The first mist of early autumn obscured the landscape, and the morn gave promise of a lovely, bracing day.
Various journals were lying before the queen. She pushed them away, saying:
"How terrible these newspapers are! What license! This sheet is usually so unobjectionable; but even here it is stated that Count Wildenort died of grief because of the conduct of his unmarried daughter. Can such things be permitted? Was such a thing ever heard of--Ah, dear councilor!" added she, addressing her private secretary, "there's a sealed letter for Countess Irma on my desk upstairs. Let a messenger take it to her at once. If she could only be kept in ignorance of these terrible newspapers stories; I hope she may, at all events."
The ladies of the court were engaged with their embroidery. They replied their needles more nimbly than before and did not look up from their work.
Countess Brinkenstein was called away. After some time she returned, accompanied by the doctor.
"Ah, welcome!" cried the queen.
At a sign from Countess Brinkenstein, the ladies retired.
"How charming! you've come just in the nick of time," said the queen. "I am just about to send off a letter for Countess Irma; you might add a few kind words."
"Your Majesty, Countess Irma will not be able to read your letter of condolence."
"Why not?"