Free Burning Secret by Stefan Zweig

yet, she was still with that strange and hateful man.
    There was a narrow space between the inner door of his room and the outer door, which was not visibleat first sight and which moved at a mere touch. The space was no larger than the inside of a wardrobe. He squeezed into that hand’s breadth of darkness to listen for her footsteps in the corridor. He had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to leave her alone for a moment. Now, at midnight, the corridor was empty, dimly illuminated only by a single light.
    At last—those minutes seemed to him to go on for ever—he heard careful steps coming upstairs. He listened hard. The steps were not fast, like those of someone on the way to her room, but hesitant, dragging, very slow, as if she were climbing an infinitely steep and difficult path. There was whispering from time to time, and then silence. Edgar was trembling with agitation. Was it both of them, after all, was he still with her? The whispering was too far away. But the footsteps, although still hesitant, were coming closer and closer. Now he suddenly heard the hated voice of the Baron saying something in a low, hoarse voice, something he couldn’t make out, and then his mother’s voice, quickly contradicting him. “No, not tonight! No.”
    Edgar trembled. They were coming closer, and he heard everything now. Every step towards him, soft as it was, went painfully to his heart. And that voice, how ugly it sounded to him, the avid, insistent, horrible voice of the man he hated.
    “Oh, don’t be so cruel. You looked so beautiful this evening.”
    Then the other voice again. “No, I mustn’t, I can’t, oh, let me go.”
    There’s so much fear in his mother’s voice that the child takes fright. What does he want her to do now? Why is she frightened? They have come closer and closer, they must be right outside his door now. He stands just behind it, trembling and invisible, a hand’s breadth away, protected only by the thin partition of the outer door. The voices were almost breathing in his ear.
    “Come on, Mathilde, come on!” He hears his mother groan again, more faintly this time, her resistance waning. But what’s all this? They have gone on in the dark. His mother hasn’t gone into her room, she’s passed it! Where is he taking her? Why doesn’t she say any more? Has he stuffed a gag into her mouth, is he holding her by the throat and choking her? These ideas make him frantic. He pushes the door a tiny way open, his hand trembling. Now he can see them both in the dark corridor. The Baron has put his arm around his mother’s waist and is leading her quietly away. She seems docile now. The Baron stops outside his own door. He’s going to drag her off, thinks the horrified child, he’s going to do something terrible.
    With a wild movement he closes the door of his room and rushes out, following them. His mother screams as something suddenly comes racing out of the darkness towards them, she appears to have fainted away, her companion has difficulty in keeping her upright. Andat that moment the Baron feels a small and not very strong fist in his face, driving his lip against his teeth, and something clawing like a cat at his body. He lets go of the alarmed woman, who quickly makes her escape, and strikes back blindly with his own fist before he realizes who it is he’s fending off.
    The child knows that he is weaker than his opponent, but he does not give in. At last, at last the moment has come, the moment he has wanted for so long, when he can let off steam, discharging all his betrayed love and pent-up hate. He hammers blindly at the man with his little fists, lips tightly compressed in feverish, mindless fury. The Baron himself has now recognized him, he too feels furious with this secret spy who has been embittering his life for the last few days and spoiling his game; he strikes back hard at anything he can hit. Edgar groans but does not let go or call for help. They wrestle silently and