The citizen said, putting away his snuff-box, and flicking some of the brown grains from his shirt-frill:
“His secretary, steward, pimp, or parasite—whatever the bigger of the two rogues in there”—he signed with his chin towards the coffee-room—“may be to your man upstairs, styles him the Prince-Aspirant, Serene Highness, and what-not. One would say, to hear the braggart, that this son of Napoleon’s old marauder had the King of Bavaria, the Federative Council, and the General Assembly at his back!” He added: “As for the lady who accompanies him, she is styled Excellency. One can only hope she is his wife?”
“Meinherr, not so. Upon this point I may pronounce authoritatively.” The landlord of “The Three Crowns” looked extremely wise. “Married Her Excellency may be; that is extremely probable!... But it is not to the fellow who will pay for this!”
“Ach, ach!” ejaculated the sleek citizen, shaking his scandalized head, “this is truly deplorable!” He added, knowing an instant’s doubt of the intuition of the innkeeper: “But how are you sure? May you not mistake?”
“Because,” said the host, whose chatter and round vacant face had beguiled Henriette into believing him a simple child of Nature, “because the Herr Colonel (who for all his fine figure and good looks is a mere Duselfritz), because the Colonel—when Madame holds up her little finger—obeys without questioning—that is why I am sure! The legal partner of a man’s bosom may nag or cajole him; she does not issue orders or commands. It is the mistress, not the wife, who gives herself such masterful airs. Again, my Frau tells me that Madame’s nightcaps are of real Valenciennes, with little moss-rosebuds set inside the frills; and, says my dear one—no respectable married woman would, for a mere husband, thus bedeck——”
“Prut—prut! it would be well, my good friend,” interrupted the respectable tradesman hastily, “to remember that this is a peculiarly solemn season, and——”
But the host went pounding on:
“Moreover, all the gold plate of Madame’s dressing-case is engraved ‘H. de R——.’ But to my mind the thing that convinces most is that the Herr Colonel (who is a Quatschkopf as well as a Duselfritz) should let her order up this from the cellar just to taste!”—the speaker lovingly blew a cobweb from the fat neck of the Kirsch bottle—“though Kirsch of fifty years old is four thalers the bottle, and he has said to her how he hates the stuff! Would any husband, even of a week or so, tolerate such prodigality in a wife?”
“Nu, nu!” said the portly citizen, completely convinced. “What should be done,” he cried in great agitation, “to rid the town of such a scandal? Think! My wits are upside down!”
He wrung his hands. The innkeeper, that simple child of Nature, rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his thumb, and said: