“To Stollborg! Must we return there, and go off stupidly to bed, excited as we are?”
“Why, as to that, M. Goefle, it rests with you to step out of the door at the foot of this side stairway, and then go round to the main entrance and take supper (they have just rung the bell), and enjoy the amusements which, I presume, have been prepared for the remainder of the evening. But my part is played. Since you have denied your own blood, since I can no longer appear by your side under the name of Christian Goefle, I must go and take something or other to eat, and study a little mineralogy until I grow sleepy.”
“Sure enough, my poor boy, you must be tired.”
“I was before we began; now I am excited, just as you are, M. Goefle. In improvising, one is always most wound up when it is time to stop. Exactly when the curtain falls is just the right time to begin; you are full of fire, of feeling, of wit.”
“Very true, and I’ll stay with you for that reason, for you would be uncomfortable enough by yourself. I understand all about that state of mind. It is just so when one has concluded an argument; but this is even more stimulating. I would like myself to do I don’t know what, this very minute: recite a tragedy, compose a poem, set the house on fire, get drunk—anything to satisfy this craving of the mind after something out of the ordinary line.”
“Take care, M. Goefle,” said Christian, laughing, “the last may happen to you.”
“To me? Never! never! I am sorry to say that I am sober to excess—stupidly so, in fact.”
“But see there—that bottle is half empty!”
“Half a bottle of port for two—there is nothing scandalous in that, I hope?”
“I beg your pardon, but I haven’t touched it. I drank nothing but lemonade.”