"Old donkey!" the Countess Lenzdorff murmured. Erika opened the note with trembling hands. It came from Fräulein Horst, the poor music-teacher. She wrote that she had been worse for a couple of days, and had made up her mind to go home. With pathetic gratitude and sincere admiration she desired to take leave of Erika thus in writing, since her weak condition would not allow her to call upon her.
Really distressed, and a little ashamed of having of late somewhat neglected the poor creature, Erika had a gondola called, and went immediately to the Pension Weber. When she asked in the hall of the establishment for Fräulein Horst, the dismay painted on every face at once revealed to her the truth: the poor music-teacher had passed away.
She asked to be taken to the room where the dead woman lay; and as Attilio, the hotel waiter, conducted her thither, he told how there had been for a long time no hope of the invalid's recovery; the day before yesterday the last symptom had appeared,--a restless longing for change,--for travel; her departure had been fixed for this evening; they had all hoped so that she would get off; but she had died here: they had found her dead in bed this very morning, her candle burnt down into the socket, and her open book on her bed. Oh, yes, it was very sad to die so, away from home, and it was very unpleasant for the establishment. Eccellenza had no idea of the injury it was to the Pension! The Signor Baron in the first story had declared that he would not spend another night there.
As Attilio finished, he unlocked the room where the body lay, and ushered in Erika. She motioned to him to leave her alone.
The room was darkened. Erika drew aside the curtains a little. There was a crucifix among the medicine-bottles on the table beside the bed, and a book, open apparently at the place where the dead woman had been last reading. It was a German translation of 'Romeo and Juliet:' it was open at the balcony scene, 'It is the nightingale, and not the lark----'
Erika kneeled down at the bedside, buried her face in the coverlet, and wept bitterly. When Attilio came to remind her gently not to stay long, she arose and followed him with bowed head from the room.
As she was going down the stairs, she heard a harsh grating voice with a slight Polish accent call, "Sophy, Sophy, are you ready?" and then from the end of the corridor two figures appeared, one a short, thick-set woman heavily laden with a bundle of shawls, a travelling-bag, and several umbrellas, and looking up at a man who walked beside her, his hands in the pockets of his plaid jacket, his eye-glass in his eye, allowing himself with much condescension to be adored. They were Strachinsky and his second wife.
"II signore Barone," murmured Attilio.
Strachinsky glanced towards Erika: he frowned and looked away. She was glad that he did so, for in her dejected condition she could hardly have brought herself to speak to the couple. Her whole soul was filled with a desire to creep away to some quiet spot where she might find relief in tears.
She sent away her gondola, and hurried through the narrow streets to the Piazza San Zacharie. There she took refuge in the church of the same name.