Another door on the left led into Charlotte’s sleeping-room.  He heard her voice, and listened.  She was speaking to her maid.  “Is Ottilie in bed?” she asked.  “No,” was the answer; “she is sitting writing in the room below.”  “You may light the night-lamp,” said Charlotte; “I shall not want you any more.  It is late.  I can put out the candle, and do whatever I may want else myself.”

It was a delight to Edward to hear that Ottilie was writing still.  She is working for me, he thought triumphantly.  Through the darkness, he fancied he could see her sitting all alone at her desk.  He thought he would go to her, and see her; and how she would turn to receive him.  He felt a longing, which he could not resist, to be near her once more.  But, from where he was, there was no way to the apartments which she occupied.  He now found himself immediately at his wife’s door.  A singular change of feeling came over him.  He tried the handle, but the bolts were shot.  He knocked gently.  Charlotte did not hear him.  She was walking rapidly up and down in the large dressing-room adjoining.  She was repeating over and over what, since the Count’s unexpected proposal, she had often enough had to say to herself.  The Captain seemed to stand before her.  At home, and everywhere, he had become her all in all.  And now he was to go; and it was all to be desolate again.  She repeated whatever wise things one can say to oneself; she even anticipated, as people so often do, the wretched comfort that time would come at last to her relief; and then she cursed the time which would have to pass before it could lighten her sufferings—­she cursed the dead, cold time when they would be lightened.  At last she burst into tears; they were the more welcome, since tears with her were rare.  She flung herself on the sofa, and gave herself up unreservedly to her sufferings.  Edward, meanwhile, could not take himself from the door.  He knocked again; and a third time rather louder; so that Charlotte, in the stillness of the night, distinctly heard it, and started up in fright.  Her first thought was—­it can only be, it must be, the Captain; her second, that it was impossible.  She thought she must have been deceived.  But surely she had heard it; and she wished, and she feared to have heard it.  She went into her sleeping-room, and walked lightly up to the bolted tapestry-door.  She blamed herself for her fears.  “Possibly it may be the Baroness wanting something,” she said to herself; and she called out quietly and calmly, “Is anybody there?” A light voice answered, “It is I.”  “Who?” returned Charlotte, not being able to make out the voice.  She thought she saw the Captain’s figure standing at the door.  In a rather louder tone, she heard the word “Edward!” She drew back the bolt, and her husband stood before her.  He greeted her with some light jest.  She was unable to reply in the same tone.  He complicated the mysterious visit by his mysterious explanation of it.