She took the note, carried it to Erwin's room, and laid it conscientiously upon his writing-desk. Then her knees trembled, and she had to sit down. Not that he had received the note surprised her. What fault was it of his if Linda wrote foolish notes? But what she did not understand, what remained absolutely incomprehensible to her was the fact that he had taken his valet into his confidence, that he had not been ashamed to make him his confidant. Had she not heard wrong? Had he gone to Traunberg? Now, when the facts spoke strongest against him, she weighed most justly the probabilities for and against his fault; she had acted imprudently towards him, and since the birth of the last child, devoting herself entirely to her maternal duties, had neglected him. He had borne this with goodness and patience; then Linda had suddenly appeared, with her dazzling beauty, her picturesque elegance, her coquettish heartlessness.
For hours Elsa sat there and waited. At five o'clock she sat down to dinner; immediately after this she left the dining-room--she had no more control over herself.
"It is all possible," she cried, giving way, desperate; her breath came heavily and so feverish that it burned her lips--black clouds swam before her eyes.
She looked at the clock. What kept him away from home so long--with her? Another fifteen minutes passed--he must be with her. She could no longer endure her distrustful suspense--she would go to Traunberg.
She ordered the carriage. On the way she started at every sound, at every shadow, everywhere she saw him and her.
A fearful dread of the certainty came over her; at the last moment she clung to uncertainty.
She wished to return, but she was ashamed of displaying such inconsequence before the servants, and just then the carriage drove through the iron gate into the Traunberg park. The lackey in the vestibule announced that the Baroness was not at home.
Elsa sighed with relief; if Linda were not home, she could receive no guests, and Erwin could not be there. That she could have denied herself did not occur to her.
It was pleasant to her to enjoy Traunberg once more, without Parisian anecdotes and French chansonnettes--without Linda.
All was as if dead; it reminded her of the old Traunberg, where she had lived in loving solitude with her father. She did not think of returning at once; the great tension of her nerves had suddenly given way to vague dreaminess--the danger was not over but postponed.