Von Studmann winked at his friend as a hint to desist, but Pagel remained surprisingly calm. “Possibly,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ll get through my money all the easier.”
“So it’s something to do with women,” von Prackwitz cried angrily. “I’m no moralist, Pagel, but to be in such a drunken condition—that’s not good.”
Pagel made no reply except to fill his glass again, empty it and refill it deliberately. Prackwitz made a furious gesture, but von Studmann was not in agreement. His friend was an excellent fellow, but certainly no psychologist; he was not observant, and he always thought that everybody must feel as he did. And when things were not just as he wished them he would flare up at once.
Seeing Pagel refill his glass, Studmann was very painfully, and therefore very vividly, reminded of a certain room—No. 37. There, too, glasses had been filled and emptied in a similar manner, and he also clearly remembered a look of fear and insolence which he had observed then. He was not at all sure that Pagel, in spite of his heavy drinking, was actually drunk. Certainly, however, he didn’t like being questioned and would probably much prefer to be alone. But Studmann had no intention of allowing himself to be influenced by Pagel’s indifferent or even hostile mood. He sensed they had met the former second lieutenant in a critical situation; now, as before, they had to keep an eye on him. And von Studmann, who that afternoon had suffered a defeat, swore to himself not to fall for any tricks that night, but to throw the champagne bottle hand grenade in good time—there were many kinds of precedents for such actions.
Pagel was smoking, apparently lost in thought and not altogether conscious of the others’ presence. In an undertone Studmann informed Prackwitz of his scheme and was answered by an impatient gesture of refusal, but in the end Prackwitz agreed.
Pagel tilted the bottle over his glass, but no wine flowed forth. Avoiding their eyes, he attracted the waiter’s attention and ordered another bottle of Steinwein and a double cherry brandy.
The impatient Prackwitz started to speak, but Studmann placed an imploring hand on his knee, and the other maintained an unwilling silence.
When the waiter brought the wine Pagel asked for the bill. The charge, either because of the guest’s condition or because he had been drinking there for some hours, was heavy, indeed extortionate. Pagel pulled a wad of bank notes out, selected a few, gave them to the waiter and refused the change. The man’s unusually servile thanks gave a hint as to the size of the tip.
Again the two gentlemen exchanged glances, the one angry and the other pleading for patience. They still said nothing, however, but continued to observe Pagel, who now drew from every pocket large and small bundles of notes, piling them on top of each other. Then he took his paper serviette, wrapped it round them, searched his pockets again for a length of string, and tied the parcel up. Pushing it aside, he leaned back as after a task finished, lit a cigarette, swallowed the cherry brandy and poured out a glass of wine.
Then he looked up. His expression was remarkably gloomy and uncompromising, and his glance rested mockingly on the two friends. At once Studmann was aware that Pagel was only showing off. His drinking, his apparent indifference to them, the provocative display and wrapping up of his money—all was histrionics, performed for their benefit.
The lad is utterly wretched, though Studmann, strangely moved. Perhaps he would like to tell us about his trouble or ask our help, but he can’t get himself to do so. If only Prackwitz wouldn’t …
But the white-haired choleric Prackwitz could no longer restrain himself. “It’s rotten, Pagel,” he shouted, “the way you’re behaving with that money. You mustn’t treat money like that.”
Studmann got the impression that Pagel was pleased with this outburst, although he did not show it.
“If I may be permitted to ask a question, Herr Rittmeister,” said the young man, mouthing the words with exaggerated politeness, “how does one treat money?”
“How?” screamed the Rittmeister, the veins in his forehead swelling and his face almost purple with fury. “How does one treat money? In a proper manner, Second Lieutenant Pagel! Properly, conscientiously—as one ought to, you understand? You don’t carry it about loose in your pocket, you put it in a wallet …”
“There’s too much of it, Herr Rittmeister,” said Pagel apologetically. “No wallet would be large enough.”
“One doesn’t carry so much money about with one,” shouted the Rittmeister at white heat. Already people were looking at them from the adjoining table. “It isn’t right. It isn’t done.”
“Why not?” asked Pagel like an obedient inquiring pupil.
Studmann bit his lips so as not to burst out laughing. Von Prackwitz, however, had too little humor to understand that his leg was being pulled.
“As soon as I’ve drunk my wine I’ll try and get rid of the stuff as quickly as possible,” said Pagel apologetically. He drank, an amused boyish smile spreading over his face. He looked very much as he did on his first day in Courland, so Studmann thought—no trace of a resemblance to Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen. Taking hold of the packet of money, Pagel hesitated and then impulsively held it out to the Rittmeister. “Or would you like it, sir?”
Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz started out of his chair, his face flushing crimson. It was an insult, a deliberate insult, all the more heinous in that it came from a former second lieutenant. An officer, and particularly a Rittmeister von Prackwitz, may leave the Service, but he still retains his old conceptions and views. Studmann and Prackwitz were good friends, but the friendship originated at a time when one was a captain and the other a lieutenant; and it continued on that basis. If the first lieutenant wished to criticize the captain he had to do so while carefully observing the formalities proper between a superior officer and his subordinate. Pagel, however, was not even a friend of von Prackwitz; he had said something very unpleasant, even insulting, to his face, without preparation and without observance of the proper forms. Rittmeister von Prackwitz therefore exploded. Something dreadful might have resulted had not von Studmann laid a firm hand on the Rittmeister’s shoulder and forced him back into his chair. “He’s stupidly drunk,” he said in low tones. And sharply, to Pagel, “Apologize at once!”
The boyish smile faded slowly. Pagel looked thoughtfully at the angry Rittmeister, as if he were not quite clear as to what had happened, then at the parcel of money in his hand. His face darkened. Putting the money back again on the table near him, he reached for his glass and drank hastily.
“Apologize?” he said sullenly. “Who attaches any importance nowadays to such tomfoolery?”
“I do, Herr Pagel,” cried the Rittmeister, still very angry. “I have retained my manners, whether others consider them antiquated and foolish or not. I attach importance to this tomfoolery!”
“Let him alone, Prackwitz,” suggested von Studmann. “He’s overwrought, he’s drunk, and perhaps he intends to do something vicious.”
“I’m not interested,” cried the Rittmeister furiously. “I’ll let him alone with the greatest pleasure.”
Pagel glanced quickly at Studmann but made no reply.
Studmann bent across the table and said in a friendly way: “If you were to offer me the money, Pagel, I’d accept it.”
The Rittmeister made a gesture of extreme astonishment. Pagel, however, hastily reached for the packet of money and drew it nearer.
“I’m not going to take it away from you,” said Studmann, rather mockingly.
Pagel turned red, ashamed of himself. “What would you do with it?” he asked sullenly.