I snap my
fingers gleefully, and wend my way to Tordenskjiolds Street, find the
door, on which is fastened a card with C. Zacharias Bartel on it, and
knock.
He came out himself, and smelt so fearfully of ale and tobacco that it was
horrible.
"Good-evening!" I say.
"Good-evening! is that you? Now, why the deuce do you come so late? It
doesn't look at all its best by lamplight. I have added a hayrick to it
since, and have made a few other alterations. You must see it by daylight;
there is no use our trying to see it now!"
"Let me have a look at it now, all the same," said I; though, for that
matter, I did not in the least remember what picture he was talking about.
"Absolutely impossible," he replied; "the whole thing will look yellow;
and, besides, there's another thing"--and he came towards me, whispering:
"I have a little girl inside this evening, so it's clearly impracticable."
"Oh, in that case, of course there's no question about it."
I drew back, said good-night, and went away.
So there was no way out of it but to seek some place out in the woods. If
only the fields were not so damp. I patted my blanket, and felt more and
more at home at the thought of sleeping out. I had worried myself so long
trying to find a shelter in town that I was wearied and bored with the
whole affair. It would be a positive pleasure to get to rest, to resign
myself; so I loaf down the street without thought in my head.
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