The summer was almost at an end when the court returned from the baths.

The king's first official act was to sign the proclamation of the Schnabelsdorf ministry, dissolving the refractory Chamber of Deputies and ordering a new election.

The king was displeased; and yet, that which now surprised him was the inevitable consequence of his previous doings. He had returned in high spirits, but, like an importunate creditor, the state was already thrusting its claims upon him.

He felt happy that his government met with popular approval; but that, he thought, should be a matter of course. And now a great question was to be submitted to the country, and there were doubts as to what the answer might be.

Schnabelsdorf exercised his great conversational gifts, and adroitly endeavored to humor the heroic side of the king's character. But his efforts were in vain.

The whole land was in great commotion, but of this they knew little or nothing at court. The autumn maneuvers had begun, and in a few days the court expected to move to the summer palace, after which, hunting in the Highlands was to begin.

The king had seldom taken so lively an interest in the maneuvers. The ease and precision with which, on such occasions, large bodies of men were moved at will, afforded a suggestive contrast to the spirit of disorganization and breaking away from authority which seemed abroad in the land. Nothing, however, was further from his thoughts than the idea of bringing the two opposing tendencies to bear upon each other.

At the court assemblages, the king always seemed to be in an exceptionally pleasant mood. The greater his ill-humor, the more he regarded it his duty to keep up the outward semblance of cheerfulness. The habit, acquired in youth, of always keeping up his dignity; the knowledge that the eyes of all were upon him; a due consideration for the claims of those about him; the need of always speaking the right word at the right time; above all, the art of ignoring--an art in which others refrain from indulging themselves, and which, for that very reason, requires practice--and, added to this, the consciousness of possessing kingly power:--all this prevented him from betraying the slightest trace of ill-humor. He manifested a lively interest in whatever was going on, especially so, when Irma was present. She, above all, should never find him wavering, for she would have misinterpreted it. It was therefore necessary, in her presence, to keep up that exalted mood which regards dissent or contradiction as impossible, and thus esteems itself as above the law. And yet the king felt the danger of encouraging a secret passion while all his strength was required by a weighty problem, in the solution of which he would necessarily encounter great opposition.

Irma returned from her visit to the seashore refreshed and invigorated. She was more beautiful than ever, but was rarely seen at court, as she spent much of her time with Arabella. On the day after Arabella had given birth to a boy, Irma and the doctor left Bruno's house together.

Irma was about to say: "I am beginning to get tired of this everlasting nursery," but checked herself in time.

The doctor did not utter a word, while accompanying her down the carpeted stairs. His features wore a serious expression. He had been living in the great world for many years, but, even now, it offended his sense of justice when he saw the joys of paternity fall to the share of one who, like Bruno, had led what is mildly termed a "fast life." The doctor pressed the ivory handle of his cane against his lips, as if thus to prevent his thoughts from finding vent in words. Silently, he seated himself in the carriage with Irma. They drove to the palace.

"My sister-in-law has imposed a difficult task upon me," said Irma.

Gunther did not inquire as to the nature of the task, and Irma was obliged to continue of herself:

"She made me promise that I'd inform father of the birth of his grandson. If you were still on former terms of intimacy with him, you would be the best mediator."

"I can do nothing," replied Gunther, curtly. He was unusually reserved in his manner toward Irma. She felt conscious of this, and felt, too, that she no longer had a right to claim unreserved confidence on the part of her friends. But as she did not wish to break with those whom she esteemed, it was necessary to maintain relations of courtesy with them.

"I believe that Bruno's better nature will now assert itself," said Irma. She forced herself to speak, and trembled when she thought that the man who sat beside her might suddenly ask her: "What have you done with your better nature?"

The carriage stopped before the palace. Irma alighted and Gunther drove home.

Once in her room, Irma pressed both hands to her heart as if to allay the storm within. "Must I beg every one to prove his friendly feeling by silence, or to admit that I am right? Those who despise the world's laws and have soared above them, had better cease to live." She aroused herself by a violent effort and began the letter to her father. She complained that she had had no news from him for a long while. She wrote about Arabella, informed him that Bruno had become a steady paterfamilias, and, at last, mentioned the birth of the grandson. She also wrote that Arabella begged for a few lines from the grandfather, and that they would render her happy.

Irma found her letter a difficult task. Her pen usually responded to every varying phase of feeling; but, that day, it seemed to stumble and hesitate. She leaned back in her chair, and picked up a letter that she had found lying there. It was Walpurga's. She smiled while reading it, and enjoyed the satisfaction of having benefited a fellow-creature who, although distant, held her in faithful remembrance.

The waiting-maid announced Bruno's groom. Irma had him come in. He had come to express his master's desire that the gracious countess should at once dispatch the letter she had promised to write, and said that he had been ordered to take it to the post-office himself. Irma sealed it and gave it to him.

Bruno, seated in his dog-cart, was waiting at the corner of the palace square. The groom handed him the letter. Bruno put it in his pocket. He drove to the post-office and, with his own hands, dropped a letter into the box. This epistle, however, was directed to a lady. The one intended for his father he retained in his possession. He was determined not to humble himself, either through his sister or his wife.

The box into which Bruno dropped the perfumed billet-doux contained letters for old Eberhard,--letters which Bruno could not intercept.