Von Francius bowed. Eugen left his seat, made his way, without a word, from the orchestra, and von Francius rapped sharply, the preliminary tumult subsided; the concert began.
I glanced once or twice toward Karl; I received no answering look. I could not even see his face; he had made himself as small as possible behind his music.
The concert over—it seemed to me interminable—I was hastening away, anxious only to find Eugen, when Karl Linders stopped me in a retired corner, and holding me fast, said:
“Friedel, I am a damned fool.”
“I am sorry not to be able to contradict you.”
“Listen,” said he. “You must listen, or I shall follow you and make you. I made up my mind not to hear another word against him, but when I went to die Clara after the solo, I found her and that confounded girl whispering together. She—Anna Sartorius—said it was very fine for such scamps to cover their sins with music. I asked her pretty stiffly what she meant, for she is always slanging Eugen, and I thought she might have let him alone for once. She said she meant that he was a blackguard—that’s the word she used—ein lauter Spitzbube—a forger, and worse. I told her I believed it was a lie. I did not believe it.
“‘Ask him,’ said she. I said I would be—something—first. But Clara would have nothing to say to me, and they both badgered me until for mere quietness I agreed to do as they wished.”
He went on in distress for some time.
“Oh, drop it!” said I, impatiently. “You have done the mischief. I don’t want to listen to your whining over it. Go to the Fräulein Steinmann and Sartorius. They will confer the reward of merit upon you.”
“Gott behüte!”