“Well, will you then faithfully help us to prevent it?” quickly asked Ebenstreit.
“How can I do it?” she sighed, shrugging her shoulder.
“You can persuade my daughter to be reasonable, and yield to that which she cannot prevent. You are the only one who can make any impression upon Marie, as she confides in you. Watch her, that in a moment of passionate desperation she does not commit some rash act. You can tell us, further, what she says, and warn us of any crazy plan she might form to carry out her own will.”
“That is to say, I must betray my Marie?” cried Trude, angrily.
“No, not betray, but rescue her. Will you do it?” asked Ebenstreit.
“I wish to be paid my wages, my two hundred thalers, that I have honestly earned, and I will have them.”
Ebenstreit took a piece of paper from his pocket. Writing a few lines with a pencil, he laid it upon the table. “If you will take this to my cashier after the ceremony to-morrow, he will pay you four hundred thalers.”
“Four hundred thalers in cash,” cried Trude, joyfully clapping her hands. “Shall all that beautiful money be mine, and—No, I do not believe you,” she cried, her face reassuming its gloomy, suspicious look. “You promise it to me to-day, that I may assist you, and persuade Marie to the marriage, but to-morrow, when old Trude is of no more use, you will send me away penniless. Oh, I know how it is. I have lived long enough to understand the tricks of rich people. I will see the cash first—only for that will I sell myself.”
“The old woman pleases me,” said Ebenstreit. “She is practical, and she is right.—If I promise you the money in an hour, will you persuade Marie to cease her foolish resistance, and be my wife? Will you watch over her, and tell us if any thing unusual occurs?”
“Four hundred thalers is a pretty sum,” repeated Trude, in a low voice to herself. “I might buy myself a place in the hospital, and have enough left to get me a new bed and neat furniture and—”