manoeuvres--the day will soon come when she will but see in you a
poor knight with naught but his title of marquis." With a triumphant
smile he threw down the letter and grasped the next. "Another from
Flemming?" said he. "Why, truly, the good count is becoming fond of
writing. Ah," said he, after reading it carelessly, "more warnings!
He declares that the King of Prussia intends attacking Saxony--that
he is now already at our borders. He then adds, that the king is
aware of the contract which we and our friends have signed, swearing
to attack Prussia simultaneously. Well, my good Flemming, there is
not much wisdom needed to tell me that if the king knows of our
contract, he will be all the more on his guard, and will make
preparations to defend himself; for he would not be so foolhardy as
to attempt to attack our three united armies. No, no. Our regiments
can remain quietly in Poland, the seventeen thousand men here will
answer all purposes."

"There is but one more of these begging letters," said he, opening
it, but throwing it aside without reading it. Out of it fell a
folded piece of paper. "Why," said the count, taking it up, "there
are verses. Has Flemming's fear of the Prussian king made a poet of
him?" He opened it and read aloud:

"'A piece of poetry which a friend, Baron Pollnitz, gave me
yesterday. The author is the King of Prussia.'"

"Well," said the count, laughing, "a piece of poetry about me--the
king does me great honor. Let us see; perhaps these verses can be
read at the table to-day, and cause some amusement. 'Ode to Count
Bruhl,' with this inscription: 'il ne faut pas s'inquieter de
I'avsnir.' That is a wise philosophical sentence, which nevertheless