CHAPTER X. The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the rooms under Sidonie's directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy. And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had laid her greatest treasures--the album with his portrait and the little compass--on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle, which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing the compass, and to assure herself that "it was still faithful," and "turned towards its master," and then opened the album at the place at which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not at the portrait--that was detestable--but at the inscription, "With all my heart," and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking. Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a "Good-night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?" and had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage leading to his room, he must pass his father's door. He stood still for a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good-night through the open door. This evening he did not do so. "I am tired to death," he repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this breach of his usual habit. But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples, "like mad," said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat, and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon--his shooting-coat--and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar.