Gertrude went through her chests, and scraped up five marks which she gave the cobbler as a first instalment. The man went away growling; Daniel hid from him. Gertrude was sitting in the living room making clothes for her baby-to-come. There was a happy expression on her face. Daniel knew that it was a display of maternal joy and expectation, but since he could not share this joy, since indeed he felt a sense of fear at the appearance of the child, her happiness embittered him. Between the fuchsias in the window stood a robin red-breast; the impish bird had its head turned to one side, and was peeping into the room: “Come out,” it chirped, “come out.” And Daniel went. He had an engagement with M. Rivière at the café by the market place. Since he no longer saw anything of Eleanore, he wanted to find out how her plans for going to Paris were getting along. The Frenchman told of the progress he was making in his Caspar Hauser research. In his broken German he told of the murder of body and soul that had been committed in the case of the foundling: “He was a mortal man _comme une étoile_,” he said. “The bourgeoisie crushed him. The bourgeoisie is the _racine_ of all evil.” Daniel never mentioned Eleanore’s name. He tried to satisfy himself by the fact that she kept out of his sight. He bit his lips together, and said: I will. But a stronger power in him said, No, you won’t. And this stronger power became a beggar. It went around saying, Give me, please, give me! The billiard balls rattled. A gentleman in a red velvet vest had a quarrel with a shabby looking fellow who had been reading _Fliegende Blätter_ for the last two hours; he would begin over and over again at the very beginning, and break out into convulsions of laughter every time he came to his favourite jokes. Daniel was silent; he insisted somehow on remaining silent. M. Rivière wished, for this reason, to hear something about the “Harzreise.” By way of starting a discussion he remarked quite timidly that _sans musique la vie est insupportable_, “There is something about music that reminds one of insanity,” he remarked. He said there were nights when he would open a volume of Schubert’s or Brahms’s songs, leaf through them, read the notes, and hum the melodies simply in order to escape the despair which the conduct of the people about him was emptying into his heart. “_Moi_, I ought to be, how do you say? stoic; _mais_ I am not. In me there is _trop de musique, et c’est le contraire_.” Daniel looked at him in astonishment. “Come with me,” he said suddenly, got up, and took him by the arm. They met Eleanore in the hall. She had been up in the new flat with the whitewasher. Her father was to move in the following day. “Why was all this done so quickly?” asked Daniel, full of a vague happiness that drew special nourishment from the fact that Eleanore was plainly excited.