The king was in his cabinet at an early hour. He avoided all enervating self-indulgence, and his powers of endurance surpassed those of any other member of the court. It was his custom to take a cold bath every morning, all the year round, and this always gave him new life and strength. He knew nothing of deshabille, and always left his bath-room fully dressed for the day.

There was to be a hunt that day, and the king was in hunting costume. He had repaired to the cabinet, for the purpose of dispatching various matters of business that required his immediate attention.

His office was situated in the central building, in the so-called Elector's Tower. It was a large, lofty apartment, and comfortable withal. Its walls were covered with a sort of handy-volume library, military maps and various favorite specimens of plastic art, mostly antiques, of which he had procured copies while yet a prince. There was also a letter-weight, formed of balls from the battle-field of Leipsic. The oaken furniture was in the Renaissance style--the large writing-table stood in the center of the room. A water-color picture, representing the queen as a bride, hung on his right.

The king entered and touched the bell which stood on the writing-table; the privy councilor presented himself.

He handed several papers to the king, who hurriedly read and signed them. The councilor presented a report in regard to the household ministry. The king, meanwhile, walked up and down the room. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"What's that?"

From the adjoining room, he heard sounds as if moving and lifting, and also scraping footsteps, just as if a coffin were being borne away. He touched the bell. In an instant, the door opened and the head chamberlain appeared.

"What insufferable noise is that in the gallery?"

"Your Majesty ordered the large picture to be removed."

The king remembered having given the order the day before.

Although he had, for a long while, been accustomed to seeing the picture in that place, it had yesterday suddenly become repugnant to him. The painting represented Belshazzar seated on his throne and surrounded by his creatures, while a hand issuing from the clouds is writing "Mene Tekel" on the wall. The figures were all in life size. The king had given directions that the picture should be removed to the public gallery.

"I am awkwardly served," said the king impatiently. "It would have been time to do that while I was at the hunt."

The head chamberlain trembled when he heard these words. His hands dropped, and his head bent as if with shame. It was with difficulty that he dragged himself out through the opposite door. Instant silence ensued. Noiselessly, the painting was placed on the floor and the servants retired.

The chamberlain came around, from the other side, into the anteroom. He sat down in an arm-chair and took a pinch of snuff between his fingers, but was so absorbed in thought that he forgot to use it until the very moment when Baum entered the room.

He sat opposite Baum. All was silent. Now and then he would shake his head mournfully and look at his large arm-chair. "Yes, he'll soon be sitting here, and I'll be dismissed," thought he. When the privy councilor passed through the ante-chamber, the old chamberlain forgot to bring him his hat. Baum did it in his stead, for Baum was fresh again. This was no time to show signs of fatigue. He felt that he held the winning card, and that now was the time to play it.

The bell in the cabinet was again heard.

"Is there any one else in the anteroom?" inquired the king of the chamberlain.

"Yes, Your Majesty; Baum is here."

"Let him enter."

Baum felt fully conscious of his importance. The king had not ordered him to report to the chamberlain, but had said, "Let him enter." He desired to confer with him in person. The confidential position which he had craved was already his.

Baum's usually grave and submissive manner seemed more impressive than ever before.

"Have you a message?" asked the king.

"No, Your Majesty."

"What have you there?"

"Your Majesty," replied Baum, placing his bundle on the chair and untying it, "I found this hat of Countess von Wildenort in the lake, and these shoes among the willows on the shore."

The king put forth his hand, as if to grasp these tokens, and then drew it back and pressed it to his heart. He stared at Baum and seemed lost in surprise.

"What does it all mean?" he asked, raising his hand to his head, as if to smooth down his hair which stood on end.

"Your Majesty," continued Baum, who himself trembled when he saw the king's agitated manner, "the countess wore these articles when she rode out with me and ran away."

"Ran away? and--"

Baum laid his hand on his watch, and, although he could not see the dial, he counted the seconds, nevertheless; after which he softly answered:

"The countess drowned herself in the lake last night--no, it was night before last. The boatman saw the body of a female rise on the waters and sink again; and tomorrow, which is the third day, the lake will give her up."

The king motioned him to stop--it was enough--his hand trembled; he grasped the back of a chair to support himself, and stared at the hat and shoes.

Baum dropped his eyes. He felt that the king's gaze was fixed upon him, but he still kept looking on the floor, which seemed to be rising and lifting the lackey to the level of the throne. In his mind's eye, he already beheld himself at the king's side, and as the confidant of royalty. Baum modestly inclined his head still lower. He heard the king pacing the room, but still he did not look up.

"A downcast air," thought he, "betokens perfect obedience and unqualified devotion." The king now stopped before him.

"How do you know it was suicide?"

"I don't know. If it is Your Majesty's pleasure, the countess was drowned by others--"

"My pleasure? I? How?"

"I humbly beg Your Majesty's permission--may I tell all?"

"You must--!"

Summoning all his strength, Baum now said:

"Your Majesty, I found the shoes myself, but I got the hat from a man who is fit to do anything--the gend'arme thinks--that it may perhaps be good for the man--he might be pardoned at the end of a year and sent to America--a brother of his--is said to be--there--"

"You speak incoherently."

Baum regained his self-command.

"She may have been murdered by some poacher. The worst of it all is that she sent a letter to her majesty the queen."

"A letter to the queen! Where is it? Give it to me!"

"I haven't it, the maid snatched it from me."

The king sat down.

For a long while, not a sound was heard but the rapid ticking of the clock that stood on the writing-table.

The king arose from his seat and walked up and down the room. Then he came toward Baum, who felt as if the hour of judgment had come--as if his life hung in the balance. He tried to loosen his cravat; it seemed too tight for him. He almost felt as if a sword were passing through him.

"Do you know what was in the letter to the queen?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Was it sealed?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And have you nothing more?"

"Yes, Your Majesty; I was almost obliged to use violence to get this from the maid; and here, Your Majesty, there is something more. Beside the shoes, there was a pool of blood, and on this little plant there are drops of her blood."

A heart-rending cry of pain escaped the king; then, taking the letter and the plant with him, he went into the adjoining room.

Baum remained standing there waiting.

In the next room, the king sat reading, with tearful eyes.

"She loved me intensely. She was great and beautiful," said he to himself, with pale and trembling lips. His mind was filled with thoughts of her beauty, her voice, her gait, and all her varied charms. And were they all now dead?

The king looked at his hand; the hand which she had so fondly kissed. He took up the letter again and once more read the words: "To my friend." He knew not how it came about, but when he again became conscious of himself, he was kneeling by the chair.

What was to come next?

He remembered that the lackey was waiting in the cabinet. The king felt deeply humbled at the thought of his being obliged to take such a creature into his confidence; but had not men of all kinds long known of his crime? They knew of it, but were silent. A thousand eyes were upon him, a thousand lips were speaking--and all were telling this terrible story. The king looked about him, bewildered. He could scarcely rise. And among the many thousands who had laid their hands in his, and who looked up to him, there was one--Ah! how heavily her hand and her glance now weighed upon him. And her lips; what might they say?

How was he now to approach the queen? If she only knew his deep contrition, she would fall weeping on his neck; for she was divine goodness itself. And yet, how had he acted toward her!

He was on the point of sending Irma's last words to the queen. He meant to add some words expressive of his contrition--to lay bare his thoughts and feelings. It is best, thought he to himself, not to act precipitately, and when he was again on his feet, the consciousness of strength returned. One must be able to fulfill the most difficult duties, even that of repentance, without sacrificing dignity.

The king saw himself in the large mirror. He had forgotten that he was in hunting costume, and started at the reflection of himself, as though it were a stranger.

His face was pale, his eyes inflamed. He had shed tears for his friend, and that was enough. What, with some natures, requires months or years, great minds achieve in a few moments. Their years had become as ages. It seemed to him as if the words: "The kiss of eternity," were being wafted toward him on the air, and his mind was filled with memories of that day in the atelier of the ball, and--

"It was given to thee to live the highest life and then die; to force death to do your bidding. But I cannot do so. I do not live for myself alone!" said he, apostrophizing his friend, and feeling as if a new source of life flowed forth from the depths of his grief.

"And this is thy work," said an inner voice, while his thoughts were of the dead. "In all that's good, your spirit will ever abide with me. Without thee--I would confess it to God, were I now to appear before him--I should never have discovered the deepest springs of my being. If I only knew of some deed which could serve as a fit memorial of thy life."

The king again remembered that the lackey was waiting for him. He felt annoyed that there was not an hour he could call his own, in which to calm his agitated feelings, and, for the first time in his life, it flashed upon him: He who commands the services of others, has duties to them, too. They lead a life of their own, extending beyond the time and act of service.

The influence of Irma's last words seemed to hover over his soul like a mist.

He returned to his cabinet. Baum was still standing where he had left him, as silent and as quiet as if he were a chair or table.

"When did you leave there?" asked the king.

Baum told him all.

"You must be fatigued," said the king.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Well then, take a rest. Anything else you may know, you must tell no one but myself--do you understand?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty. I thank you, humbly."

The king had drawn a large emerald ring from his finger, and, while he turned it from side to side, the bright gem sparkled in the sunlight.

Baum thought that the king was about to bestow the ring upon him as a mark of his favor, but his majesty put the ring on again, and asked: "Are you married?"

"I was, Your Majesty."

"Have you any children?"

"An only son, Your Majesty."

"Very well. Hold yourself in readiness; I shall soon have further orders for you."

Baum went out. While hurrying through the anteroom, he graciously addressed the chamberlain with: "Pray don't rise!" There was no need that any one should see what was plainly to be read in every line of his face. The king had addressed him familiarly, and had even inquired about his family. He was, at last, the confidant of royalty; the highest honors now awaited him.

He went to his quarters in the side wing of the palace.

The king was alone. Naught was near him save Irma's hat and shoes. He gazed at them for a long while. What a poem it would make--to bring to the lover the shoes and the hat of his beloved--what a song it would be to sing in the twilight. Such were his thoughts and yet his brain whirled. With trembling hands, he took up the hat and shoes, and locked up the tokens of death in his writing-desk.

The feather on the hat broke as he closed the door. A light was burning on the writing-table. The king lit a cigar. When his eye fell on the water-color portrait of the queen, he started. He went on smoking violently.

It was not till some after that, that the king rang the bell and gave directions that the lord steward should be called, but that no one else should be admitted.