The king was at the hunt. The queen was ill. Life at court went on as usual. The ladies and gentlemen dined at the marshal's table, and conversed upon different subjects. They were cheerful, for it was their duty to maintain the accustomed tone.

It was the fourth day after the receipt of the terrible news. It was after dinner, and the ladies were sitting under the so-called "mushroom," a round, vine-covered arbor, situated at the edge of the mountain vineyards. The roof rested, at the center, on a column and, in the distance, resembled an open umbrella, or a gigantic mushroom. They were delighted to have a chance to talk of the preparations for the betrothal of Princess Angelica. They spoke in praise of her noble traits, although she was merely a simple, modest good-hearted girl. They had the court catechism, the genealogical calendar, before them; for dispute had arisen as to the degree in which the mediatized Prince Arnold was related, on his grandmother's side, to the reigning house. Their conversation, however, was simply a makeshift.

Some one remarked that the intendant had returned from his journey. No one, however, knew what adventures he had passed through. They all knew that there had been deaths by shooting and drowning, but as to the "who" and the "how," they were as yet ignorant.

They felt quite happy when they saw the intendant coming in person. They welcomed him in a half-pitying, half-teasing tone. He seemed quite exhausted by his recent experiences. They offered him the most comfortable chair and, placing it in the center of the group, begged him to tell them everything. Although this general homage was not without a touch of irony, the intendant felt quite flattered by it, and was, as usual, ready to play the agreeable. He was always willing to sacrifice everything, not excepting himself, for the sake of being in favor.

He began by telling them of Bruno's deep grief: but that did not interest them. Very well--"as you don't care to hear of Bruno, we'll pass him by." He then went on to give a cleverly arranged account of the terrible death of Baum, who, like a true servant, had been obliged to give up his life for another. However, the death had not been an undeserved one, for he had denied his mother and kindred, and, at last, fell by the hand of his own brother, who immediately afterward killed himself.

The intendant's audience were horror-struck, and found it wondrous strange that so much of the adventurous was concealed in a common-place, everyday lackey like Baum.

"You have at last beheld a tragedy in real life," said one of the ladies.

The intendant well knew that tragedies were no longer in favor, and, in his anxiety to please, recounted some very interesting reports about Walpurga, giving, as his authority, the host of the Chamois, an honest, upright man, who had been decorated for his services in the war.

Whether it was real or afflicted forgetfulness on their part, it is impossible to say,--but the ladies seemed to have forgotten that Walpurga had ever existed--but who can remember all one's subordinates?

For want of some other safe topic of conversation, they listened to various droll stories about Walpurga and her dolt of a husband. Schoning, to use his own words, simply repeated all that the veracious and upright host of the Chamois had told him. Hansei was described as an awkward bumpkin, unable to use his hands or feet, and obliged to call the schoolmaster to his assistance whenever he found it necessary to count the smallest sum of money. One of these stories, introducing a wager and a chamber window, was quite piquant and greatly to the taste of the ladies. They tittered, and scolded the intendant for talking of such things, but Schoning well knew that the more they scolded, the better they were pleased with what he had told them. He found an added pleasure in the opportunity afforded him of using the dialect of the mountain region from which he had but recently returned, and cleverly imitated the voices of the peasants and peasant women who had stood before the window, on the night referred to. He introduced various forcible and unequivocal expressions, and greatly enjoyed shocking the ladies, who would, now and then, cry: "Oh, you horrid man! you terrible man!" One lady actually pricked him with her needle, but he quietly proceeded with his story, well knowing how delighted they were to listen to it.

And if there was no harm in describing Hansei as a dolt, there was just as little in heightening the colors in which Walpurga was depicted--the petticoats of the peasant women are always shorter upon the stage than they are in real life--and thus, with the kindest feeling toward all and merely yielding to his desire to please, the intendant said all sorts of strange things about Walpurga. It had been rumored, he added, that it was not without cause that the pastor had called her into the vestry-room on the first Sunday after her return.

With cautious reserve, he at last confided to him, as a great secret, the story that Walpurga had received immense sums of money from a certain lady who had been a friend of hers. It was, of course, impossible to assign a reason for such gifts, but it was well known that the money had been used to purchase a large farm. They had, indeed, been obliged to remove from their old home; for, even in the country, ill-gotten wealth disgraces its possessors. It had been the talk of the whole neighborhood. The bailiff had also confirmed the report that the whole purchase had been paid for in ready money, and that the price had been more than six times as much as Walpurga had received for her services as nurse.

The intendant again remarked that he did not mean to calumniate any one,--that really nothing was further from his intentions;--but he was determined to be interesting, even though it was at the expense of others, as well as himself.

They were delighted to know that this dressed-up specimen of rural innocence was at last exposed, and only hoped that the queen might also behold her favorite in her true colors.

Care was taken that she should not be left in ignorance of the story.