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had only not dragged it out so long. He was getting bored
in this barbarous land of Norway!
He had a sneaking feeling that it might have been wiser
to have let Karen Fiol stay in Copenhagen, but he simply
could not endure the others any longer; moreover, jealousy
was a powerful ally, and Marie Grubbe had once been
jealous of Karen, that he knew.
Time passed, and still Marie Grubbe did not come. He
began to doubt that she ever would, and his love grew with
his doubt. Something of the excitement of a game or a chase
had entered into their relation. It was with an anxious mind
and with a calculating fear that he heaped upon her one
mortification after another, and he waited in suspense for
even the faintest sign that his quarry was being driven into
the right track, but nothing happened.
Ah, at last! At last something came to pass, and he was
certain that it was the sign, the very sign he had been
waiting for. One day when Karen had been more than
ordinarily impudent, Marie Grubbe took a good strong bridle rein
in her hand, walked through the house to the room where
Karen just then was taking her after-dinner nap, fastened
the door from within, and gave the dumbfounded strumpet
a good beating with the heavy strap, then went quietly back
to the western parlor, past the speechless servants who had
come running at the sound of Karen’s screams.
Ulrik Frederik was downtown when it happened. Karen
sent a messenger to him at once, but he did not hurry, and
it was late afternoon before Karen, anxiously waiting, heard
his horse in the courtyard. She ran down to meet him, but
he put her aside, quietly and firmly, and went straight up
to Marie Grubbe.
The door was ajar—then she must be out. He stuck his
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