“My good Schmucke,” she repeated, “this is a matter of life and death; minutes can save tears, perhaps blood.”
“Always the same!” he said. “Go, angel! dry the tears of others. Your poor Schmucke thinks more of your visit than of your gifts.”
“But we must see each other often,” she said. “You must come and dine and play to me every Sunday, or we shall quarrel. Remember, I shall expect you next Sunday.”
“Really and truly?”
“Yes, I entreat you; and my sister will want you, too, for another day.”
“Then my happiness will be complete,” he said; “for I only see you now in the Champs Elysees as you pass in your carriage, and that is very seldom.”
This thought dried the tears in his eyes as he gave his arm to his beautiful pupil, who felt the old man’s heart beat violently.
“You think of us?” she said.
“Always as I eat my food,” he answered,—“as my benefactresses; but chiefly as the first young girls worthy of love whom I ever knew.”
So respectful, faithful, and religious a solemnity was in this speech that the countess dared say no more. That smoky chamber, full of dirt and rubbish, was the temple of the two divinities.