and but few passengers on board.  Innstetten thought of the day when, returning here from his wedding tour, he had driven along the shore of the Kessine with Effi in an open carriage.  That was a gray November day, but his heart was serene.  Now it was the reverse:  all was serene without, and the November day was within.  Many, many a time had he come this way afterward, and the peace hovering over the fields, the horses in harness pricking up their ears as he drove by, the men at work, the fertility of the soil—­all these things had done his soul good, and now, in harsh contrast with that, he was glad when clouds came up and began slightly to overcast the laughing blue sky.  They steamed down the river and soon after they had passed the splendid sheet of water called the “Broad” the Kessin church tower hove in sight and a moment later the quay and the long row of houses with ships and boats in front of them.  Soon they were at the landing.  Innstetten bade the captain goodbye and approached the bridge that had been rolled out to facilitate the disembarkation.  Wuellersdorf was there.  The two greeted each other, without speaking a word at first, and then walked across the levee to the Hoppensack Hotel, where they sat down under an awning.

“I took a room here yesterday,” said Wuellersdorf, who did not wish to begin with the essentials.  “When we consider what a miserable hole Kessin is, it is astonishing to find such a good hotel here.  I have no doubt that my friend the head waiter speaks three languages.  Judging by the parting of his hair and his low-cut vest we can safely count on four—­Jean, please bring us some coffee and cognac.”

Innstetten understood perfectly why Wuellersdorf assumed this tone, and approved of it, but he could not quite master his restlessness and kept taking out his watch involuntarily.  “We have time,” said Wuellersdorf.  “An hour and a half yet, or almost.  I ordered the carriage at a quarter after eight; we have not more than ten minutes to drive.”

“Where?”

“Crampas first proposed a corner of the woods, just behind the churchyard.  Then he interrupted himself and said:  ‘No, not there.’  Then we agreed upon a place among the dunes, close by the beach.  The outer dune has a cut through it and one can look out upon the sea.”

Innstetten smiled.  “Crampas seems to have selected a beautiful spot.  He always had a way of doing that.  How did he behave?”

“Marvelously.”

“Haughtily? frivolously?”

“Neither the one nor the other.  I confess frankly, Innstetten, it staggered me.  When I mentioned your name he turned as pale as death, but tried hard to compose himself, and I saw a twitching about the corners of his mouth.  But it was only a moment till he had regained his composure and after that he was all sorrowful resignation.  I am quite certain he feels that he will not come out of the affair alive, and he doesn’t care to.  If I judge him correctly he is fond of living and at the same time indifferent about it.  He takes life as it comes and knows that it amounts to but little.”