"I will be there punctually at twelve. Don't you think I might speak to Herr Freyer during the intermission?" she asked timidly.
A smile of sorrowful pity flitted over the man's face. "Oh, he speaks to no one. We are rejoiced every time that he is able to get through the performance."
"Alas! is he so ill?"
"Yes," replied the man in a tone very low as if he feared the very air might hear, "very ill."
Then he went up the stairs again to his post.
"Where shall we drive now?" asked Martin.
The countess was obliged to reflect a short time ere she answered. "I think it would be best--to try to find a lodging somewhere--" she said hesitatingly, still listening to the sounds from the theatre to learn what was passing within, what scene they were playing--who was speaking? "Drive slowly, Martin--" she begged. She was in no hurry now: "Stop!" she called as Martin started; she had just heard a voice that sounded like his! Martin made the horses move very slowly as he drove on. Thus, at the most tardy pace, they passed around the Passion Theatre and then in the opposite direction toward the village. At the exit from the square an official notification was posted: "No Monday performances will be given hereafter; Herr Freyer's health will not permit him to play two days in succession."
The countess pressed her clasped hands upon her quivering heart. "Bear it--it must be borne--it is your own fault, now suffer!"
A stranger in a private carriage, who was looking for lodgings on the day everybody else was going away, was a welcome apparition in the village. At every house to which she drove the occupants who remained in it hastened to welcome her, but none of the rooms pleased her. For a moment she thought of going to the drawing-master's, but there also the quarters were too low and narrow--and she could not deceive herself, the tie between her and Ludwig Gross was sundered--he could not forgive what she had done to his friend; she avoided him as though he were her judge. And besides--she wanted quiet rooms, where an invalid could rest, and these were not easy to find now.
At last she discovered them. A plain house, surrounded by foliage, in a secluded street, which had only two rooms on the ground floor, where they could live wholly unseen and unheard. They were plain apartments, but the ceilings were not too low, and the sunbeams shone through the chinks of the green shutters with a warm, yet subdued light. A peaceful, cheerful shelter.