“But did you not tell her that I must necessarily have them?” asked the countess.
“My lady, I not only told old Trude so, but I reproached her violently for having accepted an order which her mistress could not execute; but the old woman shut the door in my face, and gave me no other answer than this: ‘The flowers are not ready.’”
“But they can perhaps still be got ready,” said the countess. “Probably she has a great deal of work on hand for this evening, and it will perhaps only be necessary to offer her a higher price in order to secure the preference above her other customers. Let my carriage be driven to the door. I will see and speak with this inconsiderate person myself!”
A quarter of an hour later the countess’s carriage stopped in front of the store in Frederick Street, over the door of which was written in large letters: “Marie von Leuthen, manufacturer of flowers.”
The servant hurried forward to open the door, and the countess glided majestically into the store, and greeted the old woman, who advanced to meet her, with a proud, and almost imperceptible inclination of the head.
“I wish to speak with Madame von Leuthen herself,” said the countess, imperiously.
“Her ladyship, however, well knows that none of Madame von Leuthen’s customers have had the pleasure of seeing her in the last two years,” rejoined the old woman in sharp tones. “Her ladyship, like all the other inquisitive ladies, has often attempted to see and speak with my mistress, but always in vain. Madame von Leuthen has neither time nor inclination to be chatted with or stared at. She does the work and I receive the orders. Her ladyship must therefore have the goodness to say what she has to say to old Trude.”
“I have come for my flowers,” said the countess, angrily. “My servant tells me that he received the very impertinent message that they not only were not, but would not be, ready. I can, however, scarcely credit his statement, for I ordered these flowers myself, and when an order has been accepted, it must of course be filled at the proper time.”
“Your servant told you the truth,” replied old Trude, in grumbling tones, “the roses will not be ready.”
“And why not, if I may be permitted to ask?”