“It was mean,” he admitted. “But there was something I had to know about you, and you would never have told me the truth. Now I know it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket. “I found this letter, this copy of a letter, in the office hidden in a book. I suppose it was yours?”
“Oh, that silly old letter!” she cried scornfully. “That’s why you’re carrying on this performance. Meier must be crazy, making a copy of it. You should have torn the thing up, instead of deceiving me so horribly.”
Pagel looked at her critically while he tore the letter into tiny pieces. “There,” he said, putting the little heap into his pocket. “I shall burn it at once. But there is at least still one copy in existence, and if this Herr Meier sends it to your father, what then?”
“Anyone could type out a thing like that!”
“Quite so! But you are confined to your room—it seems therefore that there is already a suspicion. Without the suspicion the copy would carry little weight. But with it?”
“I’ve got the original back. If I admit nothing, nothing can be proved.”
“But you might be outwitted.”
“Not me.”
“I outwitted you very quickly.”
“They’re not all as crafty as you.”
“Little Fräulein,” said Pagel with kindly admonition, “let’s agree that from now on you’ll be just as polite to me as I am to you. Let’s forget the letter which I have torn up. What I did, doesn’t seem very nice. But it was better, anyway, than if I’d gone to your mother and told tales. Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I didn’t care for that.”
“Don’t be so solemn!” she mocked. “You’ve probably also written love letters and received them.” But her mockery no longer had its old force.
“Very true,” he said calmly, “but I’ve never been a scoundrel. I’ve never yet corrupted fifteen-year-old girls. Come along,” he seized her arm, “let’s go to your mother. She’s sure to be getting worried.”
“Herr Pagel,” she said imploring, resisting. “He’s not a scoundrel.”
“Of course he is, and you know it quite well, too.”
“No,” she declared, struggling with her tears. “Why are you all so unkind to me now? Before it was different!”
“Who is unkind to you?”
“Mamma, who is eternally tormenting me, and Hubert.”
“Who is Hubert? Is Hubert his name?”
“No. Our servant, Hubert Räder.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes,” she said weeping. “Please let go my arm, Herr Pagel, you are crushing it.”
“Sorry. So the servant torments you, does he?”
“Yes.… He is so mean.”
“And who else knows?”
“No one that knows anything definite.”
“Not Bailiff Meier?”
“Oh, him! But he’s gone away!”
“Then he knows too? Who else?”
“The forester—but he doesn’t know anything definite.”
“Who else?”
“No one—really, Herr Pagel! Don’t look at me like that, I’ve told you everything. Really I have.”
“And the servant torments you? How does he torment you?”
“He is mean—he says mean things, and he puts dirty books under my pillow.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know—about marriage, with pictures.”
“Come along,” said Pagel again, seizing her arm. “Be brave. Now we shall go to your parents and tell them everything. You have fallen into the hands of scoundrels who torture you till you no longer know what to do. Your parents will understand. They are only angry with you because they feel you are lying.… Come along, Fräulein, be brave—I’m the coward of the two.” And he smiled at her.
“Please, please, dear Herr Pagel, don’t do that!” Her face was streaming with tears; she had seized his hands as if he were wanting to run away with the bad news, she caressed him … “If you tell my parents, I swear to you I’ll jump into the water. Why do you want to tell them? It’s all over, anyway.”
“It’s all over?”
“Yes, yes,” she wept. “He hasn’t come for three weeks.”
He became thoughtful. Inevitably the vanished Petra stood before his eyes. When he had felt those lips under his own, felt that body soften as it surrendered itself to the seduction of pleasure, not to the ecstasy of love—her picture had arisen, distant but clear; a face sweet and composed, greeting him from the past. Reluctantly he found himself forced to make comparisons. What would Petra have done here? Would she have said that? She would never have behaved so.…
And the sweet face, seen a thousand times, the face of the girl who had forsaken him, whom he had forsaken, triumphed over this other schoolgirl face, and seemed to admonish him to kindness. She triumphed—and this triumph of the one who had abandoned him at least warned him to be good to this new one, and not to burden her with everything. If you’ve been too hard on me, he heard in his head, don’t do the same thing again to this one.
He reflected and considered. She read his face.
“What is he?” he asked.
“A Lieutenant.”
“In the Reichswehr?”
“Yes.”
“Do your parents know him?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know for certain.”
Again he pondered. The fact that it was an officer, that is to say a man who, whatever he might be, was subject to a certain code of honor, was a little reassuring. If the young fellow had once forgotten himself and had withdrawn in fright, then to some extent it wasn’t so bad; just a momentary lapse, perhaps when he was drunk—no repetition need be feared. But he ought to find out. Could one, however, ask such a young girl whether it had only happened once, whether there had been any sequel? If it had happened several times, it was scoundrelism. Then he would have to tell her parents.
No, he did not like asking. Perhaps he would have to reproach himself afterwards, but he could not.
“You are sure it is over?”
“Quite sure!”
“You swear to that?” he asked, although he knew how useless such oaths were.
“I swear it!”
He had an uncomfortable feeling. Something was wrong; she must have lied to him somewhere. “If I am to keep quiet, you must promise me one thing. But on your word of honor.”
“Yes, of course.”
“If this man—this Lieutenant—should again approach you, you must let me know at once. Will you promise me that? Give me your hand.”
“On my word of honor!” she said, giving him her hand.
“All right, then. Let’s go. Try and find some pretext for sending your manservant Räder over to me this evening, as late as possible.”
“Fine!” she cried enthusiastically. “What will you do to him?”
“I’ll make the young fellow yelp,” he said grimly. “He won’t torment you again.”
“And if he runs to Papa?”
“We’ve got to risk that. But he won’t. I’ll put such fear into him he won’t want to. Blackmailers are always cowards.”
“Can you hear whether they are still talking in the office? Heavens, I must be looking awful. Please give me your handkerchief quickly; I must have lost mine—no, I didn’t bring one with me. I’ll never lie to you again, not even about little things. You are so nice, I’d never have thought it. If I wasn’t in love already, I’d fall in love with you on the spot.”
“That’s over, Fräulein,” said Pagel dryly. “Please don’t forget it—you swore that.”
“Why, of course.”
“All right, now let’s go and show ourselves under the window. The debate in there seems to be endless.”
IV
“Dear Lady,” Herr von Studmann had said, straightening Frau von Prackwitz’s desk chair, which he gladly granted her, “apologies for calling you. But we’re having a meeting here which you have to attend. We’re talking about money.…”