"Now, be wise as the serpent. If you play with me, I can play with you." He came back to Oldenburg. "I am ready." "Then let us go.--My carriage is at the door," said the baron, as they went down the staircase that led into the garden. "The Czika is sitting inside, wrapped in my cloak. Don't you agree with me that it is better to take the child with us to the interview? If the gypsy woman is really the child's mother, we owe her at least this attention. At all events she can see that the child is alive and well, and tolerably well contented with her new home.--But what does all this stir mean at the château? Anna Maria is not ordinarily a friend of festivities. Did Malte run away and come back, and is this the feast of the fatted calf?" "The question is not about a lost son but upon a returning daughter," said Oswald, forcing himself into a light tone; "Miss Helen has come back from school. Since then there has been no end of festivities." "_Tempora mutantur_," Oldenburg said, laughing, as they were crossing the lawn; "I am exceedingly curious to see this marvel. I hope nobody will notice us." He went towards the steps which led up to the terrace. The doors were now closed, as the air had cooled off outside; the windows likewise; but the curtains had not been let down, and one could see from the outside all that was going on in the brilliantly lighted rooms. As they approached the window, they saw Helen sit just opposite to them at the piano. Felix was standing behind her chair. He bent over her and seemed eagerly to speak to her. Oldenburg's sharp eye had instantly caught the group. "Who is that young man?" he asked. As Oswald made no reply, the baron looked at him and saw that he was biting his under lip, while his eyes were fixed upon the two at the piano. Felix was bending still lower; Oswald bit his lip till the blood trickled down. Suddenly Helen rose and walked through the group of dancers, who were startled by the sudden ceasing of the music, straight to the window where Oldenburg and Oswald were standing. They moved back into the shade. When she reached the window she remained quiet, crossing her arms on her bosom and fixing her large gray eyes on the moon, whose golden disc was floating in the deep blue night sky. It was a face of irresistible power, mysteriously lovely and fatally beautiful.--A gentleman--Adolphus--approached her and spoke to her. She answered briefly, without changing her position, without scarcely moving her lips. He bowed and went away. Then, as if she had reconsidered, she turned round, went back to the piano, sat down and began to play again. As if touched by a magic wand, the dancers resumed their dance, and the gay picture which Oldenburg and Oswald had seen at first was quite restored. "Who was the fool who caused this intermezzo?" asked Oldenburg, as they were going down the garden. "Felix Grenwitz, her cousin."