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 BrÜhl.

Now my father's duties as Governor of BrÜhl 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 BrÜhl 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 glass 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 MÄdchen?”

“And—and I might have gone up to Monsieur Maurice, after all?”

My father looked at me gravely—poured out a second glass of kirsch—drew his chair to the front of the fire, and said:—

“I don't know about that, Gretchen.”

I had felt all along that there was something wrong, and now I was certain of it.

“What do you mean, father?” I said, my heart beating so that I could scarcely speak. “What is the matter?”

“May the devil make broth of my bones, if I know!” said my father, tugging savagely at his moustache.

“But there is something!”

He nodded, grimly.

“Monsieur Maurice, it seems, is not to have so much liberty,” he said, after a moment. “He is not to walk in the grounds oftener than twice a week; and then only with a soldier at his heels. And he is not to go beyond half a mile from the ChÂteau in any direction. And he is to hold no communication whatever with any person, or persons, either in-doors or out-of-doors, except such as are in direct charge of his rooms or his person. And—and heaven knows what other confounded regulations besides! I wish the Baron von Bulow had been in Spitzbergen before he put it into the King's head to send him here at all!”

“But—but he is not to be locked up?” I faltered, almost in a whisper.

“Well, no—not exactly that; but I am to post a sentry in the corridor, outside his door.”

“Then the King is afraid that Monsieur Maurice will run away!”

“I don't know—I suppose so,” groaned my father.

I sat silent for a moment, and then burst into a flood of tears.

“Poor Monsieur Maurice!” I cried. “He has coughed so all the Winter; and he was longing for the Spring! We were to have gathered primroses in the woods when the warm days came back again—and—and—and I suppose the King doesn't mean that I am not to speak to him any more!”

My sobs choked me, and I could say no more.

My father took me on his knee, and tried to comfort me.

“Don't cry, my little Gretchen,” he said tenderly; “don't cry! Tears can help neither the prisoner nor thee.”

“But I may go to him all the same, father?” I pleaded.

“By my sword, I don't know,” stammered my father. “If it were a breach of orders ... and yet for a baby like thee ... thou'rt no more than a mouse about the room, after all!”

“I have read of a poor prisoner who broke his heart because the gaoler killed a spider he loved,” said I, through my tears.

My father's features relaxed into a smile.

“But do you flatter yourself that Monsieur Maurice loves my little MÄdchen as much as that poor prisoner loved his spider?” he said, taking me by the ear.

“Of course he does—and a hundred thousand times better!” I exclaimed, not without a touch of indignation.

My father laughed outright.

“Thunder and Mars!” said he, “is the case so serious? Then Monsieur Maurice, I suppose, must be allowed sometimes to see his little pet spider.”

He took me up himself next morning to the prisoner's room, and then for the first time I found a sentry in occupation of the corridor. He grounded his musket and saluted as we passed.

“I bring you a visitor, Monsieur Maurice,” said my father.

He was leaning over the fire in a moody attitude when we went in, with his arms on the chimney-piece, but turned at the first sound of my father's voice.

“Colonel Bernhard,” he said, with a look of glad surprise, “this is kind, I—I had scarcely dared to hope”....

He said no more, but took me by both hands, and kissed me on the forehead.

“I trust I'm not doing wrong,” said my father gruffly. “I hope it's not a breach of orders.”

“I am sure it is not,” replied Monsieur Maurice, still holding my hands. “Were your instructions twice as strict, they could not be supposed to apply to this little maiden.”

“They are strict enough, Monsieur Maurice,” said my father, drily.

A faint flush rose to the prisoner's cheek.

“I know it,” he said. “And they are as unnecessary as they are strict. I had given you my parole, Colonel Bernhard.”

My father pulled at his moustache, and looked uncomfortable.

“I'm sure you would have kept it, Monsieur Maurice,” he said.

Monsieur Maurice bowed.

“I wish it, however, to be distinctly understood,” he said, “that I withdrew that parole from the moment when a sentry was stationed at my door.”

“Naturally—naturally.”

“And, for my papers”....

“I wish to heaven they had said nothing about them!” interrupted my father, impatiently.

“Thanks. 'Tis a petty tyranny; but it cannot be helped. Since, however, you are instructed to seize them, here they are. They contain neither political nor private matter—as you will see.”

“I shall see nothing of the kind, Monsieur Maurice,” said my father. “I would not read a line of them for a marshal's bÂton. The King must make a gaoler of me, if it so pleases him; but not a spy. I shall seal up the papers and send them to Berlin.”

“And I shall never see my manuscript again!” said Monsieur Maurice, with a sigh. “Well—it was my first attempt at authorship—perhaps, my last—and there is an end to it!”

My father ground some new and tremendous oath between his teeth.

“I hate to take it, Monsieur Maurice,” he said. “'Tis an odious office.”

“The office alone is yours, Colonel Bernhard,” said the prisoner, with all a Frenchman's grace. “The odium rests with those who impose it on you.”

Hereupon they exchanged formal salutations; and my father, having warned me not to be late for our mid-day meal, put the papers in his pocket, and left me to take my daily French lesson.

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