"Now two more," said Hippus, in the same tone. Veitel added another.
"And now for the last, my son," nodded he, encouragingly.
Veitel delayed a moment and looked hard at the old man's face, on which a malevolent pleasure was visible. There was no comfort there, however; so he laid down the fourth note, saying, in a stifled voice, "I have been mistaken in you, Hippus;" and, turning away, he wiped his eyes.
"Do not take it to heart, you booby," said his instructor; "if I die before you, you shall be my heir. And now I am off to taste the wine, and I will make a point of drinking your health, you sensitive Itzig;" and, so saying, he crept out of the door.
Veitel once more wiped away a bitter tear that rolled down his cheeks. His pleasure in his winnings was gone. It was a complex sort of feeling, this grief of his. True, he mourned the lost notes, but he had lost something more. The only man in the world for whom he felt any degree of attachment had behaved unkindly and selfishly toward him. It was all over henceforth between him and Hippus. He could not, indeed, do without him, but he hated him from this hour. The old man had made him more solitary and unscrupulous than before. Such is the curse of bad men; they are rendered wretched not only by their crimes, but even their best feelings turn to gall.
However, this melancholy mood did not long continue. He took out his remaining treasure, counted it over, felt cheered thereby, and turned his thoughts to the future. His social position had been changed at a stroke. As the possessor of eight thousand dollars—alas! there were but seven thousand six hundred—he was a small Crœsus among men of his class: many carried on transactions involving hundreds of thousands without as much capital as he had; in short, the world was his oyster, and he had but to bethink himself with what lever he should open it—how invest his capital—how double it—how increase it tenfold. There were many ways before him: he might continue to lend money on high interest, he might speculate, or carry on some regular business; but each of these involved his beloved capital in some degree of risk; he might win, indeed, but then he might lose all, and the very thought so terrified him that he relinquished one scheme after another.
There was, indeed, one way in which a keen-witted man might possibly make much without great danger of loss.
Veitel had been accustomed, as a dealer in old clothes, to visit the different seats of landed proprietors; at the wool market he was in the habit of offering his services to gentlemen with mustaches and orders of merit; in his master's office he was constantly occupied with the means and affairs of the nobility. How intimately he knew old Ehrenthal's secret desire to become the possessor of a certain estate! And how came it that in the midst of his annoyance with Hippus, the thought of his schoolfellow Anton suddenly flashed across him, and of the day when he had walked with him last? That very morning he had walked about the baron's estate, and lounged by the cow-house, counting the double row of horns within, till the dairy-maid ordered him away. Now the thought passed like lightning through his brain that he might as well become the owner of that estate as Ehrenthal, and drive with a pair of horses into the town. From that moment he had a fixed plan, and began to carry it out.
And he speculated cunningly too. He determined to acquire a claim upon the baron's property by a mortgage; thus he would safely invest his capital, and work on quietly till the day came when he could get hold of the property itself. At all events, if he did not succeed in that, his money would be safe. Meanwhile, he would become an agent and commissioner, buy and sell, and do many clever things besides. Also, he must remain Ehrenthal's factotum as long as it suited him. Rosalie was handsome and rich, for Bernhard would not live to inherit his father's wealth. Perhaps he might desire to become Ehrenthal's son-in-law, perhaps not; at all events, there was no hurry about that. There was one other whom he must get on a secure footing—the little black man now drinking that expensive wine down stairs. Henceforth he would pay him for whatever he did for him, but he would not confide in him.
These were the resolves of Veitel Itzig; and, having concocted his plans, he locked his door, threw himself down exhausted on his hard bed, the imaginary possessor of Baron Rothsattel's fair property.