'But, dear Carl——' (The adjective escaped her unconsciously.)
'Grafine!' exclaimed the astonished Countess.
'Well, mamma, Carl Pierrepont is not beneath me.'
'This is new to me—how?'
'Because, even if he were so, love makes all equal.'
By kisses and caresses she strove to win over her mother; but the latter almost thrust her back, saying:
'This is folly—worse than folly; crush, forget, dismiss such thoughts. They are unworthy of you, Ernestine—unworthy of my daughter!'
'And of mine, too,' added the Count, who had come unnoticed upon the scene. 'Der Teufel! much as I liked that English lad, I hope some French bullet may rid us of him for ever.'
'Oh, father,' implored Ernestine, 'spare me such terrible remarks. Think of his old father and his three sisters in England. Think that our Heinrich shares his dangers.'
'True—true; God forgive me the thought; but go to your room, child, and let us have no more scenes like this,' replied the old Count, who had long outlived the memory of what a young love was, and Ernestine gladly obeyed.