“Keep it for you—till you felt better.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t need money anymore.”
“Exactly what I supposed,” agreed the Oberleutnant calmly. “How was it that you, too, suffered shipwreck six hours ago, Pagel?” he inquired with an exaggerated indifference.
This time the young man went completely crimson. With an almost painful slowness the flush, starting from his cheeks, spread over his whole face. It crept under the high and creased collar of his tunic, and went up into the roots of his hair. Suddenly one could see how very young he was, how terribly he suffered under his embarrassment. Even the angry Rittmeister looked at him with new eyes. Pagel, however, annoyed at his very obvious confusion, asked defiantly: “Who told you that I had suffered shipwreck, Herr von Studmann?”
“I understood you so, Pagel.”
“Then you’ve misunderstood me. I—” But Pagel broke off, dissatisfied with himself, his blush having betrayed him completely.
“Of course you’re not doing well, Pagel,” said von Studmann mildly. “We can see that, the Rittmeister as well as myself. You’re not an habitual drunkard. You’re drinking for a definite reason, because something’s gone wrong, because—oh, you understand me quite well, Pagel.”
Pagel tilted his wineglass. His bearing was less tense, but he made no reply.
“Why don’t you want us to help you?” Studmann asked. “I let the Rittmeister help me this afternoon without any hesitation. I, too, had a very unpleasant upset.…” He smiled at the remembrance of his fall. He had no actual recollection of it, but Prackwitz had described, very caustically, how he had rolled downstairs in the hotel. Studmann was clear that his case was different from Pagel’s—albeit only physically.
“Perhaps we could advise you,” he continued persuasively. “It would be better still if we could help you in a practical way. When we were advancing on Tetelmünde you fell down with the machine gun and you didn’t hesitate for a moment to accept my help. Why can’t what held good in Courland hold good also in Berlin?”
“Because,” said Pagel morosely, “we were fighting for a cause. Today everybody fights for himself—and against everybody else.”
“Once a comrade always a comrade,” said von Studmann. “You remember, Pagel, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Pagel bent his head as if he were deliberating, watched expectantly by the other two. Then he lifted his head. “I could say a good deal against it,” he said with his clumsy yet distinct articulation. “But I don’t want to. I’m terribly tired. Could I meet you somewhere tomorrow morning?”
In a few words the two friends reached an understanding. “We are leaving Schlesische Bahnhof for Ostade shortly after eight tomorrow morning,” said von Studmann.
“Good,” said Pagel. “I’ll also be at the station, perhaps.”
He stared into space as if everything had been settled. He put no questions: it did not seem to interest him why they were leaving, where they were going, or what was to happen.
The Rittmeister shrugged his shoulders, dissatisfied with this half-promise. But Studmann persisted. “That’s something, Pagel. But not entirely what we would like. You’ve something on your mind; you spoke just now about getting rid of your money.”
“Affairs with women,” muttered the Rittmeister.
“It’ll soon be midnight. Between now and tomorrow morning at eight o’clock you’ve got something on hand, Pagel, the result of which appears so uncertain that you can’t give us a firm promise and also don’t want us with you.”
“Wretched women,” muttered the Rittmeister.
“I differ from Prackwitz,” said Studmann, noticing that Pagel was about to reply. “I don’t believe that some dubious affair with a woman is behind it. You’re not the kind of man for that.” Pagel lowered his head, but the Rittmeister snorted. “I should be grateful, we should be grateful, if you would allow us to spend the next few hours with you.”
“It’s nothing special,” said Pagel, now won over by the other’s tactful insistence. “I only want to make a test.”
The former lieutenant smiled. “A challenge to Fate, Pagel?” he said. “The former Second Lieutenant Pagel submits to God’s judgment! Oh, how enviably young you still are!”
“I don’t consider myself so enviable,” growled Pagel.
“Of course not, and you’re quite right,” agreed Studmann hastily. “So long as one is young one regards Youth as a misfortune. Only later does one discover that Youth is happiness. Well, how about it? Are we coming with you?”
“You won’t prevent me from doing what I want to do?”
“No, of course not. You must behave as if we aren’t present.”
“And the Rittmeister agrees?”
Rittmeister von Prackwitz muttered something, but it was enough for Pagel.
“All right, come with me if you like.” He cheered up a little. “It might perhaps interest you. It’s—well, you’ll see. Let’s go by taxi.”
They set off.
Chapter Seven
Full Moon on an Oppressive Night
I
Amanda Backs stood panting among the bushes.
“Well, Herr Meier, what a strange voice you’ve got. You’re bleating like a woman,” squeaked the Geheimrat in his thin old voice.
Black Meier’s head popped out of the window. “Herr Geheimrat,” he explained, “that’s only because I was awakened suddenly. When I’m asleep I’ve always got a high-pitched voice.”
“It’s all the same to me,” said the old man. “I only hope, when you get married, your wife believes in this high-pitched voice! I’ve got a letter here, Herr Meier.”
“Very good, Herr Geheimrat, I’ll deliver it.”
“Now don’t be in such a hurry, young man. You shall get back to your bed in a minute. This letter is for my son-in-law.”
“Certainly, Herr Geheimrat. I’ll give it to him tomorrow morning as soon as he arrives from the station.”
“No, that won’t do. His wife will be present. This is a business matter, you understand?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat. So I’ll give it to him …”
“Wait a moment, young man. Never mind about the bed creaking. I expect it’s getting bored, eh?”
“Yes, Herr Geheimrat.”
“Well now! And you won’t catch a cold at the open window; you’re used to draughts. By the way, do you always sleep without a nightshirt?”
“Herr Geheimrat, I …”
“Better stick to ‘Yes, Herr Geheimrat’—that’s safer, isn’t it? You think I can’t see in the dark. I can see as well as an old tom-cat.”
“It was so hot, Herr Geheimrat—you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course I’ll excuse you, my son. I quite understand that you’re feeling hot, not having brought in the crops and having a drop too much afterwards—yes, you’d certainly feel hot.”
“Herr Geheimrat!”
“Well, what can I do for you? Do you know, my son, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get Elias to take the letter. I’m inclined to think you’ll have too much on your mind tomorrow.”
“Herr Geheimrat!” (Pleadingly.)
“Well, good night, Herr Meier, and do put on a nightshirt. I believe I saw Amanda in the park.”
The old man shuffled off. In the bushes, her heart thudding, stood Amanda. She had always known that her Hans was not worth much and was always running after every skirt; but she had thought that she could keep him straight if she was always there when he needed her.… But, nothing doing, no such luck!
Little Meier still leaned out of the window. Once more he had pleaded “Herr Geheimrat!” as if the old man could be of any help, and as if having the letter entrusted to him would have altered anything.… From where she stood Amanda could plainly see him hanging out of the window. He was so stupid. Why did she always take up with such silly, spineless fellows who were no good at all? She didn’t understand it. It made her miserable.