The marchese stared at him in blank amazement. “_You!_” he ejaculated--“you Von Rosenau! It is incredible--preposterous. Why, you are old enough to be her grandfather.” “Not old enough to be in my dotage,--as I should be if I permitted my son to marry a beggarly Italian,--nor too old to punish impertinence as it deserves,” retorted the Graf. “Your son? You are the father then? It is all the same to me. I will fight you both. But the marriage shall take place first.” “It shall not.” “It shall.” “Insolent slave of an Italian, I will make you eat your words!” “Triple brute of a German, I spit upon you!” “Silence, sir!” “Silence yourself!” During this animated dialogue I sat apart, softly rubbing my hands. What a happy dispensation it would be, I could not help thinking, if these two old madmen were to exterminate each other, like the Kilkenny cats! Anyhow, their attention was effectually diverted from my humble person, and that was something to be thankful for. Never before had I been privileged to listen to so rich a vocabulary of vituperation. Each disputant had expressed himself, after the first few words, in his own language, and between them they were now making hubbub enough to bring the old house down about their ears. Up came the padrona to see the fun; up came her fat husband, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers; and her long-legged sons, and her tousle-headed daughters, and the maid-servant, and the cook, and the ostler--the whole establishment, in fact, collected at the open folding-doors, and watched with delight the progress of this battle of words. Last of all, a poor little trembling figure, with pale face and eyes big with fright, crept in, and stood, hand on heart, a little in advance of the group. I slipped to her side, and offered her a chair, but she neither answered me nor noticed my presence. She was staring at her father as a bird stares at a snake, and seemed unable to realise anything except the terrible fact that he had followed and found her. Presently the old man wheeled round, and became aware of his daughter. “Unhappy girl!” he exclaimed, “what is this that you have done?” I greatly fear that the marchese’s paternal corrections must have sometimes taken a more practical shape than mere verbal upbraidings; for poor Bianca shrank back, throwing up one arm, as if to shield her face, and, with a wild cry of “Alberto! come to me!” fell into the arms of that tardy lover, who at that appropriate moment had made his appearance, unobserved, upon the scene.