That night at 10 o'clock Frederick embarked at Naples on a Marseilles-bound steamer, being escorted to the wharf by Franz.
He never saw his father again.
CHAPTER III.
A HORRIBLE PREDICAMENT.
The strains of a beautiful old German melody, rendered by a rich contralto voice, floated through the night air and caused many a passer-by to linger beneath the open windows of a house in the Avenue Friedland whence they proceeded. It was a singularly beautiful woman who was singing, seated at the piano, in the half light of a daintily furnished drawing-room. Dressed in a marvelous composition of white velvet and old lace, with fragrant gardenias nestling in her bosom and in her soft, golden hair, her low bodice displayed to great advantage the marble whiteness and perfect outline of her bust.
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cries a cheery voice from the balcony where Frederick von Waldberg has been enjoying his after-dinner weed. With a light-hearted laugh he flings his half-burnt cigar into the street and steps into the room. Approaching his wife he encircles her slender waist with his arm and draws her curly head upon his shoulder.
“Dare to repeat, now, you perverse little woman, that you are sad. What ails you? Have you not all you can wish for, including a devoted slave of a husband who has given up everything for you, and is only governed by your sweet will?”
“Yes, dear, yes, dear,” murmurs Rose, gently disengaging herself from his embrace, “but you can't think how it pains me to know that it is I who have been the cause of your quarrel with your father—and then the future is so uncertain. We have not very much money left, and how we shall manage to keep up this establishment is more than I can tell.”
“Never mind; leave that to me. I will find the means somehow or other; only don't fret,” replies Frederick, in a low voice. “As long as you continue to love me everything will be all right. You are not yet tired of me, Weibchen, are you?”