"Well, then, I can't help thinking that it was far better in olden times; for then royal children were born in some lonely, out-of-the-way palace, as quietly as if it were to be kept a secret--"
The doctor interrupted her: "You are indeed a true child of your father. For, although my dear friend Eberhard was full of strange fancies during his younger years, he would at times manifest sudden and surprising diffidence."
"Ah, do tell me of my father! I know so little about him."
"I've known nothing of him for many years. Of course you know that he has broken with me, because I am at court; but, in the olden times, in our youthful, enthusiastic days--"
"Then you, too, were once enthusiastic!"
"I was; but not to so great a degree as your father. When I see you, it seems as if his ideal had become realized. In those days, when I was a young army surgeon, and he a still younger officer, we would indulge in fantasy pictures of the future, and what it might have in store for us. He never thought of a beloved one, or a wife, but would at one bound, as it were, clear all that lay between, and indulge himself with brain pictures of a child; a daughter, fresh, tender and lovely beyond comparison. And now, when I behold you, I look upon his ideal."
"And so my father's only ideal was a child?" asked Irma with pensive air, and looking earnestly into the doctor's eyes, "and yet for all that, he left his children to grow up among strangers, and all that I know of him I am obliged to learn from the lips of others. But I don't care to speak of myself at present, dear doctor. I have a presentiment of the queen's secret. I think I know what makes her so quiet and reserved."
"My dear child," said the doctor, "if you really have a presentiment,--and that, moreover, in regard to a secret of their majesties--take my advice: Don't impart it to any one, not even to the pillow on which you lay your head at night."
"But if your knowing would be of service to the queen? You ought to be her guide."
"We can only lead those who desire to be led."