“To think of his caring so much for a ballet!” answered Crescenz, evasively, while she still blushed, and then laughed as she added, “and you know all mamma said about his being religious, and not going out in the evenings, or on Sunday to the theatre.”
“I suspect your mother has a better opinion of him than he deserves,” whispered Major Stultz. Crescenz, however, shook her head so incredulously, or so coquettishly, that he added, “Do not think me jealous; it is impossible, now that I know who is the real object of his devotion.”
“Ah, you mean Hildegarde,” said Crescenz, carelessly.
“Oh, no.”
“Who then?” asked Crescenz, turning towards him quickly, curiosity depicted in every feature, “who?”
“I can scarcely tell you—as he has chosen a married woman——”
Crescenz looked aghast. Major Stultz’s jealousy conquered his usual circumspection—the moment was too favourable for making an impression—he bent towards her and whispered, “No other than your friend, Madame Berger.”
“Impossible!”
“Certain, nevertheless. When your mother forbade his returning here, he was invited to spend his disengaged evenings at her house. He knows the Doctor well; besides, Berger is Zedwitz’s physician, and they have often met lately. Had the thing been feasible, Hamilton would, I have no doubt, have taken up his quarters in their house!”
Crescenz for once in her life seemed to think, and think deeply. All Major Stultz’s efforts to continue the conversation were fruitless; she bent her head over her work, and scarcely heard his excuses and regrets that he was going to the theatre without her. After he had left the room, there was a long pause. Hildegarde had been leaning her head on her hand for the last half hour, apparently unconscious of what was going on about her. Crescenz moved softly towards her, and on pretence of consulting her about her work, contrived to relate what she had just heard.