Ludwig pushed back his glass.
"The trumpet we should hear," he said, "is the voice of her son singing songs of patriotism. Never mind, Mariechen," for Marianne was beginning to cry out, "your idol is not entirely perfect. Now, when at last we have a literature in Germany, why will not our poets rouse our people? The imitation of France is on us like a curse. All must be French. We must speak French, we must read French, we must despise all things German. I tell you, Richard, it is now the calm before the storm. Over Prussia is gathering a cloud and the day will come when the sun shall shine no more for us."
He arose and paced up and down the floor.
"Oh, Ludwig," cried Madame von Stork, "come, come, sit down and enjoy your doughnuts."
But Ludwig Brandt was not to be soothed with cake.
"Good-night, Clara," he said suddenly, and bending, kissed Madame von Stork's hand.
With an "Auf wiedersehen," he departed.
"My goodness," cried Madame von Stork, "but Ludwig is uncomfortable. Here we were enjoying a quiet, happy evening, and in he comes and upsets everything. See, Marianne, see, there he has spilt wine on the tablecloth. It is the English in him which makes him so solemn. Perhaps if dear Erna had lived she might have made him gayer. And speaking of Erna, Marianne, you are old enough to read your dear aunt's journal. It is really a history of our dear Queen the child kept to please Ludwig. To-morrow, when you visit your grandmother, you must ask her to lend it to you."
It was this same journal which Marianne brought forth in the sitting room.
Before she could begin reading Elsa and Ilse crowded to her side.