And she pointed fondly to a large iron-clamped coffin which occupied the space between two of the windows.  It was a novelty, for Cesarine did not recollect seeing it before.  Continuing her survey, it seemed to her that she noticed a different arrangement of the ornaments than when she was queen here, and that the fresh flowers in the vases and two palmettoes in urns were placed with a taste the German maid had never shown.

“Let me see! this Jewish Orpheus had a daughter—­”

“Exactly; she never leaves him.  She has rooms within his just the same as at our house in Munich.  It appears that Jew parents trust their pretty daughters no farther than they can see them.  But I do not blame M. Daniels,” went on Hedwig, enthusiastically, “she is so lovely!”

Cesarine rose partly, supporting herself with her hands on the arms of the chair.  Her eyes flashed like blue steel and her whole frame vibrated with kindled rage.

“Do you mean to tell me, girl, that Mademoiselle Rebecca—­as her name went, I think—­is now the mistress of my house?”

“In your absence,” returned Hedwig, drawlingly, “somebody had to preside, for neither the master, the old gentleman nor M. Antonino take the head of the dinner-table with the best grace.  It is true that our guests are not very particular if the wine flows freely.  I do not think the young lady likes the position, for I know the old, be-spectacled professors are as pestering with their attentions as the insolent officers.  She would have been so delighted at the relief promised by your return that she would run to meet you and you would not have been repulsed at the door.”

“I daresay,” replied Madame Clemenceau, frowning, and tapping the waxed wood floor impatiently with her foot.  “I did not care to announce my return home with a flourish of trumpets.  I was not averse to taking the house by surprise, and seeing what a transformation has gone on since I went away.  Besides, it is desirable, not to say necessary, that I should speak with you before seeing the others.”

Hedwig pouted a little.

“You ought to have written to me, madame, as we were agreed, I thought; I have been on tenderhooks because of your silence.  I did not even guess where you were.”

“I did not wish it known for a while, and even then, it appears, I spoke too soon,” said Cesarine gloomily.

“You did not want me to know, madame?” questioned the servant in surprise and with a trace of suspicion.

“Not even you,” and hanging her head, she sank into meditation, not pleasant, to judge by her hopeless expression.

The servant, who had the phlegmatic brain of her people, was stupefied for a little time, then, recovering some vivacity, she inquired hesitatingly as though she was never at her ease with the subtle woman.

“Is madame going away without more than a glance around?”

“Why do you talk such nonsense?” queried her mistress, looking up abruptly.