Part 111 (2/2)

”Ah, no, nothing pleases me. And yet I should like to smoke.”

He lit a cigar.

The world had, however, not quite forgotten him, as he had said in his anger. A visitor was announced. He hurriedly put the cigar away. The world was not to see him smoking, and was not to imagine that he was unfeeling, or that he did not mourn for his father and sister.

There were many visitors, and Bruno was again and again obliged to display his grief and to accept the sympathy offered him. He now saw how the rumor of Irma's death had spread throughout the city, from the palace to the hovel. People whom he hardly knew, and others who were even ill-disposed toward him, came. He was obliged to receive all politely, to thank them, and to accept their a.s.surances of sympathy, while he fancied he could detect malicious pleasure in many an eye. But he was obliged to ignore this and, although now and then a nervous twitching of his features almost betrayed him, he managed to keep up the semblance of all-absorbing grief.

His companions in pleasure also visited him, and it was quite curious to witness the grave air which the young cavaliers a.s.sumed, now and then casting a glance at the great mirror in order to see whether the serious expression became them well.

It seemed almost comical to think that the man who was always the merriest in the party, and who could make the best and most unequivocal jokes, should now be so downcast. They seated themselves; they straddled the chairs and rested their arms on the backs; they lit their cigars, and much was said of their respective ”papas.”

”My papa has been dead this two years.”

”My papa is ill.”

”My papa intends to retire on his pension.”

Some one asked: ”Bruno, how old was your father?”

He did not know, but answered at a venture:

”Sixty-three.”

They also spoke of the races; at first cautiously and almost in a whisper, but afterward in a loud voice. They spoke of Baron Wolfsbuchen's great loss.

”What happened to him?”

”Fatima, his splendid black mare, wouldn't obey him, and he struck her over the mouth with his sword. He had forgotten that the blade was sharp.”

They spoke of the loss that he had incurred by forfeiting the stakes, and of the damage done his horse; but no one found fault with his cruelty.

At last his comrades left. As soon as they were out of doors, they stretched themselves. ”Well, well; that's over.” A visit of condolence is a sort of funeral parade, and one's words are like m.u.f.fled drums.

Before they left the carpeted staircase, they began to whisper scandal, and to tell that Bruno had forbidden his mother-in-law to come to the capital, as their majesties had been gracious enough to stand as sponsors to his young scion. The whole party concluded to lunch together, and have some wine. There were merry goings on at the French restaurant, and Bruno was often the topic of conversation.

”He will be enormously rich, for he inherits a double share.”

”If he had known as much a year ago, who knows whether he would have married Steigeneck. His debts were not so heavy but that he could have held out for another year.”

”He also inherits his sister's jewels, and they are of immense value.”

As if he were two beings in one, the one here and the other there, Bruno's thoughts followed the companions who had left him.

He surmised what they were saying, and once started as if he had heard laughing behind him. It was nothing, however, but his sister's parrot, which he had ordered to be brought into his anteroom. He had it taken back to Irma's apartment, as he did not know whether it really belonged to her, and its eternal ”G.o.d keep you, Irma,” annoyed him.

He walked about the room for a long while, with his thumbs stuck into his closely b.u.t.toned coat, and his fingers playing a merry but inaudible tune upon his breast. The visits of condolence really annoyed him. It is so irksome to put on a sorrowful look, to listen to words of consolation, to offer thanks for sympathy, while all is a lie or, at most, an empty form-- It is simply one's duty to express sympathy with the afflicted. Perhaps people regret that they cannot, in such cases, send their empty carriages, as they do at funerals-- Is it not enough to let the world know that the grief was great and general, and that the funeral was a large one? These were Bruno's angry and ill-natured thoughts. ”Then they go off,” thought he, ”the young and the old, in uniform and in citizen's dress, twisting their mustaches and stroking their chins, with a self-complacent air, while they say to themselves: 'You've done a good deed; you are a man of politeness and feeling--' and when they get home they tell their wives and daughters: 'The king's aid-de-camp is thus and so--' and then they eat and drink and drive out, and when they reach the house they say: 'We ought to feel satisfied when everything goes well with us, and our family escapes misfortune.' They use the misfortunes of others as they would a platform, from which to get a better view of their own prosperity.”

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