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Updated: June 20, 2025
"See, the white guards are still in possession." A group of soldiers with white sleeve-bands over the gray-green of their uniforms passed in an empty street. "There will be white guards at the station, too," she went on. "The attack will come to-night. It must." She looked intently at von Stinnes who, opening his eyes suddenly, whispered, "Ah, Mathilde ... there was once another München...."
He tried to divert himself by remembering definitely.... "We lay in a moon-lighted room and I whispered to her: 'You have given me wings. I held a gun and pulled the trigger as he jumped at me.... Then von Stinnes took the blame.... There's a restaurant in Kurfursten Damm where Mathilde and I.... What a night in Munich!... at the Banhoff. What do I remember most?
Later...." He was too weak to sit up. "Things will have to be straightened out," he muttered. "The fool was an American officer. There'll be trouble." "No, don't worry. Von Stinnes has fixed things." His eyes grew heavy and closed. Sleep ... and let things, fixed or unfixed, go to the devil. When he awoke again the room was lighted. Mathilde, standing by the window, turned as he stirred.
"It seems as if nothing had happened," he said, as they walked through the spring night. "People are asleep as usual, and there is an odor of summer in the dark." Von Stinnes silently directed their way. After a half-hour's walk he paused in front of an ancient-looking building. "We are in Schwabbing now," he said, "the rendezvous of the Welt Anschauers. I think this place is still open."
"There is quality as well as quantity in scoundrelism," Dorn suggested. He was thinking without emotion of Anna. "I have decided to remain in Munich," von Stinnes spoke, "and that means that I will die here." "The day's melodrama has gone to your head," Dorn laughed. "No. There are people in Munich who know me quite well too well. And among their virtues they number a desire for my death.
He led the way through a narrow court and entered a large, dimly-lighted room. Blank white walls stared at them. Von Stinnes picked out a table in a corner and ordered two flasks of wine from a stout woman with a large wooden ring of keys at her black waist. They drank in silence. Dorn observed an unusual air about his friend. He thought of Mathilde's suspicions, and smiled.
"Karl is a good fellow," he said, seating himself next to her. "And if it happens he is employed by Noske and Nickolai it doesn't alter my opinion of him." "He is a scoundrel," she answered quietly. "That is impossible," Dorn smiled. "He is merely a man without convictions and therefore free to follow his impulses and his employers. I thank God for von Stinnes. He has made Europe possible.
"You have my permission, Fräulein. The logical time for my death is long past." Mathilde's sharp young face had grown alive with excitement. She sat with her eyes unwaveringly upon the Baron as if her thought were groping desperately beneath the smiling weariness of the man. "Mr. Dorn," she spoke, "von Stinnes is a traitor." Dorn smiled.
Phrases, ironies remembered out of conversations themselves forgotten. The book was finished towards the middle of March a history of the post-war Germany; with a biography between the lines of Erik Dorn. Von Stinnes had forthwith produced two German scholars who, under his direction, accomplished the translation with astonishing speed.
"Ah, pendant la guerre, m'sieur, en Paris." "And now," Dorn mused, "you are a Spartikust." The baron was on his feet, a wine glass raised in his hand. "Es lebe die Welt Revolution," he cried, "es lebe das Rate Republik!" "What did you do in Paris, von Stinnes?" "Pigeons, my friend.
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