Finally, the postilion said he was going over to the stables for a little while. He wore a look of disappointment.

After two hours, which Herman spent pacing back and forth in front of the dining-room window without daring to look inside, they brought out fresh horses and started to harness. Soon the coachman climbed up onto his seat, and the groom tossed him the reins. She wasn’t coming. He stood rooted to the ground, next to the coach. The postilion signaled to him that it was time. He was so visibly distracted, the postilion touched him on the arm. But she appeared in the open doorway, and she came forward, holding her wide-brimmed hat. And now, under the straw-colored hair, he saw her face: It was longish and pale. She had the cheekbones of a child. Next, she looked him in the eyes, and all he could remember was a color—a very lovely, unnameable color—and a doleful-looking mouth.

For the whole afternoon, while they were galloping along, he tried to picture that face again. But her gaze had erased it all. It was evening by the time they got past Marlowe. Then night fell, pitch-black and starless. In spite of the darkness, they kept the horses whipped into a gallop. A while later, when they must have been crossing a hill, the glare and then the flames of several large fires came into view, far down below. Herman asked what they were; he had no idea. It was a district known as the Four Fields, and here, during the day, they’d held a fair. The Mail stopped at the inn for the night. Lamps were burning under the canvas canopies, and the vendors were folding up the stalls. Cattle merchants were warming themselves around fires blazing in the fields.

The inn was full of people. Its open windows were steaming. The postilion carried the two cases. Herman followed. But when the woman entered the vestibule, it was obstructed by the heavy cloaks hanging from the racks on the walls. Servants in cherry-red livery passed through on the fly, carrying stacks of plates, shouting to make way. She drew back, and Herman instinctively moved close to her. She barely reached his shoulders. He was content to be strong and solidly built.

But there was really no more space in the dining room, except for a little spot next to the kitchen door, where it might be possible to set up a small table for the two of them, said a serving girl. So he felt frozen stiff all over again and couldn’t stop himself from trembling. At this point, they were right up next to each other, standing between two rows of farmers who were sitting on benches. He’d turned his broad shoulders sideways to give her as much room as possible to get by, but even so, he was obliged to touch her, and he couldn’t hide from her that he’d just trembled from head to foot. He pretended that someone had bumped into him.