The next day I went at once to Hertz.
The fever had been rather high in the night, but had now subsided, as is often the case in the morning. I only saw the servant; Mrs. Hertz was resting. I promised to call again in the evening.
I spent the day alternately reading and giving myself up to the dreams of memory. I also rang the changes on the following thoughts: "Now she has at least received my letter.… Surely there is still a train from Meissen (I got the newspaper from my landlady in order to make sure)—and she has only half a mile's drive to the station. Perhaps—yes, very likely—she will come to-night—and it's possible—yes, it is almost certain that I shall meet her at the Hertzes', she will at once hurry to them.… She will be much upset, the motherly Mrs. Hertz will treat her as being engaged, perhaps the old man is conscious, and will enjoy seeing us together. When the evening or night has advanced a little she will have to go home. I will of course accompany her,—that will be almost necessary,—and the whole thing will come right by itself, as if there had never been any Stephensen in existence."
Twice, at the hours when the post arrived, I became excited; never can a lover have been farther from wishing a letter from his sweetheart than I was on that day. But the critical times passed by without result, and after the last delivery I breathed freely.
It was quite dark in the room when I prepared to go to Hertz.
Suddenly the door opened a little: "Here's a letter for you," the girl said, and handed something white to me.
I became completely rigid with terror. At this hour? I told myself that it was impossible!
