“Thank you,” said Raimund musingly, while he turned from Zedwitz to Hamilton, and then to Hildegarde, as if they, and not Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, occupied his thoughts.
“When is it to take place?” asked Zedwitz.
“What! ah! my execution? Some time in January, they say; I wish it were sooner.”
“Of course you do,” said Zedwitz, laughing.
“That is,” said Raimund, the colour mounting to his forehead, “I am afraid, if it be put off long, I shall get tired of the concern, and in the end prove refractory.”
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had recognised and now addressed them from the window. Raimund was invited to supper, and entered the house with the Rosenbergs, while Mr. Rosenberg, who never spent an evening at home, walked off with Zedwitz.
The moonlight was so bright in the drawing-room, that on entering Madame Rosenberg declared it would be folly to light the candles. She gave Crescenz a gentle push into the adjoining room, telling her to “be a good girl, and make up her quarrel with the Major,” and then went to “look after her boys.”
Hamilton looked out of the window, and hummed an air from Fra Diavolo.
“I am very tired,” said Hildegarde, taking off her bonnet; “our walk has been long and dusty: and besides I have talked a great deal, which is always fatiguing,”—she stood beside and leaned out of the window with him.
Hamilton’s hum degenerated into a half-suppressed whistle, accompanied by a drumming on the window-cushion, while his upturned eyes were fixed on the moon. They remained several minutes without speaking, until a murmuring of voices from the window beneath them attracted their attention. Hamilton leaned farther out to see the speakers, but on recognising Count Raimund and Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, he drew back with a slightly contemptuous smile, while he said, “Your cousin’s observations this evening on his intended bride were by no means flattering.”