It was a dark, stormy December night. The long-deserted streets of Berlin were covered with deep snow. By the glare of a small oil-lamp affixed to a post, the tall form of a man, wrapped in a large travelling-cloak, could be seen leaning against a wall; he was gazing fixedly at the houses opposite him. The snow beat upon his face, his limbs were stiff from the cold winter wind, his tooth chattered, but he did not seem to feel it. His whole soul, his whole being was filled with one thought, one desire. What mattered it to him if he suffered, if he died? As a dark shadow appeared; in the opposite door, life and energy once more came back to the stoic. He crossed the street hastily.
“Well, doctor,” said he, eagerly, “what have you discovered?”
“It is as your servant informed you, my lord. Your wife, Lady Elliot, is not at home. She is at a ball at Count Verther’s, and will not return till after midnight.”
“But my child? my daughter?” said Lord Elliot, in a trembling voice.
“She, of course, is at home, my lord. She is in the chamber adjoining your former sleeping apartment. No one but the nurse is with her.”
“It is well—I thank you, doctor. All I now require of you is to send my valet, whom I sent to your house after me, with my baggage. Farewell!”
He was rushing away, but the doctor detained him.
“My lord,” said he, in a low and imploring voice, “consider the matter once more before you act. Remember that you will thus inform all Berlin of your unfortunate wedded life, and become subject to the jeers and laughter of the so-called nobility; lowering the tragedy of your house to a proverb.”
“Be it so,” said Lord Elliot, proudly, “I have nothing to fear. The whole world knows that my honor is stained; before the whole world will I cleanse it.”
“But in doing so, my lord, you disgrace your wife.”