There were no more storms after this, and peace reigned in the tightly-crammed flat in the Lutzowstrasse, but it was peace which concealed a great deal of grumbling and sulkiness.  Marker very seldom spoke, and his obstinate silence was made easy for him, for the women at last hardly ever spoke to him.  Every week he had a certain sum given him for pocket-money; Frau Brohl paid his tailor’s and bootmaker’s bills, and he was treated in fact as if he had done with this world.  His business was to take the little Malvine to school and fetch her home again, and on the way he grumbled incessantly to the child about her mother and grandmother.  The former he called “she,” and the latter “the old lady.”  He never mentioned their names.  Malvine had noticed that at home they never spoke to her father; in her childish way she imitated this contemptuous silence.  The only bright spot in his existence was a visit to some old business friends, where he unburdened his overflowing heart, and complained by the hour together of the tyrants in his house, who trod him under-foot, and ill-treated him now that he was unfortunate.  He was the victim of two silly women, but he would show them one day of what he was capable.  “She” and “the old lady” were too stupid to understand him, but he hoped he would not die until he had seen them on their knees before him.  In this way he ceaselessly kept up the smouldering rage within him; his face became more and more yellow, he grew thinner, he lost his appetite, he looked as if he were suffering from some dreadful malady.  He said nothing, however, about his health, but seemed to find a comforting satisfaction in the reflection that “she” and “the old lady” would one day be surprised to see him lying there, and that would be his revenge.  And so it came to pass—­one morning he was too weak to leave his bed.  At luncheon Frau Brohl and Frau Marker noticed his absence, and went to look for him; as they had taken no notice of him for so long, they were not aware how shriveled and emaciated he had grown, and were now shocked and astonished to see how miserable and frail he was.  They sent for a doctor; Frau Brohl made some elder tea; Frau Marker sat up all night by the sick-bed, but nothing could be done.  A few days later he died, with a look of hatred at his mother-in-law, and a movement of aversion from his wife.

Nothing was changed in the household; there was another place at table and a room at liberty, which was soon filled with the things overflowing from the drawing-room.  Frau Brohl still had a passion for preserving and pickling, which had descended to her daughter and her granddaughter, and also a passion for needle-work.  Year in and year out the three sat at the window of their drawing-room over embroidery, lace-making, and such like, working as if they had to earn their daily bread.  They were mistresses of all kinds of fancy work, and invented many more.