"They got out—up above—were in such a hurry—over the path in the lowlands, toward the park—Good Heavens! Good Heavens! If only they got over! Good Lord!" A wave of the stream which had broken through between the hills and the castle, and into which the coachman had almost driven, broke into the deep road and leaped up under the feet of the horses, which would no longer stand still, and dashed up the road, with the coachman, who had fortunately caught the lines and was trying to stop the animals, at their side.
Ottomar had only understood this much from the coachman's words, which the storm had drowned for the most part, that Else was in dire peril. What sort of a path was it? Where was the path?
He ran after the coachman, calling and shouting. The man did not hear.
[Else and Valerie return from Wissow Hook and reach the terrace of Golmberg. Giraldi, who has wandered out to look for them, seizes Valerie by the hand and rescues her, leaving Else on the terrace at the mercy of the storm.]
Ferdinande sprang up as Ottomar's step was heard across the hall down the creaking stair, and paced to and fro in the little room a few times, wringing her hands; then she threw herself upon the sofa again, when she finally saw Ottomar, resting her head in her hands on the arm of the sofa. But she had not been weeping, and she was not weeping now; she had no tears. She no longer had any hope, any wish but to be allowed to die for him, as she could not live for him, and as her life would be another burden, another torture, for him.
If she had only believed the officer with the smooth brow and the wide sympathetic eyes, when he said: "You deceive yourself, young lady; your flight with Ottomar is not a solution, it is only another complication, and the worst one of all! The difficulty for Ottomar lies in his wretchedly compromised honor as an officer. The appearance of things here at least, must be saved, and that is in accordance with the preliminaries which I have arranged. His life will be at the best a life in death, and I don't know whether he will be able to endure it; indeed, I doubt it; but in cases like this it is permissible to silence one's better convictions. But there is no doubt that, if you fly with him now and the affair becomes known, as it must, for us his friends there remains no possibility of saving appearances. An officer who must resign his position because of debts, whose engagement is annulled in consequence, who, in this critical predicament, gives up also the right to call to account slanderers and tale-bearers—that can happen, unfortunately happens only too often. But thus—pardon the expression—free course is given to scandal. The man who, in such a moment, can think of anything but saving from shipwreck as much of his honor as he can, or, if nothing more is left to be saved, does not at least resign with dignity, perhaps—perhaps even to give up his life—who, instead of this, involves another being in this shipwreck, whom he declares he loves—an innocent girl, a respectable lady—that man has lost all claim to interest or sympathy. Ottomar himself must see that sooner or later. This journey of his to Warnow has, to my mind, absolutely no point. What will he do there? Call Giraldi to account? The Italian will answer him: You are not a child; you were not a child; you must have known what you were doing.—Challenge the Count? For what, when he accompanies you? Well, let him go; but alone—not with you! I entreat you, not with you! Believe me!—Love in whose omnipotence you so firmly believe, which is to help Ottomar over all difficulties as with a divine hand—it will prove itself absolutely impotent—yes, worse than that; it will completely shatter the little strength that Ottomar might have summoned. For his sake—if you will not think of yourself—do not go with him!"
Strange! While he was speaking to her with hurried yet clear words—drawing her aside even in the last moment while Ottomar and Bertalde were arranging a few things in the next room—it all passed over her like an empty sound—she scarcely knew what he was talking about. And now it all came back to her mind—word for word—it had all been fulfilled—word for word!
All-powerful Love! Great Heavens! It was a mockery! What else had he for the visions of the future, which she had painted to him in glowing terms fresh from her overflowing breast, than a melancholy, dismal smile, dispirited monosyllabic replies, which he only made in order to say something while his heart was weighed down by the thought of his angry father, his sympathetic or scoffing comrades, or the question whether he would be able after all to force von Wallbach to fight a duel. His caresses even, when she held him in her arms with her heart full of untold anxiety, as a mother who rescued her child from the flames—she shuddered when she thought of them: as if she were a girl in love whom one must humor—a mistress whom one takes along on a journey and whom one must not allow to feel that she is a burden at the first station.