"But, my good Lina," said Madame von Herbart, who had vainly striven until now to check this stream of words, "perhaps our visit will not be agreeable to your husband?"
"What an idea!" cried Madame von Carly. "When I invite you to see me, it is well understood that he will esteem it an honor to receive you. Did you never hear the French proverb: 'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut!'[1] That is the best and most sensible one I know, and I never fail every day to make a little sermon on this text. But now, make haste! Pack up your things, whatever you may require, and let us dine early, that we may soon be off. The ground in the city burns under my feet. I should die if I were forced to live here a week; I always feel as if I could not draw a free breath until I am beyond the gates.—But I had almost forgotten. How is your father, Maria? The last time I saw him, I did not feel so pleasantly as usual in his society. This eternal talk about war and battles, glorious sieges and new taxes, seems to have thrown a black veil over his cheerful humor. He, too, must go with us to Sergow; one week with us, and the blues would soon be driven out of him. But where is the old gentleman? I would like myself to make the proposition to him."
"He is not at home," replied Madame von Herbart, "and I do not expect him in less than two hours. My poor father is now very busy; he has so many cares, and so much trouble, that we must not wonder if he sometimes looks rather serious. He could not possibly leave the city, and you would only embarrass him were you to invite him, for he always finds difficulty in saying 'No.' Please do me the favor not to attack the old gentleman. Be goods now, Lina," begged she, in her most persuasive tones; "promise me that, and I will go with you, and remain three days, although it will be very hard for me to leave my poor father so long alone."
"Good! So let it be!'" said Madame von Carly, after a moment's hesitation. "You see I am a good-natured fool, and am always so easily persuaded. But now go and make your arrangements. Ella will entertain me during your absence."
Madame von Herbart left the room, wishing heartily that the three days were over. She dreaded the visit, for her friend's impetuosity and excitable temper always inspired her with a certain fear. She was never more polite or more considerate of her words than when with Madame von Carly, but she never felt herself more helpless, or more restrained in her freedom of both thought and action, than when in that lady's company.
She feared still more for her daughter than for herself, and would willingly have spared Ella the three days' torment. Since her brother's death, the little girl had lost all desire to play with other children, and, although she was very patient and yielding, willingly enduring any annoyance for her mother's sake, it was impossible for her to make friends with Madame von Carly's wild slips, as she herself called her children, and always cheerfully to endure the pranks which the little pests were continually playing upon her.
While Madame von Herbart was packing up, and at the same time wondering over the peculiar mode of education practised by her friend,—whose rude, uncultured nature could not endure that a child should be taught to say "Good morning," and "Thank you,"—Theodore entered.
"Are you going away?" he asked, hastily, pointing to the half-filled travelling-bag. "And Ella, too?"
He spoke these words with a strange eagerness, and as Madame von Herbart replied with an affirmative nod, he seemed to be almost glad at this intelligence, for a burning red flushed his cheeks, and his eyes glowed: a moment later, all these signs of satisfaction had vanished. He grew very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked: "Are you really going away?"