Timar would not say, "I shall soon leave you altogether," but he thought it. He had to consult his lawyer first as to a possible ground for a separation. It was impossible to think of one. Only "unconquerable mutual aversion" could be put forward.
But would the wife consent? All depended on her. Timar pondered this question all the afternoon, and told the servants not to tell any one of his return, as he could not see visitors.
Toward evening some one opened the door. Athalie stood before him, with the same spiteful satisfaction shining from her eyes, the same triumphant smile playing round her lips. Michael drew back before her repellent glance.
"What brings you here, Athalie?" he asked, with confusion.
"Well, Herr von Levetinczy, what do you think? Do you not want to know anything from me?"
"What?" he whispered eagerly, shutting the door, and staring at Athalie with wide-opened eyes.
"What do you want to know?" said the beautiful woman, still smiling. "Indeed that is hard to guess. I have been in your house these six years; every year I have seen you return home, and every year with a different expression on your face. At first tormenting jealousy, then easy good-humor, afterward assumed tranquillity, and absorption in business. I studied all these phases. Last year I thought the tragedy was over—you looked like a man who is ready for the grave. But you may be sure that on all this round world there is no one who prays for your life as I do."
Michael frowned, and possibly Athalie understood him.
"No, sir," she repeated, passionately; "for if there is anyone in the world who loves you, they can not possibly wish that you may live long as heartily as I do. Now I see the same look on your face as last year—that is the true one: you would like to hear about Timéa?"
"Do you know anything?" asked Timar, eagerly, putting his back against the door as if to keep Athalie a prisoner.