CHAPTER IV.

Ferdinanda had long ago emancipated herself from all control on the part of her aunt. She was accustomed to go and come as she pleased; the only point on which it was necessary to be attentive was punctuality at meals. Her father was very particular about this, only Aunt Rikchen declared, in order that he might worry her out of her five senses if she ever happened to be delayed by her household duties or other matters, as could hardly be avoided by such a poor creature. Ferdinanda was aware also that her father avoided every opportunity of being alone with his sister, and that it was therefore an especial annoyance to him if she herself stayed away from meals on any pretence. Under such circumstances her father always took his meals by himself in his own room. But this had very rarely happened, even in former days, and scarcely ever happened now. Ferdinanda had almost entirely withdrawn herself from all her friends; she said often that she had no friends, only acquaintances, and that she did not care much about them.

To-day she must pretend to visit some friend, and leave word at home that she should not probably be back to supper, which was always served at nine o'clock punctually. Her pride revolted at the necessity of the lie, and such an improbable one, but she had given her word; whether good or evil came of it, her fate was decided--the deed must be done.

She went therefore at half-past seven, with her bonnet and cloak on, down to her aunt, who was invariably to be found at that hour in the sitting-room behind the dining-room, where, in her seat near the window, she could count her stitches by the fading light, watch the passers-by without trouble, and, as Uncle Ernst said, indulge her fancies quite undisturbed. The latter employment was the most successful to-day; the stitches were very difficult to count, in consequence of the gloomy weather, and the same cause had diminished the number of passers-by, "as if they were all on strike, like those abominable work-people;" besides the butcher had brought for the next day a miserable leg of veal, which, that silly Trine, the cook, ought never to have taken in, and for her punishment must take back again, although Heaven only knew how she was to get the supper ready all alone, for as for Trine being back in less than an hour, she knew the idle thing better than that. And now Ferdinanda was going out--was going to spend the evening out! Aunt Rikchen in despair snatched her spectacles from her nose, and let her stocking, with the stitches she had only just picked up, fall into her lap.

"Good gracious! has everything combined against poor me to-day?" she exclaimed. "Reinhold has just been in to say that he will not be at home either."

"Where is Reinhold?"

"Oh! did not he tell you? Quite a large _soirée_--that is what you call it? He supposed he must put on his uniform."

"At whose house?"

"At the Werbens'! Young Herr von Werben came here himself this morning. You saw him in your studio, by-the-bye! I know nothing about it!--of course I know nothing about it. At eight o'clock. It must be half-past seven already."

Ferdinanda's countenance fell. "At the Werben's! At eight o'clock! How could that be!"

"And where are you going, if I may venture to ask?"

Ferdinanda told the lie she had prepared. She had spoken to Fräulein Marfolk the artist at the Exhibition; Fräulein Marfolk had given her such a pressing invitation to go and see her again; she had some curiosities and photographs to show her, which she had brought from Rome; this evening she happened to be disengaged. Professor Seefeld from Karlsruhe would be there also, who was most anxious to make Ferdinanda's acquaintance. She had accepted, and could not draw back now.

"And poor I must eat my supper alone again!" said Aunt Rikchen; "for he had rather eat a live crocodile with its skin and bones, in company with seven Hottentots, than a comfortable mutton-cutlet with his poor old sister. Well, I must bear it. I must bear everything. If the whole business stands still, my poor intellect can stand still too, and my poor old heart with it." Her misery was too great; Aunt Rikchen burst into tears.

"What is the good of exciting yourself so unnecessarily?" asked Ferdinanda impatiently.

"Exciting myself so unnecessarily!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. "Of course you think everything unnecessary. But I see it coming. I noticed the people as they went away this morning, how they stood there in the street and stared up at the house, and shook their fists threateningly, and abused the police who were dragging away those two wretches, Schwarz and Brandt, and that silly boy Carl Peters; and they abused your father, too. It was shocking to hear them! It makes me shudder when I think of it, and of what may still happen, for we have not seen the end yet--of that you may be sure. But you don't excite yourself of course--not you!"

"I could not prevent it, and can do nothing against it," said Ferdinanda.

"You might have prevented it, and you could still do something before matters come to the worst, and they burn the roof over our heads!" exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "but I cannot see my hand before my eyes; I cannot distinguish a church-tower from a knitting-needle."

"The old song!" said Ferdinanda.

"Every bird sings as he has learned," exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; "and if my ways do not please you, it is only because in these days every chicken is wiser than the hen; for if I am not your mother, I have worried myself as much as two mothers about you, and have asked myself a hundred thousand times what is to come of it? But perhaps Providence may have willed it so; it is always, one way or another, kinder to you than to other people. And I am not at all sure that your father has not always intended it so, for I always had my suspicions of that thick red pencil, when no one else was allowed to touch his plans with a finger; and any old woman can see how highly he thinks of him, and he is extremely brave and good, and it would keep the family together, if you were wise and married him before in these bad times everything flies up the chimney."

"Reinhold?"

"Did you think I meant the Emperor of Fez and Morocco? But you only pretend to be astonished, and jump up off your chair in order to make a poor old thing like me tremble in all her limbs, as if my nerves were not already sufficiently dérangés--that is what you call it, is not it?"

"I got up because it is high time for me to go," said Ferdinanda. "Good-bye, aunt."

She had gone a few steps towards the door, when the portière which covered it was slowly drawn aside.

"Mi perdona, Signora! Signora Frederica, your most obedient servant!"

Ferdinanda stood still in horror.

"What did Antonio come for at this moment?"

"Mi perdona!" repeated Antonio. "I fear that the ladies did not hear me knock at the door, so I ventured to walk in."

And he pointed carelessly in his easy Italian fashion to some books which he held in his hand.

"This is not the day for our lesson," said Ferdinanda.

"I cannot come to-morrow, signora, so I ventured--"

"I have no time to-day. You see I am just going out."

She said it in a hasty tone, for which there was apparently not the smallest occasion, and which was a wonderful contrast to the Italian's courteous, "Mi ritiro, e le domando perdona--buona sera, signora," and the low bow with which he passed again through the portière.

"Why were you so sharp with the young man?" asked Aunt Rikchen.

Ferdinanda did not answer; she was listening for the soft footstep as it retired, and for the sound of the closing door. Would it be the glass door leading to the garden, or the other one which led to the entrance hall? It was the glass door; he had not gone out then. And yet. Why had she said that she was going out? Should she give it up?

But there was no time to think. With a half-murmured: "Good-bye, aunt, I will make haste back," she had left the room and was standing in the street, almost without knowing how she had got there.

She had intended to take a cab at the corner of the street, but the stand was empty; she must make up her mind to walk along the Springbrunnenstrasse as far as the Parkstrasse, where she hoped to find one. Perhaps it would be better; she could more easily make sure of not being followed than in a close carriage. As she walked hastily along she looked back two or three times; a few people met her; no one was behind her; she breathed more freely; he had not followed her. She feared no one but him.

But he whom she feared to see behind her was at that moment far in front.

Since this morning Antonio had felt certain that the relations between the handsome young officer and Ferdinanda had entered on a new stage, and probably something was going to take place, something that he must know at any price, that he would know, however secretly they might go about it. He had, therefore, made the lesson which he gave her once a week in his own language, an excuse for approaching her, in order to find fresh food for his jealous curiosity, which imagined all possible things. He had found her, who so seldom left the house in the evening, ready to go out, without having ordered the carriage as she usually