"He will be here in time," replied Itzig's patroness. "You know how he toils and moils that you may have a brilliant establishment. You are fortunate," said she, with a sigh; "you are now entering upon life, and you will be a lady of consequence. You must go to the capital for a few weeks after your marriage, to spend the honeymoon quietly, and be introduced to my relations; and, meanwhile, I shall have this story furnished for you, and will move up stairs, and spend the rest of my life in nursing Ehrenthal."
"Will my father make his appearance to-day?" inquired Rosalie.
"He must do so on account of our relations. He must pronounce the paternal blessing upon you."
"He is sure to bring disgrace upon us, and to talk nonsense again," said the dutiful daughter.
"I have told him what he is to say," answered her mother; "and he nodded, to show that he understood me."
The bell rang, the door opened, and company appeared. The room soon filled. Ladies in gorgeous gold-embroidered silk dresses, with sparkling chains and ear-rings, occupied the large sofa and arm-chairs around. They were mostly large in figure, with here and there a pair of lustrous eyes and a set of handsome features. They looked like a gay tulip-bed out of which the gardener has rooted every sober-colored flower. Behind them stood the gentlemen, with cunning faces and hands in their pockets, altogether much less imposing and agreeable to behold. Thus all the company waited for the bridegroom, who still delayed his coming.
At length he appeared. His eyes wandered suspiciously around; his voice faltered as he accosted his betrothed. He strove to the utmost to find some polite words to say to the beautiful girl, and could almost himself have laughed savagely at the blank he felt within. He did not see her brilliant eyes, her gorgeous bust, and magnificent attire. Even when at her side he was obliged to think of something else—of that of which he was always thinking. He soon turned away from her and joined the gentlemen, who became more conversable after his arrival. A few commonplace observations, made by the younger men, were heard from time to time, such as, "Miss Rosalie looks enchantingly beautiful;" and, "I wonder whether Ehrenthal will appear;" and, "This long continuance of fog is unusual, and very unhealthy: one is obliged to wear flannel." At length some one uttered the words "four and a half per cent." There was an end of detached remarks; a subject of conversation had been found. Itzig was one of the loudest, gesticulating on all sides. They spoke of the funds—of wool—of the failure of a money-broker who had over-speculated in paper. The ladies were forgotten; and, being quite accustomed to it on such occasions, they solemnly held their tea-cups in their hands, smoothed the folds of their dresses, and moved their throats and arms so as to make their bracelets and chains sparkle in the light.
The conversation was now interrupted by a strange sound: a door was opened, and in the midst of profound silence a heavy arm-chair was rolled into the room.
In the arm-chair sat an old, white-haired man, with a fat, swollen face, with staring eyes, bent frame, and arms supinely hanging down. It was Hirsch Ehrenthal, the imbecile. The chair being rolled into the midst of the assembly, he looked slowly round, nodded, and repeated over and over again the words he had been taught: "Good-evening—good evening." His wife now bent over him, and, raising her voice, said in his ear, "Do you know the company here assembled? They are our relatives."
"I know," nodded the figure; "it is a soiree. They all went to a great soiree, and I remained alone in my room, and I sat on his bed. Where is Bernhard, that he does not come to his old father?"