"No, no--it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!"

Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.

"Nonsense, pet.i.te, nonsense!" he said. "It was only fit for the fire. I will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow."

When I told this to my father--and I used to prattle to him a good deal about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days--he tugged at his moustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.

"The South of France!" he muttered, "the South of France! _Sacre coeur d'une bombe_! Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on that coast somewhere near Cannes!"

"And went to Monsieur Maurice's house, father!" I cried, "and that is why the King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice's house away from him, and given it to a stranger! I am sure that's it! I see it all now!"

But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave.

"No, no, no," he said, "neither all--nor half--nor a quarter! There's more behind. I don't understand it--I don't understand it. Thunder and Mars! Why don't we hand him over to the French Government? That's what puzzles me."

6

The severity of the Winter had, I think, in some degree abated, and the snowdrops were already above ground, when again a mounted orderly rode in from Cologne, bringing another official letter for the Governor of Bruhl.

Now my father's duties as Governor of Bruhl were very light--so light that he had not found it necessary to set apart any special room, or bureau, for the transaction of such business as might be connected therewith.

When, therefore, letters had to be written or accounts made up, he wrote those letters and made up those accounts at a certain large writing-table, fitted with drawers, pigeon-holes, and a shelf for account-books, that stood in a corner of our sitting-room. Here also, if any persons had to be received, he received them. To this day, whenever I go back in imagination to those bygone times, I seem to see my father sitting at that writing-table nibbling the end of his pen, and one of the sergeants off guard perched on the edge of a chair close against the door, with his hat on his knees, waiting for orders.

There being, as I have said, no especial room set apart for business purposes, the orderly was shown straight to our own room, and there delivered his despatch. It was about a quarter past one. We had dined, and my father had just brought out his pipe. The door leading into our little dining-room was, indeed, standing wide open, and the dishes were still upon the table.

My father took the despatch, turned it over, broke the seals one by one (there were five of them, as before), and read it slowly through. As he read, a dark cloud seemed to settle on his brow.

Then he looked up frowning--seemed about to speak--checked himself--and read the despatch over again.

"From whose hands did you receive this?" he said abruptly.

"From General Berndorf, Excellency," stammered the orderly, carrying his hand to his cap.

"Is his Excellency the Baron von Bulow at Cologne?"

"I have not heard so, Excellency."

"Then this despatch came direct from Berlin, and has been forwarded from Cologne?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"How did it come from Berlin? By mail, or by special messenger?"

"By special messenger, Excellency."

Now General Berndorf was the officer in command of the garrison at Cologne, and the Baron von Bulow, as I well knew, was His Majesty's Minister of War at Berlin.

Having received these answers, my father stood silent, as if revolving some difficult matter in his thoughts. Then, his mind being made up, he turned again to the orderly and said:--

"Dine--feed your horse--and come back in an hour for the answer."

Thankful to be dismissed, the man saluted and vanished. My father had a rapid, stern way of speaking to subordinates, that had in general the effect of making them glad to get out of his presence as quickly as possible.

Then he read the despatch for the third time; turned to his writing-table; dropped into his chair; and prepared to write.

But the task, apparently, was not easy. Watching him from the fireside corner where I was sitting on a low stool with an open story-book upon my lap, I saw him begin and tear up three separate attempts. The fourth, however, seemed to be more successful. Once written, he read it over, copied it carefully, called to me for a light, sealed his letter, and addressed it to "His Excellency the Baron von Bulow."

This done, he enclosed it under cover to "General Berndorf, Cologne"; and had just sealed the outer cover when the orderly came back. My father gave it to him with scarcely a word, and two minutes after, we heard him clattering out of the courtyard at a hand-gallop.

Then my father came back to his chair by the fireside, lit his pipe, and sat thinking silently. I looked up in his face, but felt, somehow, that I must not speak to him; for the cloud was still there, and his thoughts were far away. Presently his pipe went out; but he held it still, unconscious and absorbed. In all the months we had been living at Bruhl I had never seen him look so troubled.

So he sat, and so he looked for a long time--for perhaps the greater part of an hour--during which I could think of nothing but the despatch, and Monsieur Maurice, and the Minister of War; for that it all had to do with Monsieur Maurice I never doubted for an instant.

By just such another despatch, sealed and sent in precisely the same way, and from the same person, his coming hither had been heralded. How, then, should not this one concern him? And in what way would he be affected by it? Seeing that dark look in my father's face, I knew not what to think or what to fear.

At length, after what had seemed to me an interval of interminable silence, the time-piece in the corner struck half-past three--the hour at which Monsieur Maurice was accustomed to give me the daily French lesson; so I got up quietly and stole towards the door, knowing that I was expected upstairs.

"Where are you going, Gretchen?" said my father, sharply.

It was the first time he had opened his lips since the orderly had clattered out of the courtyard.

"I am going up to Monsieur Maurice," I replied.

My father shook his head.

"Not to-day, my child," he said, "not to-day. I have business with Monsieur Maurice this afternoon. Stay here till I come back."

And with this he got up, took his hat and went quickly out of the room.

So I waited and waited--as it seemed to me for hours. The waning day-light faded and became dusk; the dusk thickened into dark; the fire burned red and dull; and still I crouched there in the chimney-corner. I had no heart to read, work, or fan the logs into a blaze. I just watched the clock, and waited. When the room became so dark that I could see the hands no longer, I counted the strokes of the pendulum, and told the quarters off upon my fingers.

When at length my father came back, it was past five o'clock, and dark as midnight.

"Quick, quick, little Gretchen," he said, pulling off his hat and gloves, and unbuckling his sword. "A gla.s.s of kirsch, and more logs on the fire! I am cold through and through, and wet into the bargain."

"But--but, father, have you not been with Monsieur Maurice?" I said, anxiously.

"Yes, of course; but that was an hour ago, and more. I have been over to Kierberg since then, in the rain."

He had left Monsieur Maurice an hour ago--a whole, wretched, dismal hour, during which I might have been so happy!

"You told me to stay here till you came back," I said, scarce able to keep down the tears that started to my eyes.

"Well, my little Madchen?"