“Why, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the now astonished Countess. “Do be explicit. I have just read something in the paper that has made me very angry.”
The girl wiped away the tears from her reddened eyes and said: “Why did he do it?”
“Do what?” exclaimed the Countess. “Do speak, or I shall have to cry myself.”
Bertha began to weep again, but through her tears she managed to say: “Your son—the Count—asked me to be his wife.”
“Oh, the young scapegrace!” said the Countess, jumping to her feet. “Why, my dear, he is engaged to another woman, where we live, in Corsica. You stay here. I will go downstairs and have a talk with him. He shall leave the house this very day.”
“Oh, don’t turn him out on my account,” cried Bertha. “Do not, my dear Countess. I will go instead. This is his home and I have no right here.”
“Well, I have,” said the Countess, defiantly. “This is my house, and while I live it has a mistress, but no master.”
The Countess soon discovered that her son was in the drawing-room where the avowal of love had been made. He was seated at the piano, touching the keys lightly and humming an air.
“So, my young man,” the Countess exclaimed, “you are at your old tricks again.”
“Yes,” said the Count. “You had me taught to play the piano, and I have always loved it.”