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."