Never shall I forget the start—the look of amaze, almost of fear, which shot across the face of Herr Linders. Amazement would be a weak word in which to describe it. He stopped, stood stock-still in the middle of the room; his jaw fell—he gazed from one to the other of us in feeble astonishment, then said, in a whisper:
“Donnerwetter! A child!”
“Don’t use bad language before the little innocent,” said I, enjoying his confusion.
“Which of you does it belong to? Is it he or she?” he inquired in an awe-struck and alarmed manner.
“His name is Sigmund Courvoisier,” said I, with difficulty preserving my gravity.
“Oh, indeed! I—I wasn’t aware—” began Karl, looking at Eugen in such a peculiar manner—half respectful, half timid, half ashamed—that I could no longer contain my feelings, but burst into such a shout of laughter as I had not enjoyed for years. After a moment, Eugen joined in; we laughed peal after peal of laughter, while poor Karl stood feebly looking from one to the other of the company—speechless—crestfallen.
“I beg your pardon.” he said, at last, “I won’t intrude any longer. Good—”
He was making for the door, but Eugen made a dash after him, turned him round, and pushed him into a chair.
“Sit down, man,” said he, stifling his laughter. “Sit down, man; do you think the poor little chap will hurt you?”