My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive of
astonishment.

"He showed thee his snuff-box!" exclaimed he.

"Ay--and told me it was the Emperor's own gift."

"Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?"

"Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told me I
should go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he kissed me
when he said good-bye; and--and I like Monsieur Maurice very much, father,
and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him here in prison!"

My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long grey
moustache.

"Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?" muttered he
presently, more to himself than to me. "If Legitimist, why not with his
King? If Bonapartist--then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passeth
my comprehension how we should hold him at Bruehl."

"Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!" whispered I,
putting my arms coaxingly about his neck.

"But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!" continued
my father, still talking to himself. "Ah, you don't know what politics are,
my little Gretchen!--so much the better for you!"

"I do know what politics are," replied I, with great dignity. "They are the