"Who is this woman?" asked the old countess.
Her son had regained all his self-possession again. He approached
Arabella, and, taking her hand, led her directly up to his mother.
"My mother, I beg to present to you the Countess Baillou, the lady-patroness of the ball I give to-night."
The old countess paid no attention to Arabella's deep courtesy. She was too much in earnest to heed her.
"Will you come, Carl? Every moment is precious."
"My dear lady," exclaimed Arabella, "you forget that not only the aristocracy of Vienna, but the emperor himself, is to be your son's guest to-night."
"Do not listen to her, my son," cried the wretched mother. "Her voice is the voice of the evil spirit that would lure you on to destruction. Carl! Carl!" cried she, laying her vigorous grasp upon his arm, "be not so irresolute! Come, and prove yourself to be a man!"
"Ay!" interposed Arabella, "be a man, Carl, and suffer no old woman to come under your own roof and chide you as if you were her naughty boy. What business, pray, is it of this lady's, where you gather your riches? And what to the distinguished Podstadsky are the clamors of two unnatural parents, who have long since lost all claim to his respect?"
"Carl! Carl!" shrieked the mother, "do not heed her. She is an evil spirit. Come with me."
There was a pause. Arabella raised her starry eyes, and fixed them with an expression of passionate love upon the count. That simulated look sealed his fate.