"And did that offend you?"
"Yes, Your Majesty; it offended me deeply. Gunther is without a trace of that false modesty which is all the more vain, the more modest it appears. He stood so high in my esteem that I felt he had, by using this expression, committed an offense against himself and, I may confess it, against myself, as well. I did not regard myself as mediocre, but as a highly gifted being. But from that time, I began to perceive that most suffering arises from the fact that those who have understanding, culture, and some talent, regard themselves as belonging to a higher order of beings, privileged to disregard ordinary barriers and to step beyond their allotted sphere of duty. To acknowledge myself as mediocre and to shape my own actions, and my judgment of others, accordingly, has ever been my rule in life; and I must beg Your Majesty to regard me in the same way. There are thousands of women like me. It is just as it is in singing. I've sung in a chorus, and know there are many good voices who never aspire to solos."
The queen was silent. The words which Madame Gunther had uttered in perfect sincerity, might be applied in so many different ways--to herself, to the king, and to her who was still unforgotten.
At last she looked up frankly.
"I have a request to make of you," she said, with faltering voice, while she took out a breastpin with a large pearl. "Oblige me by accepting this memento of this hour and of the truth which you have just imparted to me."
"Your Majesty," replied Madame Gunther, "I have never in all my life, accepted a present of this kind. But I can easily understand that you, as a queen, are accustomed to experience the joy of bestowing gifts on others and of thus making them happy. I accept it as a symbol, as if it were an unfading flower from your garden."
Madame Gunther wended her way homeward in a calm and contented mood. When she arrived before the house, she suddenly stopped. The windows of the large drawing-room were open. Some one was playing the piano with powerful, masterly touch and expression. It could not be Paula. Who could it be?
Madame Gunther's nephew, the young man whose song Irma had sung years before, and who, on a previous visit to his relatives, had sought the freeholder's dwelling as a refuge from the storm, and had there met Irma without knowing who she was, had now, as had been foretold him, become totally blind. He had become a master of the piano, and bore his sad fate with manly fortitude. The meeting between Madame Gunther and her nephew was deeply affecting.
That evening, she introduced him to the queen, who, as her first act of friendship to the doctor's wife, appointed him "pianist to the queen." All that remained was to submit the appointment to the approval of the king, who was expected to arrive in a few days.