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140 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
really have been foreign to liis character—and is it not a
well-known fact that no one likes to admit having been
duped ?
It was six o’clock at night. I was pacing the large hall
of the Central Station. The train for Copenhagen would
leave at six-fifteen, and neither the Baron nor the Baroness
liad appeared.
I felt like tlie spectator of the last act of a terrible
tragedy, I was longing wildly for the end. Another
quarter of an hour and tliere would be peace. My nerves,
disordered by these successive crises, required rest, and
tlie coming night would i-estore some of the nerve force
which I had used up and squandered for the love of a
woman.
She arrived at the last moment, in a cab, drawn by a
mare which the driver Avas leading by the bridle.
Always careless and always too late !
She rushed towards me like a lunatic.
’’The traitor! He has broken his word! He’s not
coming !
’ ’
she exclaimed so loudly that she attracted the
attention of the passers-by.
It was certainly unfortunate, but I could not help
respecting him for it.
" He’s quite right. He has common-sense on his side,"
I said, seized with a spirit of contradiction.
"Be quick! Take a ticket for Copenhagen, or I shall
stay here! " she ordered.
"No ! If I went with you it would look like an elope-
ment. All Stockholm would talk about it to-morrow."
"I don’t care. . . . Make haste !
"
"No! I won’t!"
But I could not help pitying her at the moment, and the
situation was becoming unbearable. A quarrel, a lover’s
quarrel was inevitable.
She knew it instinctively, and, seizing my hands, she
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