The General told him to wait; he did not know yet what he should do, and August went away greatly disturbed in mind; it was the first time since he had been in the General's service that he did not know what he was going to do. The unhappy man was in fact in a state of mind bordering on madness. After the terrible reckoning with his son, all his remaining strength had been concentrated upon one idea--revenge, immediate, implacable revenge upon the wily villain, the hypocritical scoundrel who--he felt sure of it at heart, although his disturbed reason could not penetrate the details of the plot--had now robbed him of his son, as formerly of his sister, and heaped shame and disgrace upon the proud name of Werben. At the moment when, with this one thought in his mind, he entered the carriage which was to take him to the railway, two letters arrived, one by the post in Elsa's handwriting, and a note brought by Schönau's servant. He had opened Elsa's letter at once, and hastily glanced at the few lines, but without really understanding the contents. How could he? How could he have sense, feeling, or understanding for anything in the world, before he knew what Schönau's note contained? But he knew it already! It could be but one thing! Schönau had not ventured to come himself to say, "He is dead!" He sat thus a long time, with the fatal note in his trembling hand, and at last, when they were close to the station, by a mechanical impulse he tore it open and read it, only to crush the paper in his hand afterwards, and thrust it into his pocket, while he leaned back in a corner of the carriage with a ghastly smile upon his pale worn face. He was walking up and down now in the great empty room, from the looking-glass between the glass doors which led on to the platform, to the door into the entrance hall, and then back again, stopping only sometimes at the centre table in front of the little box which stood there, once even stretching out his hand to it, and then with a shake of the head pursuing his walk. Was there any sense in it now? Might he not just as well have left at home his pistol, the caps for which were in his pocket! Or better still have remained at home himself, let things take their course, and people have their own way? At any rate confess to himself his helplessness in regard to things or men, and that he was a broken-down old man, good for nothing but to look on idly at the battle of life as others fought it out, however melancholy, perverse, and miserable the spectacle might be!