“It is nothing, your Excellency,—she is a fool.”
“That she may be, but I insist on hearing what it was she said.”
He seemed embarrassed and ashamed, and, instead of replying to me, turned to address some words of reproach to the girl.
“I am waiting for your answer,” said I, peremptorily.
“It is the saucy way she has gotten, your Excellency, all from over-flattery; and now that she sees that there is no audience here, none but your Excellency, she is impatient to be off again. She'll never do anything for us on the night of a thin house.”
“Is this the truth, Tintefleck?” asked I.
With a wild volubility, of which I could not gather a word, but every accent of which indicated passion, if not anger, she poured out something to the other, and then turned as if to leave the room. He interposed quickly, and spoke to her, at first angrily, but at last in a soothing and entreating tone, which seemed gradually to calm her.
“There is more in this than you have told, Vaterchen,” said I. “Let me know at once why she is impatient to get away.”
“I would leave it to herself to tell your Excellency,” said he, with much confusion, “but that you could not understand her mountain dialect. The fact is,” added he, after a great struggle with himself,—“the fact is, she is offended at your calling her 'Tintefleck.' She is satisfied to be so named amongst ourselves, where we all have similar nicknames; but that you, a great personage, high and rich and titled, should do so, wounds her deeply. Had you said—”
Here he whispered me in my ear, and, almost inadvertently, I repeated after him, “Catinka.”