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 Bruehl 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