"He will not return till Easter. Meanwhile the weather will be getting milder, and there are still some old doors and planks up above, which I shall pronounce altogether superfluous. Therefore warm thee, dearest Clara, without any care for the future."
Things, however, did not quite fall out as expected. On the afternoon of that very same day, a carriage was heard to drive up to the little house. They heard the rattling of the wheels, the stopping of the vehicle, the descent of the passengers. It was in vain to put their heads out of window, they could see nothing there. But they heard the sound of unpacking, then the greeting of neighbours—it was evident, beyond a doubt, that their dreaded landlord had returned home much sooner than he ought. The heavy tread of the gouty gentleman now resounded in the passage—the crisis was at hand. Henry stood at the half-open door, listening. Clara sat within, regarding him with a questioning look.
"I must go up," the landlord was now heard to say; "I must go up, and see after my lodgers. I hope they are as cheerful as ever, and the young wife as pretty."
There was a pause. The old man was groping about in the dark.
"How is this?" he muttered to himself. "Don't know my own house! Not here—not there! Ulric! Ulric! help here!"
Ulric, his servant and factotum, came to his assistance.
"Help me up these stairs," said the landlord. "I am blinded—bewitched! I cannot find the steps, and yet they were broad enough!"
"Herr Emmerich," said the old and somewhat surly domestic, "you are a little giddy from travelling."
"An hypothesis," whispered Henry, turning to his wife, "which unhappily will not hold."
"Zounds!" cried Ulric, who had run his head against the wall, "I have lost my wits too!"