“Certainly, why should you not ask? Of course you may ask,” rejoined Trude, shrugging her shoulders. “The answer is: The roses have not been got ready, because Madame von Leuthen has not worked.”
“Has your mistress then done so well that she is on the point of retiring from business?” asked the countess.
Trude raised her eyes with a peculiar expression to her ladyship’s haughty countenance, and for a moment her withered old face quivered with pain. But this emotion she quickly suppressed, and assumed her former peevish and severe manner.
“What does my lady care whether my little Marie desires to retire to rest or not, or whether the good Lord wills that she shall do so,” said she, gruffly. “Enough, the roses cannot indeed be ready, and if her ladyship is angry, let her scold old Trude, for she alone is to blame, as she never even gave Madame von Leuthen your order.”
“This is, however, very wrong, very impertinent,” cried the countess. “Pray, why did you accept the order?”
“True, that I ought not to have done,” murmured the old woman to herself, “but I thought she would grow better, and instead—my lady,” said she, interrupting herself. “I have nothing more to say, and must beg you to content yourself with my reply. No more flowers will be furnished to-day, and I will immediately lock the front door.”
“She is a rude person,” cried the countess, angrily. “If she dares to insult those who assisted her impoverished mistress out of benevolence and pity, in this shameless manner, the consequence will be that her customers will withdraw their patronage and give her no more orders.”
“As you please, my lady,” said old Trude, sorrowfully. “But be kind enough to go, if you have nothing further to say.”
The countess gave the presuming old woman an annihilating glance, and rustled out of the store and into her carriage.