"I was mistaken," he said, bluntly. "This time you were right. The old Freiherr is quite rational, with the exception of a few abnormal ideas which must be laid to the charge of the tenth century; such a pedigree is not normal. Such whims, however, are not hereditary, and so, if there is no help for it, marry your Gerlinda if you choose."
"Thank heaven, papa!" said Hans, with a sigh of relief. "You have caused me worry enough with your anxieties about generations not yet in existence."
"It was my duty. But, as I told you, my mind is now easy with regard to your posterity. Let us see how you will manage the old Baron and his pedigree."
"I shall carry them both by storm," exclaimed the young artist, triumphantly, "and win my Dornröschen in spite of them."
Meanwhile, Hertha was assisting the young lover's plans. She led the conversation with the Freiherr to the subject of her own betrothal, reminding the old man that she, like Gerlinda, was the last of her race, and that her name too was to be merged in one without a title; but Eberstein opposed her angrily.
"That is quite a different thing. Your betrothed is the Count's grandson, the son of a Steinrück; on the mother's side he belongs to your family. Moreover,"--he turned courteously to Michael, whose manly form and carriage were greatly to his taste,--"moreover, Captain Rodenberg has served with distinction during the war. Even in the times of our glorious ancestors brave deeds were worth a patent of nobility and won the accolade. But a son-in-law with a paint-brush for a sword and a palette for a shield,--oh, never, never!"
"At all events, he can perpetuate brave deeds," said Michael, smiling. "Perhaps you are not aware that my friend has just gained the victory in a trial of artistic skill. His name is lauded throughout the public press, and is unanimously----"
"Don't talk to me of the 'public press!'" exclaimed Eberstein, in high dudgeon. "It, too, is an invention of to-day, and worse than all the rest. Reckless, indiscreet, slanderous, it tramples everything in the dust, holds nothing sacred, and is the devil's own work."
"You are quite right, Herr Baron; the press is terrible," assented Hans, who had approached in time to hear the Freiherr's last words. "But I pray you to permit me to tell you what I ask. Do not put your fingers in your ears; it really has nothing to do with Gerlinda and me, but only with the contest of which Michael has just told you. I engaged in it before the war, and during the campaign received intelligence that my sketch had taken the prize and that the picture had been ordered. To carry out this order your permission is necessary."
"My permission?" asked Eberstein. "What have I to do with your pictures?"