Wolf Among Wolves (76 page)

“Fräulein, may I ask you something?”

Ungraciously: “Well, what is it?—hero!”

“But you mustn’t be angry with me.”

“What is the question?”

“Sure you won’t?”

Very impatiently: “No! What’s the question?”

“Well—how old are you, Fräulein?”

“You idiot! Sixteen.”

“You see, you are angry—and I’m just beginning my questions.”

Stamping her foot: “Well, get on with them—you weakling!”

“You’re sure you won’t be angry?”

“Ask your questions!”

“Fräulein—have you ever kissed a man?”

“I?” She pondered. “Of course. Hundreds of times.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Thousands of times!”

“You’re joking!”

“It’s true. My Papa!” And she burst into a peal of laughter.

“There you are!” said Pagel when she had finally quieted down. “You haven’t the courage either.”

Vi was indignant. “I haven’t got the courage?”

“No, you’re just as afraid as I am.”

“Well, I have kissed a man. And not just Papa. A young man, a brave man”—her voice almost sang now—“not a weakling like you.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true, it’s true. He’s even got a mustache, a little fair one, it prickles. And you haven’t got one!”

“I see,” said Pagel, crestfallen. “And you’re really only sixteen, Fräulein?”

“I’m only fifteen, even,” she declared in triumph.

“I say, but you have got courage,” he said admiringly. “I could never be as brave as that. But, of course, you have never
kissed
a man. You only let yourself
be
kissed. That is quite different. To get hold of a man’s head and smother him with kisses—you couldn’t do that.”

“I couldn’t do that?” she cried with blazing eyes. “What do you think of me, then?”

He lowered his glance before hers. “Please, Fräulein! I haven’t said anything. Of course you could do it, I believe you. Please, don’t …” But he pleaded in vain. Her flaming eyes, her half-opened mouth, came closer to him, although he tried to retreat. Her mouth laid itself on his.…

And she felt a change come over him, as if her lips had given strength to him. She felt herself crushed in his arms, his lips returned her kiss.… Now she wanted to draw away, now she was afraid.… But the kiss of those lips grew hotter and hotter; she wanted to resist, and she felt herself yielding. Her head, which had been proudly erect, gave way, nestled.… Her back became soft, she hung in his arms.… “Oh!” she sighed and sank into the ecstasy she had missed for so long. “Oh, you …”

But his arms ceased to hold her. His face was again far away; it looked serious, no longer wearing the smile.

“Well, Fräulein, that was that!” he said calmly. “Anyone as weak as you shouldn’t play with men.”

“You are mean!” she cried with flaming cheeks, partly from anger and partly from shame. “A gentleman wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“It was mean,” he admitted. “But there was something I had to know about you, and you would never have told me the truth. Now I know it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket. “I found this letter, this copy of a letter, in the office hidden in a book. I suppose it was yours?”

“Oh, that silly old letter!” she cried scornfully. “That’s why you’re carrying on this performance. Meier must be crazy, making a copy of it. You should have torn the thing up, instead of deceiving me so horribly.”

Pagel looked at her critically while he tore the letter into tiny pieces. “There,” he said, putting the little heap into his pocket. “I shall burn it at once. But there is at least still
one
copy in existence, and if this Herr Meier sends it to your father, what then?”

“Anyone could type out a thing like that!”

“Quite so! But you are confined to your room—it seems therefore that there is already a suspicion. Without the suspicion the copy would carry little weight. But with it?”

“I’ve got the original back. If I admit nothing, nothing can be proved.”

“But you might be outwitted.”

“Not me.”

“I outwitted you very quickly.”

“They’re not all as crafty as you.”

“Little Fräulein,” said Pagel with kindly admonition, “let’s agree that from now on you’ll be just as polite to me as I am to you. Let’s forget the letter which I have torn up. What I did, doesn’t seem very nice. But it was better, anyway, than if I’d gone to your mother and told tales. Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I didn’t care for that.”

“Don’t be so solemn!” she mocked. “You’ve probably also written love letters and received them.” But her mockery no longer had its old force.

“Very true,” he said calmly, “but I’ve never been a scoundrel. I’ve never yet corrupted fifteen-year-old girls. Come along,” he seized her arm, “let’s go to your mother. She’s sure to be getting worried.”

“Herr Pagel,” she said imploring, resisting. “He’s not a scoundrel.”

“Of course he is, and you know it quite well, too.”

“No,” she declared, struggling with her tears. “Why are you all so unkind to me now? Before it was different!”

“Who is unkind to you?”

“Mamma, who is eternally tormenting me, and Hubert.”

“Who is Hubert? Is
Hubert
his name?”

“No. Our servant, Hubert Räder.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes,” she said weeping. “Please let go my arm, Herr Pagel, you are crushing it.”

“Sorry. So the servant torments you, does he?”

“Yes.… He is so mean.”

“And who else knows?”

“No one that knows anything definite.”

“Not Bailiff Meier?”

“Oh, him! But he’s gone away!”

“Then he knows too? Who else?”

“The forester—but he doesn’t know anything definite.”

“Who else?”

“No one—really, Herr Pagel! Don’t look at me like that, I’ve told you everything. Really I have.”

“And the servant torments you? How does he torment you?”

“He is mean—he says mean things, and he puts dirty books under my pillow.”

“What sort of books?”

“I don’t know—about marriage, with pictures.”

“Come along,” said Pagel again, seizing her arm. “Be brave. Now we shall go to your parents and tell them everything. You have fallen into the hands of scoundrels who torture you till you no longer know what to do. Your parents will understand. They are only angry with you because they feel you are lying.… Come along, Fräulein, be brave—I’m the coward of the two.” And he smiled at her.

“Please, please, dear Herr Pagel, don’t do that!” Her face was streaming with tears; she had seized his hands as if he were wanting to run away with the bad news, she caressed him … “If you tell my parents, I swear to you I’ll jump into the water. Why do you want to tell them? It’s all over, anyway.”

“It’s all over?”

“Yes, yes,” she wept. “He hasn’t come for three weeks.”

He became thoughtful. Inevitably the vanished Petra stood before his eyes. When he had felt those lips under his own, felt that body soften as it surrendered itself to the seduction of pleasure, not to the ecstasy of love—her picture had arisen, distant but clear; a face sweet and composed, greeting him from the past. Reluctantly he found himself forced to make comparisons. What would Petra have done here? Would she have said that? She would never have behaved so.…

And the sweet face, seen a thousand times, the face of the girl who had forsaken him, whom he had forsaken, triumphed over this other schoolgirl face, and seemed to admonish him to kindness. She triumphed—and this triumph of the one who had abandoned him at least warned him to be good to this new one, and not to burden her with everything. If you’ve been too hard on me, he heard in his head, don’t do the same thing again to this one.

He reflected and considered. She read his face.

“What is he?” he asked.

“A Lieutenant.”

“In the Reichswehr?”

“Yes.”

“Do your parents know him?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know for certain.”

Again he pondered. The fact that it was an officer, that is to say a man who, whatever he might be, was subject to a certain code of honor, was a little reassuring. If the young fellow had once forgotten himself and had withdrawn in fright, then to some extent it wasn’t so bad; just a momentary lapse, perhaps when he was drunk—no repetition need be feared. But he ought to find out. Could one, however, ask such a young girl whether it had only happened once, whether there had been any sequel? If it had happened several times, it was scoundrelism. Then he would have to tell her parents.

No, he did not like asking. Perhaps he would have to reproach himself afterwards, but he could not.

“You are sure it is over?”

“Quite sure!”

“You swear to that?” he asked, although he knew how useless such oaths were.

“I swear it!”

He had an uncomfortable feeling. Something was wrong; she must have lied to him somewhere. “If I am to keep quiet, you must promise me one thing. But on your word of honor.”

“Yes, of course.”

“If this man—this Lieutenant—should again approach you, you must let me know at once. Will you promise me that? Give me your hand.”

“On my word of honor!” she said, giving him her hand.

“All right, then. Let’s go. Try and find some pretext for sending your manservant Räder over to me this evening, as late as possible.”

“Fine!” she cried enthusiastically. “What will you do to him?”

“I’ll make the young fellow yelp,” he said grimly. “He won’t torment you again.”

“And if he runs to Papa?”

“We’ve got to risk that. But he won’t. I’ll put such fear into him he won’t want to. Blackmailers are always cowards.”

“Can you hear whether they are still talking in the office? Heavens, I must be looking awful. Please give me your handkerchief quickly; I must have lost mine—no, I didn’t bring one with me. I’ll never lie to you again, not even about little things. You are so nice, I’d never have thought it. If I wasn’t in love already, I’d fall in love with you on the spot.”

“That’s over, Fräulein,” said Pagel dryly. “Please don’t forget it—you swore that.”

“Why, of course.”

“All right, now let’s go and show ourselves under the window. The debate in there seems to be endless.”

IV

“Dear Lady,” Herr von Studmann had said, straightening Frau von Prackwitz’s desk chair, which he gladly granted her, “apologies for calling you. But we’re having a meeting here which you have to attend. We’re talking about money.…”

“Really?” said Frau Eva, examining herself in the shaving mirror. “Of course, that’s quite a new topic for me! Achim discusses it at least every day.”

“Eva, please!” cried the Rittmeister.

“And why does my friend Prackwitz speak of money every day? Because he hasn’t any. Because the smallest bill upsets him. Because the rent due on the first of October weighs on him like a nightmare. Because he is always wondering if he will be able to pay it.”

“Quite right, Studmann, I’m worried. I’m a prudent businessman.”

“Let’s examine your financial position. You have no capital; current expenses are paid from current income—that is to say, by sales of cattle, of early potatoes, the harvest.… You have no capital reserves.…” Studmann rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Frau von Prackwitz gazed at herself in the mirror. The bored Rittmeister leaned against the stove, hoping that Studman (this eternal nursemaid) would at least have sufficient tact not to talk of his gambling debts.

“Then comes the first of October,” went on Studmann. “On that date the annual rent has to be handed over in cash to Geheimrat von Teschow. This, as you ought to know, is equivalent to three thousand hundredweights of rye, and as far as I’ve been able to find out, the price is round about seven or eight gold marks a hundredweight, which would mean a sum of twenty-five thousand gold marks, not to be expressed in milliards—if only because we don’t know what the price of rye will be in paper marks on the first of October.” Von Studmann gazed at his victims, but they were not yet aware of the significance of his words.

“I’m very much obliged to you, Studmann, for bothering with all these things. But, if you’ll pardon me, we know them. The rent is somewhat high, but I’ve got a very nice crop standing in the fields, and now that I’m getting reapers—”

“Excuse me, Prackwitz, you don’t see the problem. On October the first you’ve got to give Herr von Teschow the value of three thousand hundredweights of rye. Since the gold mark is a fictitious standard, the price of rye in paper marks—”

“I understand all that, my dear Studmann, I know that.”

“But,” continued the inexorable Studmann, “you can’t deliver three thousand hundredweights of rye to the dealer in one day. Judging by your books, you require about fourteen days for that. Now suppose you deliver three hundredweights of rye on September the twentieth. The dealer, let us say, will give you three hundred milliards for it. You put the three hundred milliards in your safe ready for payment on October the first. In the period between September the twentieth and thirtieth the mark continues to fall. On September the thirtieth you’ll get from the dealer, let us say, six hundred milliards for the three hundred hundredweights. Then the three hundred milliards in your safe will only represent the value of one hundred and fifty hundredweights. You would have to deliver another one hundred and fifty hundredweights.… That’s clear, isn’t it?”

“Just a minute,” said the Rittmeister, perplexed. “How was that? Three hundred hundredweights are suddenly only one hundred and fifty?”

“Herr von Studmann is quite right,” asserted Frau von Prackwitz. “But it’s terrible. No one can afford that.”

“It’s a fourteen-day race with inflation,” said Studmann. “And it will exhaust us.”

“But the inflation won’t necessarily keep on like this!” exclaimed the Rittmeister indignantly.

“No, of course not. But one can’t tell. It depends on so much: on the French in the Ruhr, on the firmness of the present government, which wants to continue the Ruhr struggle at all costs and so needs more and more money, on the attitude of England and Italy, who still oppose France’s action. That is to say, on thousands of things we can’t influence—yet we have to pay on October the first whatever happens.”