She remembered Daniel Nothafft quite well. She knew that there was an irreconcilable feud between him and her father. She had seen him; people had pointed out the man with the angry looking eyes to her on the street. She had felt at the time as if she had already talked with him, though she could not say when or where. She had a vague idea as to what people said about him, and she knew that he was looked upon in the city as the adversary of evil himself.
Her breast was filled with an aimless longing. Her blood began to run warm, the fusty milieu in which she just then chanced to be cleared up and began to bestir itself. She took her violin and began to play a Hungarian dance, while an enlivening smile flitted across her face, and her eyes shone with the audacity of an ambitious and temperamental girl.
Herr Carovius raised his head: “Tempo!” he exclaimed, “Tempo!” and began to beat time with his hands and stamp the floor with his feet.
Dorothea smiled, shook her head, and played more and more rapidly.
“Tempo,” howled Herr Carovius. “Tempo!”
The barking of a sad dog was wafted into the room from the court below. It was Cæsar: he was on his last legs.
X
Daniel’s mother had come; she had brought little Eva along.
Marian had learned of Eleanore’s death through the newspaper. No one had thought of her; no one had written to her. She had not read it in the newspaper herself. The doctor in Eschenbach, who had subscribed to the Fränkischer Herold, had read it one morning, and had given her the paper with considerable hesitation, calling her attention to the death notice.
She was not present at the funeral. But she went out to the cemetery and prayed by Eleanore’s grave.