Now that the pledge of secrecy had been removed from him, Maurice felt that he wanted facts; and, without thinking more about it than if he had been there the day before, he climbed the stairs that led to Krafft's lodging.
He found him at supper; Avery was present, too, and on the table sat Wotan, who was being regaled with strips of skin off the sausage. Krafft greeted Maurice with a touch of his former effusiveness; for he was in a talkative mood, and needed an audience. At his order, Avery put an extra plate on the table, and Maurice had to share their meal. It was not hard for him to lead Krafft round to the desired subject. It seemed that one of the masters in the Conservatorium had expressed a very unequivocal opinion of Schilsky's talents as a composer, and Krafft was now sarcastic, now merry, at this critic's expense. Maurice laid down his knife, and, in the first break, asked abruptly: "When does he go?"
"Go?—who?" said Krafft indifferently, tickling Wotan's nose with a piece of skin which he held out of reach.
"Who?—why, Schilsky, of course."
It sounded as if another than he had said the words: they were so short and harsh. The plate Avery was holding fell to the floor. Krafft sat back in his chair, and stared at Maurice, with a face that was all eyes.
"You knew he was going away?—or didn't you?" asked Maurice in a rough voice. "Every one knows. The whole place knows."
Krafft laughed. "The whole place knows: every one knows," he repeated. "Every one, yes—every one but me. Every one but me, who had most right to know. Yes, I alone had the right; for no one has loved him as I have."
He rose from the table, knocking over his chair. "Or else it is not true?"
"Yes, it is true. Then you didn't know?" said Maurice, bewildered by the outburst he had evoked.
"No, we didn't know." It was Avery who spoke. She was on her knees, picking up the pieces of the plate with slow, methodical fingers.