of rotund shape, came after her. He wore a black Vandyke beard, and his special forte was a carefully trained and extremely long nail on the little finger. It was said that this nail demanded a goodly portion of his leisure hours. His voice told its own story of bonhommie and unctuous Rhine wine.
Behind this couple hove in sight the figure of the commander. Everybody stepped aside with a show of deference, and all around he was saluted with deep bows, while he slowly stepped up to Captain König and his lady. The bowlegs and the robust body were not relieved by a face of finer mould, and thus it was that Colonel von Kronau scarcely corresponded with the popular conception of a dashing cavalry officer. Most striking about him was a tear that permanently glistened in the corner of his eye. This tear he always allowed to grow to a certain size, when he would, by a dexterous motion born of long practice, propel it from its resting-place over at his vis-à-vis, either at the latter’s feet or in his face, as the case might be. It largely depended on the size of the tear and the rank of his vis-à-vis.
The lady who accompanied him and who had the face and manners of a governess was his better half. She had squeezed herself on this occasion into a dowdy dress of pearl-gray silk, with a purple collar of velvet.
Almost simultaneously the remainder of the invited personages filed in. There was First Lieutenant Borgert. His shifting eyes seldom looked squarely at any one whom he deigned to address. He was fleshy, but his movements were nevertheless elastic and suave. Behind him stood First Lieutenant Leimann, under-sized and prematurely bent, with a neck several sizes too short for him and a suspicion of deformity between the shoulders. A pear-shaped head protruded from between them, fitfully lit up by a pair of pig’s eyes, which either restlessly shot glances or else were so completely buried under their lids as to become invisible. A monocle hung down his bosom from a broad ribbon, but he never used it, for fear of becoming ridiculous.
These two gentlemen dwelt together in the same house, each occupying a floor, and were inseparables. Though perennially short of cash, they saw no reason to deny themselves the luxuries of this mundane sphere. On the contrary, they lived like heirs to great fortunes.
“Pardon me, my gracious lady,”[3] remarked Leimann to the hostess, “but my wife could not come immediately, having her old complaint—nervous headache, you know!” In saying this he made a face as though he didn’t himself believe what he was saying. “But she will doubtless come a bit later.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Frau Clara sweetly answered, “but I hope she will soon feel well enough to appear.”
After little Lieutenant Bleibtreu, a special friend of the house and the only subaltern in Captain König’s squadron, had in his turn saluted everybody, the servant announced that the meal was served. The diners, in couples, ranged strictly according to rank, passed in. The dining-room looked cheerful, and the table had been arranged with Frau Clara’s customary taste.