"Then I should know what to do myself. I am not afraid of you--what can you do to me? but I fear for poor Ottomar. I do not wish that any harm should happen to him." Giraldi got up also, seated himself sideways in the chair on which Bertalda leant, and took her hands in his.
"Good girl!" he said; "and if I swear to you that I am Ottomar's best friend, that he has no secrets from me, not even that of his debts; that it is I who have just now helped him up again, that it is from me that he has the hundred-thaler notes, of which, perhaps, one or two have found their way into your pocket; and if in case you will not believe me, I show it to you in black and white, in Ottomar's own hand, what would you say then?"
"Nothing at all," answered Bertalda. She had, while he still held her hands, come round the chair, and suddenly sat down on his lap, with her hands, which she now freed, stroking his soft black beard. "At most, that you are a charming uncle, such as are scarce, and that you deserve a kiss, and--there, you have one." She had wound her arms round his neck, and kissed him, first teasingly, then with a passion which seemed to surprise even herself, and which also deprived him for the moment of the full use of his faculties, so that he did not hear the knock at the door, and only let Bertalda slip off his knee when François was already in the room. Bertalda gave a shriek of surprise, and hastily drew her veil over her face.
"What do you want?" cried Giraldi hotly.
"Monsieur Antonio, monsieur!" said François in a whisper; "he begs so urgently."
"All right," said Giraldi. "Show mademoiselle out. I will let in the young man myself. I shall hear from you, mademoiselle. For the present, adieu." He walked hastily to the door of the anteroom, whilst Bertalda, conducted by François, rushed to another door leading into his bedroom, and from thence into the second corridor, and only opened it as Bertalda was on the point of disappearing behind the portière, one side of which François had drawn back for her. Antonio, who, standing close to the door and listening, had heard Bertalda's shriek, and whose mind was filled with the image of Ferdinanda, had immediately concluded that he recognised her voice, and at once stepped in; Bertalda could not so quickly get out. In her embarrassment she had run against the side of the portière which was down, and entangled herself in it, and it was a moment or two before, with François' help, she was free, long enough for the sharp-eyed Antonio to discover that the lady whom he was putting to flight was not Ferdinanda herself, but the mysterious unknown who had lately come so regularly to Ferdinanda's studio, and whom he had taken for an ambassador from his deadly enemy. So she did not come from him, but from here! And why should she run off so hastily the moment he was admitted? If the signor mentioned the lady--well, perhaps it was all right--he would try and trust him still, as heretofore; if he did not mention her, he would never believe another word that passed his lips--never! These thoughts flew through Antonio's mind as he made his bow; meanwhile Giraldi had recovered from his surprise, and taken his resolution. He had taken it for granted that Antonio, from the studio in which he worked, would remark the coming and going of the black-veiled lady to the other studio, and had consequently enjoined the utmost circumspection upon Bertalda. Antonio was not to learn who she was, least of all that she had any connection with him. Now, in consequence of the youth's hasty entry, the secret was within a hair's-breadth of escaping; but that he should have seen, or in any way recognised Bertalda, was quite impossible. The end of the great room was buried in almost total darkness, and as his own attention had been entirely centred on the door by which Antonio would enter, the delay in Bertalda's departure by the other had escaped his notice. "A second later would have been too late," he thought to himself, as he took the youth's hand and--now completely master of himself--said in his usual quiet, friendly tone:
"Welcome, my dear Antonio--no, no, my son--I am not consecrated yet." Antonio, bending low, had raised the hand which Giraldi had offered him to his lips. "The less you trust him the more submissive must you be," said Antonio to himself.
"You are sacred to me, signor," he said aloud. "The good Brother Ambrose, the benevolent guardian of my wretched youth, is not in my eyes more revered and sacred than you are."
"I am glad to hear it," answered Giraldi. "The best ornament of youth is a grateful disposition. As a reward for it I can impart to you the good brother's blessing. I have just received a letter from him. But of that later. First, as to your business here. Have you at last again seen and spoken with her?"
"Only seen, signor--as she left her studio just now to go home. I do not venture to speak to her. She talks, they say, to no one, and no one dares go into her studio except----"