“I don’t know what you mean, uncle,” protested Rudolph, with a look of startled anxiety. “I have not seen Mademoiselle Natzelhuber since Madame Jarovisky’s ball.”
“Not possible? Good gracious! that one so young should be so faithless! The contemplation of the perfidy of my own sex, Madame, fills my eyes with tears. But no, I apprehend. It is merely the refined hesitation of innocence. He sighs at her door—serenades her—have you not, Madame, remarked a tell-tale look about his violin?—and consumes quantities of paper. Well, I shall see that there are at least a dozen quires of note paper, of the very best quality, stamped with the family coat-of-arms, placed in your portmanteau, Rudolph, and your aunt and I will retire discreetly into the background while you compose your flaming epistles and frantically adjure the moon and stars instead of Mademoiselle Photini.
“‘Ma Photini, prépare ta toilette,
Il y a un mois que la mienne est déjà faite;
Mes beaux habits, mes seuls habits,
Voilà un mois que je les ai mis.’
There are some verses, ‘une invitation au mariage,’ of which I make you a present. You didn’t know that I sometimes perpetrate impromptu verses? Good, aren’t they? ‘Ma Photini,’” he began again, singing the lines to an impromptu air, seemingly unconscious that the crimson of anger had mounted to Rudolph’s brow.
“You must not tease the boy,” said the baroness, maliciously. “Remember, you were once in love yourself.”
“With you, Madame, before me, as a substantial testimony of that pleasant fact, I do not see how I can forget it,” smiled the baron.