Thus was cleared the fog of doubt and perplexity. The Jovelike brow of Miltiades smoothed, and the light of approval beamed softly in his dark blue eyes. Little Themistocles minced, and smiled affectedly, and shrugged his shoulders to an incredible extent, until the inferior glory of the Parisian dandy was totally eclipsed. And Rudolph, now that the fatal leap was taken, was full of vague apprehension and nervous tremors. Was he quite so sure as he assumed to be that he had the right to dispose of himself thus? But Andromache was so pretty and tender, and he so greatly loved her!
The enchanted brothers, for once partners in feeling and idea, hurried him up the steep, unpaved streets, laughing boisterously as they jumped the flowing streamlets that intersect them, and when they reached the glass door of the beloved’s home, Miltiades rapped sharply against the pane.
“Maria, tell my mother to join us in the salon,” he said.
“Kyria, you are wanted in the salon,” shouted Maria from the passage, shaking her hair out of her eyes the better to stare at Rudolph. “I’m thinking it is Andromache he wants, and not the old lady,” she muttered.
Kyria Karapolos came puffing excitedly from the dining-room at the end of the passage, followed by Julia, who wore her sulkiest air.
“You are not wanted, Julia,” cried Miltiades, striding into the salon, his sword and spurs making a fearful clatter along the floor.
“You are not wanted, Julia,” echoed Themistocles, vindictively, eager to air his own special spite under the cover of Miltiades’ command.
Miltiades frowned and glowered upon him. He resented the liberty of spurious authority in his presence, and a repetition of thunder irritated him. But Rudolph’s presence checked his anger, and when the suitor, the reigning sovereigns and their humble interpreter were seated, there were perfect serenity and dignity in his bearing.
“Monsieur Rudolph Ehrenstein wants to marry Andromache,” he said, opening the proceedings.