The people were still loyal to him, to the peasants and day labourers he was always "Our Herr Count." Whenever he appeared among them they ran to him, kissed his hands, and invoked countless blessings upon him. There had been a time when he protested impatiently against these rather obtrusive demonstrations, but now he took pleasure in them. He knew the people almost all by name, and frequently talked with them, when to be sure they never failed to make some complaint against their new master, under whom in point of fact they were very well off; but they none the less complained of him just to please their Herr Count.
But though the peasants and labourers were thus loyal to him, the new servants and superintendants showed no such respect. The Conte had not retained in Schneeburg a single one of the former servants; he had dismissed them all without pensions. The knowledge of this had added bitterness to the old Count's last moments. He had interceded for his people, and when he could obtain nothing save vague promises, he had intended to use his influence elsewhere for their protection, but death had intervened and put an end to his good intentions. Probably none of the dismissed were worth much--the housekeeping at the Castle had been slipshod and easy-going,--all things had been allowed to take their own course. No provision for the old servants had been included in the original contract when they were first hired, and the income from Schneeburg had not been large enough to warrant the reservation of a pension fund, but no one had ever been dismissed on account of increasing age, or of physical infirmity. Almost all of them had been born upon the estate, and had expected to die there. And now, suddenly, Schneeburg was 'swept clean' of them, as the Conte expressed it. Some of them were plunged into hopeless poverty; Fritz discovered this, and the misery of not being able to provide for his people was an added pang.
Meanwhile there was a horde of new servants at Schneeburg, all young people, with modern ideas, fresh from industrial schools, stocked with correct views of their multifarious duties, and with independent opinions in politics.
At first, whenever Fritz met them, he greeted them with the kindly affability with which he was wont to treat inferiors, but this condescension from one in his circumstances seemed to them ridiculous; they laughed among themselves at his courtesy. He did not observe this for some time, and when he did so he simply took no notice of the menials. They however continued to ridicule him, and to clear away, pull down, and alter ruthlessly.
Whilst Fritz sat wearied and worn in his gloomy room, among his shabby relics, teaching his little daughter French, or his boy the alphabet, he could hear the thud of the falling stones, as the time-honoured out-buildings were being demolished, and every sound struck a direct blow at his poor, sore, foolish heart.
The Conte's behaviour towards him daily grew more intolerable, especially ever since his return from the election. Every petty disappointment was wreaked upon Fritz. Of course! Fritz was the only member 'of the caste' upon whom the Conte could vent his anger. His brutalities Fritz could endure, but what outraged him beyond measure was to have the Conte assume an air of frankness, and behind the mask of friendly interest presume to ask all sorts of personal questions,--the bitterest of pills for Malzin!
"Oh Heavens, how long am I to be in gaining the summit of Calvary?" the poor fellow sometimes asked himself.
To-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the cordial, affectionate note, in which Oswald invited him to the family-dinner at Tornow. "Forgive me for not having seen you for so long," Oswald concluded, "only remember all that I have to do. The castle is turned upside down in anticipation of a certain coming event, but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a couple of days. But we will discuss this to-morrow."
Of course Fritz accepted the invitation. He knew that it would bring on a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? He could not but anticipate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had dispatched his reply by the Tornow messenger, he walked out into the park.
It was early in August, and the floods of rain which had fallen in June and July had been followed by stifling sultriness. Fritz was both stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being conscious of any special degree of heat. His disease had made such progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the thermometer stood very high. As usual, he sought out the most retired paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams.