"What is the matter?" asks Ferdinand in his dream.

"Goslawski's arm has been torn off," answers a low voice.

"Is that the man with the pretty wife?"

"How sharp he is!" says the same low voice.

"Sharp? Who is sharp?" says Ferdinand to himself, turning round on the sofa, away from the scene. But the phantoms do not vanish; he again sees the crowd of men round the stretcher, and the wounded man, his arm in blood-soaked wrappings laid on his chest. He can even see the foreshortening of the shadows on the road.

"How the man suffers!" whispers Ferdinand. "And he must die--must die!" He has the sensation of being the man on the stretcher, tortured with pain, his arm shattered, and of seeing his own face in the cold, cruel moonlight.

Whatever had happened? Champagne had never had this effect on him before. Something entirely new was overpowering, oppressing him--tearing his heart--boring into his brain; he felt as if he must shout, run away, hide somewhere.

Ferdinand jumped up. Dusk was filling the room.

"What the devil! I seem to be afraid ... afraid!... I?..."

With difficulty he found the matches, scattered them on the floor, picked one up, struck it--it went out--struck another, and lighted the candle.

He looked at himself in the gla.s.s; his face was ashen, and there were dark circles round his eyes; his pupils were much enlarged.

"Am I afraid?" he repeated.

The candle was trembling in his hand.

"If the pistol is going to jump like that to-morrow, I shall be in a nice mess!" he thought.

He looked out of the window. There was Zapora, still sitting at his desk on the ground floor across the street, writing quietly and evenly. The sight made Ferdinand shake off his nervousness. His vivacious temperament got the better of the phantoms.

"Go on writing, my dear, and I will put the full-stop to it!"

Steps approached in the corridor, and there was a knock at the door.

"Get up, Ferdinand, we are ready for the bout!" called a familiar voice.

Ferdinand was himself again. If he had had to jump into a precipice bristling with bayonets, he would not have flinched. When he opened the door to his friend he greeted him with a hearty laugh. He laughed at his momentary nervousness, at the phantoms, at the question: "Am I afraid?"

No, he was not afraid. He felt again the strength of a lion and the reckless courage of youth, which fears no danger and has no limits.

The carouse went on till break of day. The windows of the hotel shook with the laughter and noise, and the cellars ran empty, so that wine had to be fetched from elsewhere....

At six o'clock four carriages left the town.

CHAPTER VII

For several days heavy bales of cotton had been pouring into the factory. Adler, expecting a rise in the prices of raw material, had invested all his available money in the buying up of large quant.i.ties.

Only part of it had so far been delivered.

His calculations had not deceived him; a few days after the contract was signed the prices rose, and they were still rising. Adler declined the most advantageous offers for re-sale. He rubbed his hands with pleasure. This was the best stroke of business he had done for a long time, and he foresaw that, long before all his raw material had been made up, his capital would have been trebled.

"I shall have finished with the mill soon," he said to himself.

It was a strange thing--from the moment that he saw the goal of his wishes definitely before him, a hitherto unknown la.s.situde took possession of him. He was tired of the mill, and vaguely longed for other things. Sometimes he begged his son not to go out so much, to stay at home and talk to him of his travels. More and more often he would slip over to Pastor Boehme for a talk.

"I am tired out," he said to him. "Goslawski's death and the riots in the factory stick in my throat like bones. Do you know that sometimes I even find myself envying your way of living. But that's all nonsense; it shows I am getting old."

And as Goslawski, on whose grave the earth was still fresh, had counted the days, so the old mill-owner now counted the months of his stay at the mill.

"By next July I ought to have made up all the cotton. In June I must announce the sale of the mill; in August at the latest they must pay up, for I don't give credit. In September I shall be free. I won't say anything to Ferdinand until the last moment. How pleased he will be!

Then I shall invest the money and live on the interest; for the rascal would run through it in a few years' time, and then I should have to go and be foreman somewhere."

His love for Ferdinand grew stronger and stronger, and he excused his obvious neglect of his father.

"Why should I force the boy to work at the mill, when I am sick of it myself? And why should he care if I am longing for his company? He must have young people to amuse himself with; and my amus.e.m.e.nt is--work!"

On the day following the fair the old mill-owner was, as usual, making the round of all the workshops and offices. Many of his employs had been in the town, and there was much gossip about the joke Ferdinand had played upon the neighbourhood. It was said that he had bought up all the dinners at the hotel, and that every n.o.bleman had to bow to him before he could obtain anything to eat or to drink. At first Adler laughed, but when he had reckoned up what this joke was likely to cost him his face became sullen.

The vanloads of raw cotton were standing in the courtyard, and were being unloaded by extra hands. Adler looked on for a while, and then proceeded on his round of inspection, giving strict orders that no one was to smoke anywhere. When he turned into his office, he saw two women talking excitedly to the porter; seeing Adler, they ran away.

But he paid no attention to them.

A clerk, looking strangely unnerved, came running out of the office; the book-keeper, the cashier and his a.s.sistant, were talking together in one corner of the room with obvious signs of excitement. At the sight of their chief they quickly returned to their desks, bending low over their books. Even this roused no suspicion in Adler. They had probably been at the fair and were discussing scandal of some sort.

In his private office Adler found himself face to face with a stranger. The man was impatient and restless. He was pacing quickly up and down the room. When the mill-owner entered, he stood still and asked, in an embarra.s.sed tone:

"Pan Adler?"

"Yes; do you wish to see me?"

For a while the man was silent. His mouth twitched. The mill-owner looked at him searchingly, trying to guess who he was and what he wanted. He did not look like a candidate for a post at the mill, but rather like a rich young gentleman.

"I have an important affair to discuss with you," he said at last.

"Perhaps you would rather speak to me at my own house?" said Adler, realizing that with such an excited person it might be better to talk out of earshot of the clerks. He might have some claim on him.

The stranger hesitated for a moment, and then spoke quickly:

"All right; let us go to the house. I have been there already."

"Were you looking for me?"

"Yes; because--you see, Pan Adler, we have taken Ferdinand there."

The thought of a calamity of any kind was so far from Adler that he asked quite cheerfully:

"Was Ferdinand so drunk that you had to bring him home?"

"He is wounded," replied the stranger.