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The next day Eleanore came to her voluntarily, and told her quite candidly of her relation to Eberhard von Auffenberg. Concerning what she knew of Eberhard’s fate she said nothing; she merely indicated that he was extremely unhappy.
He ran out in the direction of Feucht, and stayed the entire day in the open fields without taking a single bit of nourishment except a piece of black bread and a glass of milk. But when he returned in the evening his pockets were bulging with notes he had jotted down while out there by himself. He came back by way of the Castle, and knocked at Eberhard’s door.
But that was all. Eberhard poured some water in a basin, dipped his hands in it, dried them, and went away. The picture of the whining man with the puffed and swollen eyes and the blue face was indelibly stamped on Eberhard’s memory. He had felt a greedy, voluptuous desire to commit murder.
Even though Eberhard’s Arctic impenetrability seemed made for all time, though yielding seemed to be no part of his nature, she finally succeeded in jolting him loose from his bearings. And when Sylvia accompanied her mother—Sylvia generally won her point with her mother—he shook off his armour with unexpected suddenness; you could see the struggles that were going on in his soul.
Before the Baron could recover from his amazement he had already disappeared, closing the door behind him. The sound of his footsteps on the street could be heard in the room; but he was gone. What rare living creatures there are, O World, and what rare dead ones, too! This is the thought that passed through Eberhard’s mind.
He took upon himself the impudent liberty of running in and out at Eberhard’s whenever he felt like it. He bored him with his discussion of philosophic systems, or with miserable gossip about his neighbours. He watched him day and night. He followed him on the street. He would come up to him and cry out, “Herr Baron, Herr Baron!” and wave his hat.
The first sight that caught his eyes was that of the young Baron as he rose to his feet and limped over toward his host to-be. The horror of Herr Carovius at once became real. With the diligence of a seasoned flunkey, he stooped over, picked up the Baron’s hat, dusted it, stammered all sorts of apologies, gazed at high heaven like a martyred saint, and brushed the dirt from Eberhard’s trousers.
Seeing that he was relentless in this request, Frau von Erfft conceded it, though she had a reassuring premonition that the events and the hour would be stronger than will and purpose. On entering his mother’s boudoir, Eberhard’s eyes fell at once on the alabaster clock, the face of which was supported by three figures representing the daughters of time.
Frau Agatha endeavoured to relieve the situation of its solemnity and unnaturalness by making a few humorous remarks about Eberhard’s hiding place on the hill by the Castle. Baroness Clotilda looked at her son in anxious and uneasy suspense: “I scarcely recognise him,” she said with a hoarse voice, “he has changed so.”
She wished above everything else to quiet Clotilda and persuade her to return home. The task, owing to the weakness and instability of the Baroness, was not difficult. Sylvia remained with her aunt, and her quiet, resolute disposition had a wholesome effect upon her. In the meantime Agatha had got Eberhard’s address. After some search she found the house: Eberhard was at home.
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