So I drove over again. And again and again.
I would let old Krakow go on with his vapourings, and I'd drink the coffee his wife made for me, and listen devoutly while Iolanthe sang her loveliest songs, even though music--in general--well, the oftener I visited Krakowitz the uncannier the business became, but something always tugged me back again. I couldn't help myself.
The old Adam in me, before going to sleep forever, wanted a Last Supper, even if it consisted of nothing but the pleasant sensation of a woman's nearness. In the depths of my soul I had no hopes of anything beyond that.
To be sure, Iolanthe continued to cast furtive glances at me, but what they indicated--whether a reproach, a cry for help, or merely the wish to be admired--I never could make out.
Then--on my third or fourth visit--the following happened.
It was early in the afternoon--blazing hot. From boredom or impatience I drove to Krakowitz.
"The Baron and Baroness are asleep," said the lackey, "but the young lady is on the verandah."
I began to suspect all sorts of things, and my heart started to thump. I wanted to go back home again, but when I saw her standing there, tall and snowy white in her mull dress, as if chiselled in marble, my old asininity came upon me again, stronger than ever.
"How nice of you to come, Baron," she said. "I've been frightfully bored. Let's go take a walk in the garden. There's a cool arbour where we can have a pleasant chat without being disturbed."
When she put her arm in mine, I began to tremble. I tell you, climbing a hill under fire was easier than going down those steps.