Lucy recognized his taking solace in giving up; he was familiar with the comfort which existed in the acceptance of failure. In turning back from his own pain and fear, he had experienced some stripe of validation; for these feelings were justified, after all, and his leaving was necessary, and wise. Despite this, the Baron’s letter conjured in him a shame which eclipsed these other emotions, and so he did not strike out for the station as planned, but removed the cape from his valise and walked back down the hill, and to the village. As he knocked on Klara’s door, he could feel his heartbeat in his hands. She answered; she was alone. He passed her the cape and told her, “You can’t marry Adolphus.”
Her face was so pale, and she looked at the cape with such superlative sadness.
“Why,” she asked.
“Because of the fact that I love you.”
Lucy said these words and he watched as Klara’s sadness drifted away, her eyes brightening in pulses, and now she was beguiling again. Stepping closer, she reached up and kissed Lucy on the mouth, lightly, and again, on the neck. She retreated into the shanty and Lucy followed after. He watched as she shed her coat and put the cape on, standing before the mirror, as before, and admiring herself. “Yes, hello,” she said, “and who is this young lady? She looks so happy, doesn’t she? I wonder what’s got into her. Perhaps she’s heard some good news. Perhaps she’s heard just what she wanted to hear.” She was swiveling back and forth, smiling at herself. “Oh, but she does look happy, doesn’t she? Well, let’s see how long it lasts, shall we?”