He thrust the paper into his brother’s hands, and began violently to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Pericles had just time for a hurried glance at the garbled and extremely malicious version of the Ehrenstein romance in the “Aristophanes,” in which Inarime’s name was printed in full, with a minute description of her person, when Oïdas broke out:
“I am mentioned, too, as betrothed to your daughter. I do not know who has authorised this impertinence. How can you expect a man in my position to marry a girl thus advertised!”
“Is that so? You are not perhaps aware,” shrieked Constantine, “that my niece has emphatically refused to marry you. She hates you.”
Oïdas smiled sarcastically. That was chaff unlikely to catch him. Pericles shook himself with a supreme effort out of his state of sickly stupefaction.
“Kyrie Oïdas, it is as my brother says,” he managed to utter, in a vague, chill tone. “My daughter has to-day communicated to me her unconquerable repugnance to the alliance you did us the honour to propose. You will now do us the still greater honour of relieving us of your presence.”
Oïdas strutted out of the room with lips drawn into an incredulous grin, and when the door slammed behind him, Pericles stretched out his hands helplessly. His face was white and his lips blue. Inarime rushed to him.
“My father!” she murmured, softly. “Uncle, help me.”
Pericles had fallen back in a dead faint.
Oïdas went about the town, distracted, and resolved to spread his evil tale. He did not want for willing ears and believers. Many discredited his story, and reverted to his former unconcealed anxiety to get the girl, and her evident holding back. In the next day’s papers a formal announcement appeared stating the Mayor of Athens wished it to be known that he entertained no intention of marrying the desposyné Inarime Selaka, and had officially rescinded his proposals.
Vague references further appeared to a Turkish lover, a mysterious Bey, roving incognito over Greece—learned, fascinating and romantic. This paragraph and the short letter of Oïdas fell under the amazed eyes of Gustav Reineke, while he sat at breakfast in his hotel. His face flamed furious. Giddy emotions momentarily held him prostrate and insane. Then he rose, clenched his teeth, furnished himself with a heavy riding-whip, and sallied forth towards the newspaper office. He met the editor in the hall, unprotected and unsuspecting. With a growl of Homeric satisfaction, he pounced on that unhappy man, and, passion lending him strength, suitably reduced him to a pulp. Inspirited by this diversion, he sought the mayor, was courteously admitted, not being known to be on an avenging mission; he then proceeded, without preliminary, to do the work of an infuriated hero upon the rickety body of that civic luminary. Oïdas’ howls were fearful to hear, but the door was locked, and only opened to emit in a flash the lithe frame of Gustav,—his face blanched, his eyes blazing, and his lips triumphant.