“To my eternal desolation, Madame la Baronne, I must admit my ignorance. The young lady is, as you observe, charming—a little provincial, perhaps, clearly not of our world, but charming, very charming. I entreat you, Madame, to note the naïveté and candour of her—how shall we name it? entrainement? the first pressure of the dangerous influence upon tranquil maidenly pulses.”
“Confine yourself to prose, my friend, for the moment, and if you obey me, discover for me her parentage, position, etc.”
“Madame has to command, and I fly to obey her. I conjecture Monsieur Ehrenstein’s latest flame to be a little impossible Athenian, living the Gods know where and how.”
“Latest?” cried the baroness, with a look of displeased inquiry.
“Ah! it is to see that Madame’s great mind soars in the empyrean of diplomatic considerations or upon ground more ethereal still. Her delicate ears do not catch an echo of the vulgar gossip upon which grosser ears are fed.”
“I have requested you, M. Michaelopoulos, to discourse to me in prose. What is the vulgar gossip you refer to?”
The poet looked chill, and said, with brutal directness:
“My faith! Madame, your interesting nephew is thought to be the lover of that dainty morsel of womanhood, the Natzelhuber.”
Madame von Hohenfels frowned, and then laughed.