Innocent yet ominous questions and vague ambiguous answers passed to and fro between them; and, as neither of them doubted the other’s absolute candour, both felt the need for mild revenge. They exaggerated the extent to which their masked partners had attracted them, made fun of the jealous stirrings the other revealed, and lied dismissively about their own. Yet this light banter about the trivial adventures of the previous night led to more serious discussion of those hidden, scarcely admitted desires which are apt to raise dark and perilous storms even in the purest, most transparent soul; and they talked about those secret regions for which they felt hardly any longing, yet towards which the irrational winds of fate might one day drive them, if only in their dreams. For however much they might belong to one another heart and soul, they knew last night was not the first time they had been stirred by a whiff of freedom, danger and adventure. With self-tormenting anxiety and sordid curiosity, each sought to coax admissions from the other; while drawing closer in their fear, each groped for any fact, however slight, any experience, however trivial, which might articulate the fundamentally inexpressible confession of a truth capable of releasing them from the tension and mistrust that were slowly starting to become intolerable. Whether it was because she was the more impetuous, the more honest or the more warm-hearted, Albertine was the first to find the courage to make a frank confession; and with a trembling voice she asked Fridolin if he remembered a young man the previous summer on the Danish coast who had been sitting with two officers at the table next to them one evening, and who, on receiving a telegram during the meal, had promptly taken a hasty leave of his two friends.

Fridolin nodded. ‘What about him?’ he asked.

‘That same morning I’d seen him once before,’ replied Albertine, ‘as he was hurrying up the hotel stairs with his yellow suitcase. He’d glanced at me as we passed, but a few steps further up he stopped and turned round towards me – our eyes couldn’t help meeting. He didn’t smile, indeed his face seemed to cloud over, and I must have reacted likewise, because I felt moved as never before. The whole day I lay on the beach, lost in dreams. Were he to summon me – or so I believed – I wouldn’t have been able to resist. I thought myself capable of doing anything; I felt I had as good as resolved to relinquish you, the child, my future, yet at the same time – will you believe this? – you were more dear to me than ever. It was that same afternoon, you remember, that we spoke so confidingly about a thousand things, discussing our future together, talking about the child as we hadn’t done for ages. Then at sunset, when we were sitting on the balcony, he walked past us on the beach below without looking up, and I was overjoyed to see him. But it was you whose brow I stroked and hair I kissed, and in my love for you there was also a good deal of distressing pity. That evening I wore a white rose in my belt, and you yourself said that I looked very beautiful. Perhaps it was no coincidence that the stranger was sitting near us with his friends. He didn’t look across at me, but I toyed with the idea of stepping over to his table and saying to him, “Here I am, my long-awaited one, my beloved – take me away.” At that moment they brought him the telegram: he read it, went pale, whispered a few words to the younger of the two officers, and with an enigmatic look in my direction left the room.’

‘And then?’ asked Fridolin drily, as she fell silent.

‘Nothing more. All I know is that next morning I awoke feeling nervous and distressed. What I was anxious about – whether it was that he had left, or that he might still be there – I don’t know, and even then I didn’t know. Yet when at noon he still hadn’t appeared, I heaved a sigh of relief. Don’t question me further, Fridolin, I’ve told you the whole truth. – You too had some sort of experience on that beach – of that I’m certain.’

Fridolin got up, paced up and down the room a few times, then said, ‘You’re right.’ He stood at the window, his face in darkness. ‘In the morning,’ he began in a restrained, somewhat resentful tone, ‘often very early before you got up, I would wander along the shore out past the resort; yet, early as it was, the sun would always be shining brightly over the sea. Out there along the shore, as you know, there were little houses, each a small world unto its own, some with fenced-off gardens, some just surrounded by woods, and the bathing-huts were separated from the houses by the road and by a stretch of sand. I seldom encountered anybody, and there were never any bathers at that hour. One morning, however, I suddenly became aware of a female figure, not visible before, who was gingerly advancing along the narrow gangplank of one of those bathing-huts on stilts, putting one foot in front of the other and stretching her arms behind as she groped along the wooden wall. She was a young girl of no more than fifteen, her loose, blonde hair falling over her shoulders and on one side across her tender breast. Gazing down into the water, she slowly inched her way with lowered eyes along the wall towards the near corner of the hut, and suddenly emerged directly opposite where I was standing; she reached behind her even further with her arms, as if to gain a firmer hold, looked up and suddenly caught sight of me. Her whole body began to tremble, as though she were about to either fall or to run away.