Her eyes at once fell on "The Sorrows of Werther," and her face darkened.
"See, Richard, see," she cried, "we quite forgot to scold Marianne."
"Come, come, Clarchen," the Professor's voice was kind and soothing, "let the girl be. We have far more serious things now to worry over."
Then he lifted the book from the table.
"Ah, Goethe," he cried, and, in a moment, the battle of Eylau and all else was forgotten, while his eager eye conned the familiar pages. Madame von Stork turned to the others, who burst into laughter as they watched her husband.
"Just see him!" cried the poor lady, her turban bobbing as she shook her head with violence.
Startled, the Professor looked up from his book, his mild, learned face full of wonder.
"What is it?" he asked, "is it supper time?"
"Nein, nein, Richard," and Herr Brandt slapped his shoulder with sarcastic affection. "It is nothing, you know, only the cannon of Napoleon."
He, himself, had not the least good for Goethe, who had remained quietly at his dinner in his garden in Weimar when the cannon were thundering at Jena, and who sang no songs of patriotism, had nothing to cry out against Napoleon.