Peter Saffran, meantime, was wondering within himself which of the two gentlemen was Eveline's husband, and in what relation did the other stand to her? He emptied his glass and put it down again, but it did not occur to him to put the question to either of the three, therefore it remained unanswered.
The festival closed with a splendid display of fireworks. The sparks from the Catherine wheels fell in a shower of molten gold into Ivan's mine.
The following morning Saffran came to Behrend and informed him that he had taken service with the company.
"You also?" said Ivan, bitterly. "Well, go!"
Peter was paler than ever. He had expected reproaches for his treachery, but as none came he suddenly burst out with what had been for some time in his mind.
"Why did you that time call your friend a doctor?"
"Because he is one. He is a doctor of law."
Saffran raised his finger in a threatening manner. "Nevertheless, it was very wrong of you to call him that time a doctor." And then he turned on his heel and went his way.
Ivan's strength of mind was more and more put to the proof. Each day brought fresh defections. His best men left him to go over to his enemy, who, like some horrid monster, raised large furnaces which crushed the very life out of his smaller chimneys. His business friends fell away from him. They looked upon him as an obstinate fool, carrying on such an unequal fight; but the darker the outlook the stronger grew his determination to see the affair to the bitter end. He would not leave his old home, his own little territory; he would carry on the unequal, perhaps the fruitless, task of opposing his apparently triumphant adversary.
In the depth of his misfortune one true, reliable friend remained to him, and saved him from utter despair. This friend was the multiplication-table. Before he began to calculate he put these questions to himself, as if he were some one else: