The old gentleman took hope anew.  During Valentine’s absence he had given way for a moment to all the anguish that a father cannot but feel under such circumstances; but then he reasoned with himself that there was no use in wasting time in idle complaint as long as something might still be done.  Even if Valentine and Christiane had told nobody what they knew, other things of the same sort might have become known.  Such a criminal thought does not originate by chance; it is the blossom of a poisonous tree with trunk and branches.  Valentine had to tell him all that had happened since Apollonius’ return home.  It was the story of a wanton, inordinate, pleasure-seeking spendthrift who in spite of the efforts of his better brother had sunk to the level of an ordinary libertine and drunkard; of a faithful brother who, compelled by the necessity of rescuing the honor of business and home, had shouldered the care of everything and as a reward was being persecuted unto death by the degraded prodigal.

The old gentleman sat motionless.  Only the blush that burned ever warmer on his thin cheeks betrayed what he suffered for the honor of his house.  Otherwise he seemed to know it all, already.  That was his old manner, which he perhaps made use of now because he thought that Valentine would then be less likely to conceal or alter facts against his better knowledge.  His inward agitation prevented him from perceiving in what strong contradiction this semblance of calm stood to his morbid sense of honor.  Valentine did not endeavor to deepen the shadows which fell upon Fritz Nettenmair’s conduct, but, knowing the old gentleman as he thought he did, he deemed it necessary to place Apollonius’ actions in the brightest possible light.  But he only half knew the old gentleman after all.  He miscalculated the effect that he would produce when he praised the filial tenderness with which Apollonius had withheld all news of danger from his father’s ears.  Thus he undid what a simple tale, describing the son’s efforts to save that which the old gentleman held most dear, had accomplished.  The father saw only a realization of the fear which Apollonius’ diligence had awakened in him.  In unfilial fashion Apollonius had concealed the danger from him in order to be able to take the whole credit for the rescue to himself.  Or he looked upon his father as a helpless, blind old man who was not, and could not be anything but an incumbrance.  This latter feeling the old gentleman could forgive him less than the former, even in face of his grief over his son’s death, which he now deemed a certainty.  The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that things would never have come to such a pass if he had known about it and taken the matter in hand, and that Apollonius in fact had only his own ambitious desires to thank for his death.  These thoughts, however, had to give way before immediate necessity.  What he knew concerning Fritz was enough to strengthen suspicion