However, he had been spared this crowning addition to the burden of his discomfort, and he breathed more freely.  But the episode had served to rend the last remaining veil that hung before his moral eye.  That the situation should seem so unbearable, that he was so sensitive to the opinion of others, that his blood had run cold at Pilar’s news, that he had felt the disappointment of her hopes as a relief, that the idea that the danger might recur should fill him with terror—­this all pointed to one fact, the realization of which forced itself upon him with inexorable persistency; he did not love Pilar, or at any rate he did not love her sufficiently—­not enough to take her finally into his life, and, possessing her, to forget himself and all the world beside.

In the midst of his torturing efforts to come to some conclusion he noticed that Auguste, who had come to his room with a letter, lingered about in an undecided manner, as if he had something to say but did not know exactly how to say it.

“What is it?” asked Wilhelm, coming to his assistance.

He liked Auguste, for he was always civil and attentive to him, whereas the hostility of the rest of the servants was easily discerned in spite of their forced show of servility.

“Monsieur le Docteur must excuse me,” said the man, “but I really can’t listen to it any longer and keep quiet.  The lady’s maid never stops saying the most scandalous things about monsieur.  She says it is not true that monsieur is a celebrated doctor and a member of Parliament, and that they are not going to make him President of the German Republic.”

“Who has been trying to impose upon you with such stories?”

“But Madamela Comtess tells everybody so, and all the world knows it.  I have long wanted to ask monsieur for something against the rheumatism in my left shoulder, but did not like to because madame says monsieur may not practice here.”

What object could Pilar have in inventing these fables?

As he remained silent Auguste resumed: 

“Monsieur may trust me, I am discreet, and I always defend him against Anne, who is spiteful as a cat.  She says monsieur is a Prussian spy and a fortune-hunter, and is simply preying upon madame.  And she calls monsieur something still worse, which I would not like to repeat.  It is a shame, for monsieur has never done her any harm, and it would not be quite so bad if she only let out her vile temper before us, but she slanders monsieur to outsiders and gives him a dreadfully bad name.”

“I am sorry that you should retail such gossip to me,” said Wilhelm, making a great effort to appear unmoved.

“I considered it my duty, as an honest man.  I am not saying more than the truth about the maid, and am perfectly ready to repeat it all to her face.  Madame la Comtesse is really wrong in keeping the viper.  There are plenty of respectable and handy young women who would think themselves lucky to be taken into madame’s service.  I have a cousin, for instance, who has been in the best houses—­Anne couldn’t hold a candle to her; if monsieur would recommend her to Madame la Comtesse—­”