On one point alone he remained obstinate, he would not discuss with his mother the “idiocy” of which he had been guilty and which caused their sudden journey home, and avoided all reference to the subject.  Of course his mother understood how it was; he was ashamed of his sudden excitement, and of a passion which had been only momentary, and wanted to forget it and have her forget it, too, as soon as possible.  As for the rest, he wrote regularly to his bride-elect, who responded most punctually.  Frau Regine, who considered it her special prerogative, read all this correspondence, and declared herself satisfied with it.  There was no sentiment, no declaration of affection, in these letters; they were quite practical epistles, telling of home matters in a homely fashion, but they evinced Will’s intention to keep his word and marry his cousin on the day appointed, and now near at hand.

So Willibald was told that he could go and visit his bride; the permission was granted all the more willingly because Frau Regine knew that Marietta Volkmar must have returned to the city long since.  Baron von Wallmoden and his wife had paid a flying visit to Burgsdorf on their way south from the Stahlberg factories, and Willibald was put in their care and was to spend a few days in the South-German Capital.  During those few days in which he would remain in the ambassador’s house, he was perfectly safe, his mother assured herself.

The baron found that it would be necessary to tell his nephew about his old friend at once.  On the very day of their arrival, Hartmut Rojanow’s name was mentioned several times in Willibald’s presence.  He asked promptly to whom the name belonged, and was answered, ’to a young Roumanian poet.’  An unmistakable wink from his uncle was all that saved him from further questions.

Then when they were alone the ambassador explained to Willibald who and what this Hartmut Rojanow was.  An adventurer of the lowest and worst type, whom he would soon expose and force to abandon forever the role which he was now playing with so little right, but with such signal success.

Poor Willibald shook his head in a dazed sort of way over this news.  His old friend, for whom he had always had a warm and unchanged affection, notwithstanding the episode of ten years before, was near him now, and he dare not see him again.

Wallmoden was especially sharp and explicit about this, and made his nephew promise to say nothing about the matter to Frau von Wallmoden or his uncle von Schoenau.  But poor Willibald could not understand it at all; he needed time and quiet with this as with all other things, to comprehend them fully.

The day on which “Arivana” was to be produced, came at last.  It was the work of a young and unknown poet, but the circumstances connected with its production were such that society was anxious to judge for itself of this work of the duke’s latest protege.  The theatre was crowded to overflowing, and the ducal couple with their suite were early in the court boxes.  Although no special announcement had been made, the evening was evidently looked upon as a festival occasion, and every one was attired a la grande toilette, the ladies vieing with one another in the richness and brilliancy of their dress.