"Ach, so." But Emmie was not impressed, as I had expected her to be, by my proficiency; indeed, she took it quite the wrong way, for she leant back in her chair with a burst of laughter that surprised me, and as soon as she could speak, exclaimed,
"My dearest uncle Adolph" (she had called me so ever since the memorable Tuesday night), "you really are too funny. When I come down to stay with you in the winter we will get up some private theatricals, and you will bring the house down. I had not the faintest notion you were such a mimic; it is inimitable, just her very tone and manner to the life."
"Whose tone and manner?" I asked, faintly, trying to look unconscious.
"Why, Frau Schimpf's, of course; it could not be any one else. Oh uncle Adolph, what a shame of you to be so civil to the poor old thing, when all the time you were doing it only to get that up! Do say it again, though; I can't think how you could contrive to catch her voice and accent so completely."
We were wandering about next morning, in the direction of the ladies' mud-baths, when our attention was suddenly caught by loud screams proceeding from one of them, as of somebody in deadly fear. Several people came running to the spot; there was a commotion both inside and outside the building, and at last the word Schlange—snake—began to pass from mouth to mouth. Was there a viper in one of the ladies' baths? The idea appeared too horrible. Poor Emmie turned pale at the thought, and asked anxiously if German snakes were dangerous; but not two people gave her the same answer, and at last the brilliant suggestion occurred to her that it might, perhaps, be only an eel.
I looked at my watch, and found it was already past the time for my second glass of mineral water, and Emmie decided to stay where she was while I went in search of it, in the hopes of hearing the end of this strange affair. Twenty minutes later I returned, to find her leaning for support against a tree, exhausted by mirth, which burst out afresh at sight of me, while every face I met was expanded into a broad grin.
"Oh uncle Adolph, it is too ridiculous!" she panted, as she ran up to me and seized my arm. "What do you think it was? It was Madame B.'s bath, you know; and after she got into it she felt something in the mud, and she thought it was a snake, and screamed and made a tremendous fuss; and the bath-people came rushing to help her, and they got sticks and rakes and poked about in the mud, and, oh! what do you think they found in the bath?"
"Surely not the eel you suggested?" I asked faintly.
"A curl, Uncle Adolph! just that very identical long black curl you thought so beautiful! and it had got all straight and horrid in the mud, and really must have been unpleasantly like a snake to put one's foot on. But that is not all," she went on, "for it seems that poor Madame is bald, absolutely bald, and all those bows and fringes are nothing but a wig, and take on and off like a helmet; and to-day she must have been thinking of something else, for she stepped into her bath with the hair on, and this curl dropped into the mud. I do feel sorry for her, for when the people showed her what they had found, she was so angry that they say she tore the rest of the wig off her head, and threw it at them in a passion. So now everybody in the place will know that Madame B. is bald and artificially got up, and I should not wonder if the discovery drove her quite away from Salzbrun at once."
Emmie was right; that very afternoon the two ladies left the place, taking leave of none, and not caring to face any of their former companions. At night the subject was discussed at table d'hote; fresh incidents were supplied, dull witticisms were made about Medusa and her snaky locks, and those who had before been most inclined to offer incense at the shrine of Madame B. were foremost now in hinting that her teeth, her eyebrows, and the faint pink color in her cheeks were one and all as artificial as her hair. As for me, I held my tongue. Nobody, not even Emmie, had the least suspicion of my budding tendresse for the fascinating widow, and by and by some farther particulars became known about her. Her husband, a wealthy jeweler of Berlin, had been dead about two years, and had probably bequeathed to her, amongst much else, the diamond hoops which flashed so brightly on her pretty hands.