He waits in vain. The heavens are covered with clouds; a sharp wind sighs above the fields; the leaves tremble as if in mortal terror; for the first time in six weeks a few drops of rain fall. No splendour hails the awakening world, but along the eastern horizon there is a blood-red streak. Just in Lato's path a solitary white butterfly flutters upon the ground. The wind grows stronger, the drops fall more thickly; the pale blossoms by the roadside shiver; the red poppies do not open their cups, but hang their heads as if drunk with sleep.
[CHAPTER XLII.]
FOUND.
Olga had remained in her room because she could not bring herself to meet Treurenberg again. No, she could never meet him after the words, the kiss, they had exchanged,--never--until he should call her. For it did not occur to her to recall what she had said to him,--she was ready for everything for his sake. Not a thought did she bestow upon the disgrace that would attach to her in the eyes of the world. What did she care what people said or thought of her? But he,--what if she had disgraced herself in his eyes by the confession of her love? The thought tortured her.
She kept saying to herself, "He was shocked at me; I wounded his sense of delicacy. Oh, my God! and yet I could not see him suffer so,--I could not!"
When night came on she lay dressed upon her bed for hours, now and then rising to pace the room to and fro. At last she fell asleep. She was roused by hearing a door creak. She listened: it was the door of Lato's room. Again she listened. No, she must have been mistaken; it was folly to suppose that Lato would think of leaving the house at a little after three in the morning! She tried to be calm, and began to undress, when suddenly a horrible suspicion assailed her; her teeth chattered, the heart in her breast felt like lead.
"I must have been mistaken," she decided. But she could not be at rest. She went out into the corridor; all there was still. The dawn was changing from gray to white. She glided down the staircase to the door of Lato's room, where she kneeled and listened at the key-hole. She could surely hear him breathe, she thought. But how could she hear it when her own pulses were throbbing so loudly in her heart, in her temples, in her ears?
She listened with all her might: nothing, nothing could she hear. Her head sank against the door, which was ajar and yielded. She sprang up and, half dead with shame, was about to flee, when she paused. If he were in his room would not the creaking of the door upon its hinges have roused him? Again she turned and peered into the room.
At the first glance she perceived that it was empty, and that the bed had not been slept in.
With her heart throbbing as if to break, she rushed up to her room, longing to scream aloud, to rouse the household with "He has gone! he has gone! Search for him! save him!"