The blood throbs in Eugene's finger-tips, but, apparently perfectly indifferent, he stoops for the lace scarf which, with a quick gesture, Juanita has thrown from her upon the floor. Papa Harfink, who took the matter very phlegmatically, rang to order a flask of spring water and a lemon.
Juanita rummaged for a long time among old newspapers in which her triumphs were recorded. She turned them over more and more uneasily. Papa Harfink had long since ordered his spring water, when at last Juanita "found it."
"There it is!" cried she. "Will you read it?"
Eugene von Rhoeden refused. Raimund read it aloud.
It was an article in a scandalous journal which appeared in Vienna early in the sixties, but since then had failed or been suppressed. In that impertinent tone of cheap wit which seeks intellect in mockery, knowledge of human nature in cynicism, the story was told of a very arrogant young blue blood who in a weak hour had forged his father's name and who "now could further cultivate his talent for drawing in the prison of T----."
The name of the young man was given as Baron L----. Some one had written "Lanzberg" above it.
"That is not possible!" cried Raimund.
"Oh, if you please--if you please--possible!" screamed Juanita. "It is all true--perfectly true!"
"I once heard something of that," declared Harfink, senior, whom the whole story troubled very little, and who had not enlightened Susanna.
Rhoeden was silent.