At any other time this praise would have greatly delighted me, but to-day all my thoughts were fixed on the person to whom my heart clung, and I could not shake off the idea that she was now enduring an unpleasant scene. I went up to my chamber in the tower and paced restlessly to and fro within its four walls, like a wild beast in a cage. Sometimes I went to the window and looked down into the court-yard without knowing what I expected to see there. An hour probably passed in this way, then a groom led Cousin Kasimir's horse to the foot of the steps and, directly after, he himself appeared, accompanied by the master of the house. He was very much excited, he had cocked his hat defiantly over his left eye, and was lashing his high boots violently with his riding-whip. I heard his disagreeable laugh, which now sounded angry and malignant. He shook the baron's hand and, with a wrathful smile, said a few words I did not understand, which brought a sullen look to his companion's face. Then he swung himself into the saddle, driving his spurs into the flanks of his noble horse so cruelly that it reared high in the air, and then darted like an arrow down the elm avenue with its savage rider.
I remained standing at the window a little longer; I did not know myself why I felt so strangely relieved by this speedy departure. Something decisive, something that had made the hated cousin's blood boil, had evidently occurred. And I grudged him no vexation.
The air was now pure again, and I determined to go down to the kitchen-garden in quest of information. But, while passing Uncle Joachim's open windows, I did not hear the Canoness's voice, and could nowhere find any trace of her. The peacock screamed so discontentedly as I passed him that I knew he had not received his usual Sunday dainty. But in other respects the garden was very pleasant, the beds were full of spring flowers, and the first light-green foliage was waving on all the branches in the delightful May air. At last I met my old friend Liborius.
He was sitting in his clean white sleeves on one of the farthest benches, with a tattered book in his hand, and a cigar, a luxury he allowed himself only on Sunday, between his teeth.