“And knowing that, after all that has been done to put you beyond danger, you show yourself in this place again! It is inexplicable,” cried Francis.
“But, my dear, who told you I had come to show myself here? It is true we give representations in the provinces; but the person who appears in public is Mr. Smithson, so well begrimed that Baron von Zwenken himself would not recognize his own son.”
“That’s very fortunate, for it would be the death of him,” retorted Francis, harshly.
“How you exaggerate, dearest. Monsieur mon pere never had so much affection for me. He shall never know Mr. Smithson. His son Rudolf, however, seeks an interview with him, and requests you, Francis, to assist in bringing it about.”
“It is useless, sir; you may neither see nor speak to your father again.”
“Can you be so hard-hearted, Francis?”
“My duty obliges me, and I must have some regard for the feelings of your father in the first place.”
“But, my dear child, try to understand me. I only wish to kiss his hand and beg his pardon. With this object I have run all risks, and imposed on myself all kinds of fatigue. I have just ridden hard for three hours, hidden myself in the old ruins, climbed the garden wall at the risk of breaking an arm or a leg; then, seeing a light here, I broke in—and all this for nothing! No, my darling, this cannot be; you will still be my good angel, and arrange the meeting I so much desire——”
“I say No; and you know when I have once said a thing I mean it.”