In the splendid library of his palace in Berlin, the maker of toys leaned back in his chair after a long and successful day's work. There lingered upon his lips still the remnants of a grim smile, which the dictation of a dispatch to London had just evoked. His secretary gathered up his papers. His master was disposed to be genial.
"My young friend," he remarked, "those letters from Paris—they were stopped just in time, eh?"
"Just in time, indeed, Highness," the young man replied. "I have friends who write me from there. They assure me that their effect was tremendous. The cessation of them was indeed an act of Providence."
Prince Falkenberg's lips relaxed. There were hard lines at the corners of his mouth. Yet if this were indeed a smile, it was no pleasant thing to look upon!
"An act of Providence, without a doubt!" he exclaimed,—"Providence which watches always over the destinies of our dear Fatherland!"
"I shall bring you now, Highness, the foreign papers?" the young man suggested.
"If you please," his master replied. "I read them now, thank Heaven, with an easier feeling."
The young man retreated and reappeared in a few minutes with a pile of newspapers. Prince Falkenberg rose and stretched himself, lit a long black cigar and threw himself into a comfortable chair before the high window.
"Your Highness will take some coffee, perhaps?" the young man asked.
"Presently."