The countess was visibly embarrassed. She wrinkled her brow, and her little red cheeks glowed. “In the hotel she made the acquaintance of a Vicomte Seignan-Castreul, who was staying there with his sister,” she said hesitantly. “They invited Letitia to be their guest in Paris and afterwards at their château in Brittany. The child wept, and said to me: ‘Auntie, I’d love to go, but I can’t because I haven’t a cent.’ It cut me to the heart, and I scraped together what I could--five thousand francs in all. The darling thanked me from the heart, and then left with the vicomte and vicomtesse, and promised to meet me in Baden-Baden in October.” “And where are the twins in the meanwhile?” “She took them with her, of course--the twins, and their Argentinian nurse, an English maid, and her own maid.” “I honour your generosity, countess, but I don’t somehow like either your vicomte or your vicomtesse.” The countess suddenly gave a loud sob. “I don’t either!” she cried, and pressed her hands to her face. “I don’t either. If only the dear child does not meet with new misfortunes! But what was I to do? Can one resist her pleading? I was so happy to have her back; I felt as though she’d risen from the grave. No, the vicomte is not sympathetic to me at all. He has a dæmoniac character.” “People with dæmoniac characters are always swindlers, countess,” Crammon said drily. “A decent man is never that. It’s a swindle in itself, that word.” “Herr von Crammon,” the countess announced with decision, “I expect of you now that you show character in the other and beautiful sense of the word, I expect you to come to Baden-Baden when Letitia has arrived, to interest yourself in her who is closer to you than any one else on earth, and to make up for your wrong and your neglect.” “For the love of all the saints, not that!” Crammon cried in terror. “Recognition, deep emotion, father and daughter fall into each other’s arms, remorse and damp handkerchiefs! No! Anything you want, but not that.” “No excuses, Herr von Crammon, it is your duty!” The countess had arisen, and her eyes were majestic. Crammon writhed and begged and besought her. It did no good. The countess would not let him go until he had pledged her his word of honour to be in Baden-Baden by the end of October or, at latest, the beginning of November. When the countess was alone, she walked up and down for a little, still hot and gasping. Then she called her companion. “Send me the waiter, Stöhr,” she moaned, “I’m weak with hunger.” Fräulein Stöhr did as she was bidden. II