“You did not choose to hear when I was willing to tell you; and now——” Here Madame Rosenberg entered the room, and Hildegarde rose, saying, “that her head ached intolerably, and she would now go to bed.” “Good-night!” said Hamilton. “I hope your headache will be cured by a long sleep, and that you will be quite well when we meet again.” “Thank you; before that time I shall most probably have altogether forgotten it,” said Hildegarde. That means, thought Hamilton, she will not pour out my coffee to-morrow at breakfast. --------------------- CHAPTER XXII. THE DEPARTURE. HILDEGARDE did not appear the next morning, and Hamilton breakfasted with Madame Rosenberg sitting opposite to him in a striped red and white dressing-gown; her hair, as usual, twisted up to the very roots with hair-pins, to prepare curls which, however, seldom made their appearance at home, excepting on the evenings which the Hoffmanns spent with her. She sat opposite to him, and watched while he vainly endeavoured to improve his coffee by adding alternately cream and sugar. “One never enjoys a breakfast at this early hour,” she observes at length, “the coffee is, however, quite as good as usual; I made it myself.” “I have no doubt of it,” said Hamilton, “but the fact is, I am so accustomed to your daughter Hildegarde’s preparing it for me, that I do not know the quantity of cream and sugar necessary—by-the-by, I hope her headache is better this morning?” “She said so,” replied Madame Rosenberg, “but I found her so feverish, and looking so wretchedly ill, that I have forbidden her getting up until Doctor Berger sees her.” “You do not apprehend any serious illness, I hope?” “Oh, no—but Crescenz tells me that she slept very uneasily—had frightful dreams, and at one time during the night fancied someone intended to stab her! Such an idea! I suppose,” she added, after a pause, “you expect Count Zedwitz to call for you?” “I believe so,” said Hamilton, absently. “I am beginning rather to like him,” observed Madame Rosenberg. Hamilton did not appear to hear her. “You are going to a gay house,” she added, “at least it will be gay on such an occasion.” “What occasion?” asked Hamilton, looking up. “Why, did you not tell me that the only daughter was going to be married? And is not a wedding a very gay thing?” “Not always,” said Hamilton, “for brides generally shed tears and infect the bridesmaids, and the mamma half faints, and the papa is agitated, and when the bridal party leave, the house is immensely dull, until it fill with new people again. Altogether, a wedding is a very deadly-lively festivity, excepting to the two principal actors.” “I will prove the contrary,” said Madame Rosenberg, “you shall see how gay our wedding will be—that is, Crescenz’s! Did I tell you that it must be deferred until the carnival?” “Not a word—I thought it was to take place before Christmas.”