CHAPTER XIII.
The king was at the hunt. The queen was ill. Life at court went on as usual. The ladies and gentlemen dined at the marshal's table, and conversed upon different subjects. They were cheerful, for it was their duty to maintain the accustomed tone.
It was the fourth day after the receipt of the terrible news. It was after dinner, and the ladies were sitting under the so-called "mushroom," a round, vine-covered arbor, situated at the edge of the mountain vineyards. The roof rested, at the center, on a column and, in the distance, resembled an open umbrella, or a gigantic mushroom. They were delighted to have a chance to talk of the preparations for the betrothal of Princess Angelica. They spoke in praise of her noble traits, although she was merely a simple, modest good-hearted girl. They had the court catechism, the genealogical calendar, before them; for dispute had arisen as to the degree in which the mediatized Prince Arnold was related, on his grandmother's side, to the reigning house. Their conversation, however, was simply a makeshift.
Some one remarked that the intendant had returned from his journey. No one, however, knew what adventures he had passed through. They all knew that there had been deaths by shooting and drowning, but as to the "who" and the "how," they were as yet ignorant.
They felt quite happy when they saw the intendant coming in person. They welcomed him in a half-pitying, half-teasing tone. He seemed quite exhausted by his recent experiences. They offered him the most comfortable chair and, placing it in the center of the group, begged him to tell them everything. Although this general homage was not without a touch of irony, the intendant felt quite flattered by it, and was, as usual, ready to play the agreeable. He was always willing to sacrifice everything, not excepting himself, for the sake of being in favor.
He began by telling them of Bruno's deep grief: but that did not interest them. Very well--"as you don't care to hear of Bruno, we'll pass him by." He then went on to give a cleverly arranged account of the terrible death of Baum, who, like a true servant, had been obliged to give up his life for another. However, the death had not been an undeserved one, for he had denied his mother and kindred, and, at last, fell by the hand of his own brother, who immediately afterward killed himself.
The intendant's audience were horror-struck, and found it wondrous strange that so much of the adventurous was concealed in a common-place, everyday lackey like Baum.
"You have at last beheld a tragedy in real life," said one of the ladies.
The intendant well knew that tragedies were no longer in favor, and, in his anxiety to please, recounted some very interesting reports about Walpurga, giving, as his authority, the host of the Chamois, an honest, upright man, who had been decorated for his services in the war.
Whether it was real or afflicted forgetfulness on their part, it is impossible to say,--but the ladies seemed to have forgotten that Walpurga had ever existed--but who can remember all one's subordinates?