"Utterly exhausted, I sank into my chair. What was to be done now? God grant that Klaus and Anna Maria might not see each other again this evening, only this evening!
"Half an hour had passed when I heard Anna Maria's step in the hall; the door was wide open, and I could distinctly see her tall figure approach, in the faint light of the hall-lamp. She stopped at Klaus's door and knocked. I leaned forward to listen; all was still. 'Klaus!' I heard her say. No answer. Again I thought I detected a suppressed sob in her voice. 'Klaus!' she repeated once more, imploringly, pressing on the latch. She waited a minute or two, then turned away and went up-stairs again.
"'He is angry with her,' I murmured, half aloud, 'and she wants to conciliate him. My God, turn everything to good!' I put out the lights in the sitting-room and went over to Klaus's door and listened. Regular and heavy came the sound of his steps; he was there, then! 'Klaus!' I called, with an energy which frightened myself. The steps came nearer at once, the key was turned, and he opened the door directly.
"'Come in, aunt,' he bade me. I looked at him in alarm, he looked so pale, so exhausted. His hand seized mine. 'It is well that you are looking after me, aunt; something has come over me, I know not how.'
"'And now, Klaus?' I asked, letting him lead me to the sofa, which had descended from my father and still stood on the same spot as of old, under a collection of about fifty deers' antlers, all of which had been taken on the Bütze hunting-grounds, and had decorated that wall as far back as I could remember.
"He had stopped in front of me. 'And now?' he repeated, passing his hand over his forehead. 'It is a strange question, _au fond_, aunt--Susanna will be my wife. I can give you no other answer.'
"It was out! I had long known that it must come, and yet it fell on me like a blow.
"'Klaus,' I began. But he interrupted me impatiently and indignantly.
"'I know all you would say, aunt; I have said it to myself a hundred times! I know as well as you that Susanna belongs to the common class, that her mother came from doubtful antecedents. I know that Susanna is a trifling, spoiled child, who seems little suited to my seriousness. I know that I am old in comparison to her; and I know, above all, that Anna Maria will never regard her as a sister. Nevertheless, aunt, my resolve stands firm, for I love Susanna Mattoni, love her with all her childish faults, which are hardly to be called faults. I love her in her charming, trifling maidenhood; it will make me happy to be able to educate and guide her further, and the love that Anna Maria denies her I will try to make up to her.'
