Hermann Breunner lived in the granite lodge, just within the eastern gates of the royal gardens. He was a widower and shared the ample lodge with the undergardeners and their families. He lived with them, but signally apart. They gave him as much respect as if he had been the duke himself. He was a lonely, taciturn man, deeply concerned with his work, and a botanical student of no mean order. No comrade helped him pass away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in the mug. This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own selection. He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at infrequent intervals.
He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward the candle. A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life. Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write. This note left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise. It requested that he present himself at eight o'clock at the office of the hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.
"Now, who is Hans Grumbach? I never knew or heard of a man of that name."
Nevertheless, he decided to go. Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge him without some definite purpose. He laid down his pipe, reached for his hat and coat--for in the lodge he generally went about in his shirt-sleeves--and went over to the hotel. The concierge, who knew Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole. Hermann knocked. A voice bade him enter. Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had puzzled his excellency.
"You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?"
"Yes," said Grumbach, offering a chair.
Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity. His host drew up another chair to the opposite side of the reading-table. The light overhead put both faces in a semishadow.
"You are Hermann Breunner," began Grumbach.
"Yes."
"You once had a brother named Hans."
Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his voice dull and empty.
"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."
Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a scoundrel."
Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would have refused it.
"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is--dead!" softly.
"God's will be done!" But Hermann's face turned lighter.
"As a boy he loved you."