"Let us eat off the one plate, Peter."
And they ate this porridge off one plate. Peter felt a strange moisture fill his eyes; he had not wept since he was a child. The porridge was excellent; all the cooks in Vienna put together couldn't have given him a meal so much to his mind. There was wine on the table, but no glasses.
Peasants never drink during meals; but when they had finished Eveline fetched a clay jug and asked Peter to drink, after, as is the custom, she had taken a draught.
"Drink this, Peter; it is your old favorite."
There was mead in the jug—a very innocent sort of drink—and Peter thought it was his duty to empty the last drop. The hell that had been raging in his breast seemed all at once to be extinguished. He said to himself:
"Yes, I shall go back to the church, and to the spot where I made that awful vow; I shall implore the Holy Mother to allow me to take it back. I shall hurt no one; I shall take no revenge. Let the green grass grow again in the fields, and let her live in splendor in the smiles of the great ones. I shall not grudge her her happiness. This day, when she has received me so kindly, has banished from my memory the day upon which she left me. But I shall ask her for one kiss, so that I may remember nothing but that."
He delayed, however, too long in putting his desire into words. They were, indeed, hovering on his lips when the door suddenly opened, and a servant announced that his excellency was in the drawing-room.
(Now, Peter, God help you; you may go hence without your kiss!)
Eveline could hardly say good-bye; she had to change her dress. The footman showed him out at the secret door; there another footman led him down the back stairs, and, opening another door, left Peter in a narrow street, where he had never been before. While he made the best of his way to the hotel he had leisure to think over what he should say to Evila if he ever again had the chance of being alone with her in the round room. The recollection of how he had missed his opportunity roused the demon again in his mind. The burning lava of hell began once more to fill his veins, the stream of sulphur which the lost souls are ever drinking. He kept repeating to himself, "The grass shall not grow again!"
By the time he reached the inn he brought with him a goodly company—hatred, envy, rage at his own weakness, horror at his own wickedness, mixed with political fanaticism. A delightful gathering in one man's breast.