There are people like Sulkowski, who do not wish, to see or to believe when there is danger. Neither what his wife told him, about her very cool reception by the Queen, nor what Ludovici communicated to him, took one iota from the assurance the Count had in himself or from his faith in the future.

It seemed to him that the King was so fond of him, that he could not get along without him, and he was perfectly confident. His wife, a timid and modest lady, well knowing the life of the court and the value of that which is called the King's favour, was very much afraid although she did not show it. She was aware that disgrace in Saxony, especially when it was trumped up by one's antagonists, did not end in a simple dismissal and banishment. It was usually followed by the confiscation of the estates and very often by imprisonment for life without trial. Sulkowski, in disgrace, could be threatening to his enemies through his connections with the courts of France, Austria, and Prussia; what then could be more natural than to imprison him for safety?

The Countess spent the night in fear, hiding her tears from her husband, for she did not wish to discourage him.

Her husband, on the contrary, was in high spirits, repeating to his wife what he had said to the King, and what impression it made on him. He flattered himself, that he had broken the snares which his foes had set for him; that everything would be as it was before, that he would overthrow the whole of that clique, and so surround the Queen, as to render her harmless for the future.

The next morning, the fifth of February, the Count was up very early, dressed, and, according to his old habit, went to the castle.

Had he possessed more penetration and less confidence in himself, he would easily have noticed that everyone in the court, on perceiving him, became grave; some of the courtiers drew aside and those, who could not avoid meeting him, were very cold and spoke but little. Sulkowski being privileged to see the King at any time he liked, went straight to his room, but the Baron von Lowendhal barred his way and told him very politely, that the King being very busy had given orders that no one was to be admitted, without any exception.

'But this order cannot apply to me,' said Sulkowski smiling.

'I do not know about that,' answered Lowendhal, 'perchance it may be cancelled later, but for the present you must excuse me for executing my orders.'

Sulkowski not wishing to condescend to a quarrel, sure that later he would be able to avenge such improper behaviour, saluted, turned and went off.

He determined to come again at eleven o'clock, when the King used to receive everybody. Coming down from the stairs, he perceived BrÜhl's porte-chaise and it angered him.

'Patience,' he said to himself, 'these are their last efforts, for they would not dare to shut the door in my face. We shall see--'

He went to Ludovici's office and found him pale and confused.

'The papers? Have you the papers?' asked the Count.

'I have not got them up to the present; there is something mysterious about the way the officials treat me--it does not portend anything good to us.'

'I understand,' said the Count laughing, 'they see their near downfall and lose their heads. I have not yet seen the King; they told me he was very busy. They must hold council what to do with Sulkowski, who ruins all their plans.'

He laughed; Ludovici sighed but did not dare to tell him that he was mistaken.

The Count hesitated as to whether or not he should call on BrÜhl, who ought to have already paid a visit to him. That was also a kind of a declaration of war.

'His conscience is not clear,' he said to himself, 'he does not dare to see me, he is packing his baggage, sure of dismissal.'

Ludovici that day was not communicative, he sighed, became pensive, paced the room and moaned. It made Sulkowski laugh.

As he had nothing to do he determined to pay a visit to the Countess Moszynski in order to see whether he would be received, and to enjoy the Countess's fright.

Accordingly he went to the Countess, but she begged to be excused, as the hour was early and she not dressed. He returned home where he found his wife very uneasy.

Joking at her useless fears, he told her that he was going again to the King. It was a quarter to eleven when Sulkowski went again to the castle. There were very few people in the ante-room.

As Sulkowski approached the door leading to the King's apartments, a page rushed out and told him that the King was in the Queen's apartments. He had no desire to go to the Queen, for there he would not be received without being first announced. Not knowing what to do with himself, he went to his porte-chaise. His first idea was to return home, but thinking that such an early return would frighten his wife, he preferred to go elsewhere.

The second failure to see the King made him thoughtful; naturally there was some intrigue but he did not believe it could have any result. He determined to overcome all difficulties by patience and constancy, not to show any impatience; and he was sure that he would conquer.

Faustina's house was on his way, and he determined to call on her. He knew how much the King admired the singer and he hoped to be able to learn something from her.

Already in the ante-room he heard such a noise that he thought of withdrawing, not wishing to find himself in improper company. All at once the door opened and out came Amorevoli, Monticelli, Abbuzzi, Puttini, Pilagia and a few Frenchmen, talking very loud and quarrelling. Catching sight of Sulkowski, they became silent, giving way to him and bowing humbly.

Faustina, who drove them out, stood on the threshold; she became confused at sight of the Count, but smiling she asked him to come in.

'When did your Excellency return?' she exclaimed, 'for I did not know you were back.'

'Well, up to the present I am half incognito,' said the Count smiling. 'Just imagine, my beautiful lady, that since yesterday I have not seen the King. I!' said he pointing to himself. 'Twice they would not admit me to his Majesty. I began to believe that my absence made me forget the customs of the court, and I came to beg you for some explanation.'

'The Count is kind enough to joke with me,' the singer replied, looking at him with a mixture of commiseration and fear. 'I only know the stage court. On the stage I am either a Queen or a goddess, but when I am off the stage I know nothing of what is going on in the world.'

'But,' said Sulkowski in a low voice, 'tell me, have you heard anything? Am I really threatened by your friend Guarini?'

'I do not know anything,' said Faustina, shaking her head. 'I have enough of my own theatrical sorrows. It is very probably that they are plotting against you, but you, Count, you need not be afraid.'

'Neither am I afraid, but I would like to tirer au clair and to know what it is.'

'It is jealousy and competition,' Faustina rejoined, 'In theatres they are very common, we are well acquainted with them.'

'And the remedy?'

Faustina shrugged her shoulders.

'Some people would withdraw; those who wish to fight it out, must stick to their guns, for they will never find peace.'

Sulkowski did not dare to remind her of the warning she had given him; her speech and manner were now quite different; she was afraid.

Seeing that he would not learn much from her, the Count asked about the new opera, about Hasse, and took leave of her.

He determined to go straight home. Notwithstanding the confidence which had not yet left him, he was depressed and obliged to keep a close watch on himself, lest the impatience which was taking hold of him should show itself.

In front of his palace he found a court carriage. The Baroness von Lowendhal, daughter of the Grand Master of Ceremonies was with his wife. Sulkowski entered the drawing-room.

The two ladies were sitting on the sofa and chatting with vivacity. The Baroness von Lowendhal, a very lively though not very young person, and always the best informed about everything, sprang from the sofa and greeted the Count as he entered. On her face one might discern much distraction and nervousness.

'Count, you will be able to tell us the latest news, she said shaking hands with him, 'what is going on at the court? Some changes are expected, and we do not know what they may be.'

'But where does such a supposition come from?' asked the Count.

'An hour ago,' said the lady animated, 'the King sent for old General Bandissin, who is suffering with gout and commanded him to come to the castle. The general who could hardly walk across the room with a stick, begged to be excused, giving his illness as his reason; notwithstanding that they sent again for him and I saw him going to the castle.'

'I do not know what that means,' answered Sulkowski quietly. 'I went twice to the castle and could not see the King; it's extremely amusing.'

He began to laugh, while the Baroness prattled on.

'They say that Bandissin, who has already asked several times to be pensioned, will get his release at last. He needs rest. But the worst thing is, it seems that my father is going to be dismissed.'

'I do not believe it,' said Sulkowski, 'but as I was absent from Dresden for several months, I am not au courant of affairs just now.'

The Baroness looked at him.

'It is very easy to guess. The positions are required for others.'

'Better not talk of these things,' said the Countess 'I am afraid to say a word.'

The Count shrugged his shoulders.

'Vain fears,' he said, 'all that will soon be changed.'

A lackey rushed in.

'His Excellency the Grand Master of Ceremonies, Baron von Lowendhal and His Excellency General Bandissin,' he announced.

All looked at each other, the Countess grew pale.

'Show them in,' said the Count advancing towards the door.

The guests entered, and Lowendhal, having noticed his daughter, looked at her as though in reproach at finding her there.

The greeting was stiff, Sulkowski received them coldly, not being able to explain their visit. He motioned to them to be seated, when Bandissin said:

'Count, we wish to speak to you without witnesses, we are sent by the King.'

Sulkowski's face did not change, he pointed to the next room.

The ladies, who could not hear the conversation, remained seated, frightened and curious.

The Countess trembled, feeling that this boded no good.

The Baroness wished to leave, but the Countess retained her by force, and she had not the strength to resist.

When the men entered the other room, Bandissin, an old and obedient soldier, took from his pocket and with evident pain a warrant signed by the King.

He handed it in silence to Sulkowski, who, in passing the threshold of that room, seemed to have strayed into another world, and stood pale and as though thunderstruck.

He took the paper with trembling hands, read it, but did not understand.

Lowendhal, who pitied him and wished to get it over as soon as possible, seeing that the Count did not understand what it was all about, passed behind him and read the warrant aloud.

It was very short and ran as follows:

'His Majesty the King, having noticed that the Count Sulkowski has several times, and especially at the last interview forgotten himself and lacked the respect due to His Majesty, has determined to take from him all the appointments the Count has held at the court, and dismiss him from all duties. In consideration of his long service, however, His Majesty leaves him the pension of a general.'

Sulkowski expected something worse from the fate which other men had met; therefore as he now understood the meaning of the warrant, he recovered.

'His Majesty's will,' he said, 'is sacred to me. Although I feel unjustly hurt, evidently by the machinations of my rivals, I shall bear my lot. If I have ever forgotten myself towards his Majesty, it was because of the love I have for my King, and not from any lack of respect.'

Neither Bandissin nor Lowendhal replied. Sulkowski, before whom not long ago they had almost kneeled, noticed the effect of his disgrace first upon them.

Their former affability was gone. Bandissin looked at him as on an inferior. In the faces of both gentlemen one could see that all they desired was to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Both bowed coolly, and distantly. Sulkowski returned their bow and conducted them back to the drawing-room. Here they saluted the ladies from a distance and went out as soon as they could. The Count politely escorted them to the ante-room and returned so serene, that his wife could not read in his face what had happened.

The Baroness Lowendhal waited hoping to be enlightened, and dared not ask him.

Sulkowski looked at his wife whose face betrayed anxious curiosity.

'Thank God,' said he, in a voice which trembled slightly, 'we are free. His Majesty has pleased to dismiss me from my duties. Although I regret to be obliged to leave my beloved lord, I do not feel at all hurt. It would be difficult for an honest man to remain at the court under existing circumstances.'

His wife covered her face.

'My dear,' said the Count, 'be calm, pray. The reason for my dismissal is this. It seems that I forgot myself in the respect due to his Majesty, in that I spoke the unadvisable and unpleasant truth; the King is kind enough to leave me the pension of a general and give me precious liberty--we shall go to Vienna.'

The Baroness Lowendhal looked at the Count with admiration. She could not understand the equanimity with which he received the news of his downfall from his former high position. The fact was that Sulkowski's pride permitted him neither to feel nor to show that he was hurt. After the first shock he pulled himself together and accepted his fate in a truly lordly way.

It was possible that he still had hope.

The Countess cried.

The Baroness understood that her presence was superfluous, for she could not offer consolation and her presence prevented them from consoling each other; she silently pressed her friend's hand and slipped from the room.

The Countess continued to weep.

'My dearest,' exclaimed the Count, 'I pray you to be brave. It is not advisable to show that we are hurt. We have to be thankful to the King that I was not sent to KÖnigstein, and that instead of confiscating my estates they leave me a pension. The banishment to Nebigan is not very dreadful and does not exclude all hope--of overthrowing all that scaffolding built by my honest, sweet, faithful friend, BrÜhl! Pray, be calm--'

But the woman was not easily consoled.

Sulkowski looked at his watch, offered his wife his arm and whispering gently, conducted her to her room.