"I shall sing with Walpurga," said Irma, "and Your Majesty will again observe that music is the highest good on earth. Singing together, Walpurga and I are equals. The creations of other arts, poetry especially, may be translated by every one into his own language, according to the measure of his knowledge and experience."
"Quite true," replied the king; "music is the universal language, the only one that requires no translation, and in which soul speaks to soul."
While they were thus talking, Walpurga stared at them in dumb amazement.
The king, accompanied by Countess Irma, looked at the prince for a little while, and then, having said: "The christening will take place next Sunday," he withdrew.
It was with a strange expression that Walpurga's eyes followed the king and then rested in earnest gaze upon Countess Irma.
The countess busied herself with the papers, and then, with cheerful voice, took leave of Walpurga. Her cheerfulness almost seemed constrained, for she laughed while there was nothing to laugh at.
For a long while, Walpurga stood looking at the curtains, behind which the countess had disappeared, and at last said to Mademoiselle Kramer:
"You told the truth, when you said that the palace isn't a church."
She did not enter into any further explanation.
"I will teach you how to write," said Mademoiselle Kramer; "it will be pleasant employment for us, and you will then be able to do your own writing to your family."