“And at the end of the year,” explained Carl, “the stranger will come again, and we shall have more money. Is not that what he said?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Six months after the departure of Madame Anna with her nephew, a young man appeared suddenly in the home of old M. Andrew von Csornay. His face expressed suffering and a decision reached in a mood of despair.
Old M. Andrew had just returned from his club, in a rather melancholy frame of mind. He was either sad over the disappearance of his young wife, or because the priest had beaten him again at chess.
When the young man entered, the old man, white and trembling, sank back in his chair. The young man seized his hand and implored:
“Uncle—Dear Uncle—what shall I do to be forgiven? I am ready to do anything!”
“Where is she—the woman?”
“She—sheis not here.”
The old man drew a deep breath of relief.
“I am going to tell you the whole story,” declared Carl. “You will see then that you ought to pity me, and not take revenge upon me. I can’t tell you how I have suffered. My happiness did not last long. I lived in a veritable hell. Your wife has the face of an angel—but all the devils there are, dwell in her heart. She is the worst tempered woman I have ever known in my life. I could not stand it a day longer—I had to run away and leave her—”
“My poor nephew—I do pity you from the bottom
