“Well, I never!” Starting out of his dreams and projects, he stared in surprise at the forester, who sat in his best clothes behind a glass of beer. “What are you doing in Frankfurt, Kniebusch?”
“The court case, Herr Rittmeister!” said the forester reproachfully. “My case about Bäumer.”
“Well,” nodded the Rittmeister, “I’m glad the rascal’s to be sentenced at last. What do you think he’ll get, then?”
“But, Herr Rittmeister,” declared the forester solemnly, “it’s me who’s accused. It’s me they want to sentence. I’m supposed to have done him grievous bodily harm!”
“Hasn’t that dirty business been settled yet?” The Rittmeister was amazed. “Herr von Studmann wrote nothing about it. Come and sit at my table and tell me about the case. The cart seems to have lost its way badly, but perhaps I’ve come just at the right time to pull it out of the mess.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Herr Rittmeister! I always told my wife: ‘If only the Rittmeister was here, he’d soon get me out of it.’ ” And having not ineffectually appealed to old soldierly sentiments, the forester fetched the stale dregs of his beer and poured out his heart slowly and with many lamentations. The Rittmeister listened. Then, with the same élan which had been his about the car, he threw himself into legal affairs. Nor did he refrain from some bitter reflections on how everything was neglected even by the most reliable people when he wasn’t there, and how he had to do everything himself. Pettifogging lawyers, poachers, the dollar and the Socialists were cursed, and he did not forget to make it clear to the forester that his employer was actually Geheimrat von Teschow, and that the business really had nothing whatever to do with him, von Prackwitz.
“Listen, Kniebusch,” he said finally. “Your case comes on at half-past ten, eh? Actually I have a lot to do—I’m going to buy a car, you know, and shall have to engage a chauffeur, too …”
“A car! That will please Frau von Prackwitz.”
The Rittmeister was not so sure; it was a point he preferred not to discuss. “I’ll go with you to the court and give the gentlemen there a real piece of my mind.… You may rely on it that the whole thing will be settled in ten minutes, Kniebusch; one has only to put matters in a proper light, and it’s high time that this persecution of landed property was stopped. Well, all that is going to be changed the day after tomorrow—you’ll be surprised, Kniebusch.”
The other pricked up his ears.
But the Rittmeister changed the subject. “And immediately afterwards I’ll buy the car, get a chauffeur—a good chauffeur’s a condition of purchase—and then I’ll take you to Neulohe. You can save your fare, Kniebusch.”
The forester’s thanks knew no limit; this program delighted him, and wisely he suppressed the doubt which he perhaps still entertained that his case, in spite of the Rittmeister’s intervention, might not pass off so smoothly. Herr von Prackwitz was now in a hurry. With his long legs he steered himself through the town of Frankfurt as though each step brought him nearer the car he yearned for; and a little behind trotted Kniebusch, puffing.
And thus they got to the court fifteen minutes too early. Nevertheless the Rittmeister pressed on to the courtroom indicated in the summons—where they knocked, listened, warily opened the door. The room was dirty, dreary and empty. Intercepting an usher, they showed him the summons. He looked from one to the other.…
“Is it you?” he asked the Rittmeister.
“Good heavens, no!” The Rittmeister did not at all like this, however readily he might be espousing the case.
“Oh, you then! Well, just wait a little! It’ll take a little time yet. Your case will be called.”
Sighing, the Rittmeister sat down with the forester on one of those benches where, perhaps because of their construction, perhaps because of the situation, no person can keep still. The corridor was dingy and deserted. People kept coming; their steps, however softly they trod, reverberated from stone walls and floor and ceiling. In the gray light they peered short-sightedly at the numbers on the doors, made up their minds to knock, and listened a long while before they entered.
Angrily the Rittmeister stared at a notice on the wall opposite, announcing “No Smoking. No Spitting.” Underneath was a spittoon. He might now have been running around Frankfurt acquiring a magnificent car and going for a trial drive, instead of sitting in this dreary corridor out of pure good nature. The affair had really nothing to do with him at all.
“What a time it’s taking!” he cried angrily, although it was no more than twenty-five minutes past ten.
The forester perceived the restlessness of a companion whom it was so very important to retain. Moreover he had been meditating on what the Rittmeister had alluded to.
“The weapons are still in the Black Dale,” he said discreetly.
“Shush …” went the Rittmeister, so loudly that some one at the far end of the corridor started, and turned inquiringly. Waiting till the man had disappeared into a room, he asked in a low voice: “How do you know about that, Kniebusch?”
“I had another look yesterday afternoon,” whispered the ever-inquisitive forester. “One likes to know what is happening in one’s own wood, Herr Rittmeister!”
“Oh,” said the Rittmeister importantly. “And if they are still there today, tomorrow they won’t be.”
The forester pondered. The Rittmeister had used the word “tomorrow” twice already.
“Are you buying a car because of that, sir?” he asked cautiously.
The Rittmeister had traveled in an express train with an important man, the leader of a Putsch; he had brand-new information. It was very irritating, then, for the forester to presume to know as much as he himself did.
“But what do you know about this business, Herr Kniebusch?” he asked ill-humoredly.
“Oh, nothing at all, Herr Rittmeister,” replied the forester apologetically, aware that he had blundered somehow, and not wishing to admit that he was fully in the secret until he knew which way the wind was blowing. People in the village talked such a lot, however. They had been saying a long time that something was going to happen soon, but no one knew anything about the day or hour. Only the Rittmeister knew that!
“I have said nothing,” declared the Rittmeister, who nevertheless felt flattered. “How have the villagers got hold of such an idea?”
“Oh … I don’t know whether I ought to talk about it.”
“You can with me.”
“Well, there’s this Lieutenant.… You know him too, Herr Rittmeister, the one who was so rude to you.… He’s been in the village a few times and spoken to the people.”
“Oh!” The Rittmeister was annoyed that the Lieutenant had spoken with the villagers and no doubt also with the forester, but not with him. He did not want to show this, however. “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Kniebusch, that I have just come from Berlin with this Lieutenant.”
“From Berlin!”
“You’re not very quick on the uptake, Kniebusch,” said the Rittmeister condescendingly. “You didn’t even see that this rudeness had been agreed upon because we weren’t safe from eavesdroppers.…”
“No!” The forester was overwhelmed.
“Yes, my dear Kniebusch,” declared the Rittmeister conclusively. “And since you’ll hear about it tomorrow, I may as well reveal to you that the day after there’s an old comrades’ meeting at Ostade at six in the morning.”
“That’s what I always say,” muttered the forester. “Our troubles will never come to an end.”
“But you must give me your word of honor on the spot that you won’t tell a soul.”
“Of course, Herr Rittmeister, my word of honor. How could I?”