“See, Rudolph, here is my old flame, M. Michaelopoulos, the great poet,” cried Eméraude, pleasantly excited.
“Indeed,” said Rudolph, stroking his moustache and indolently shifting his eyes.
“Good heavens! Mademoiselle Veritassi! I forgot, a thousand excuses, Madame Ehrenstein,” exclaimed the popular poet.
“My dear friend! Sit down and tell us all the news. Rudolph, order some cognac for M. Michaelopoulos. And now, do tell me everything. What was said about my marriage?”
“Athens rejoiced that Austria in you, Madame, should so wisely have chosen,” said the poet, with a magnificent bow.
“No, truly? You mock me, sir. Does Austria, I wonder, think that Greece chose as wisely?” asked the vivacious bride with an arch, half-malicious glance at her morose husband.
“Could Austria think otherwise?” the poet replied.
“If such a humble person as myself may answer for Austria, I may say that no better choice could have been made,” said Rudolph, sarcastically.
“My friend, I mean to prove the wisdom of my choice.”
Rudolph raised his eyebrows in lazy interrogation.