Brühl stopped at the door, silent.
'Pauli!' cried the King, rapping the floor with his foot.
'The councillor is--'
'Drunk?' Augustus guessed. 'Ah, the dirty old pig! Why could he not abstain for these few hours? Pour water on him! Conduct him to the fountain! Let the doctor give him some medicine and make him sober if but for one hour. Then the beast might die!'
Brühl promptly obeyed. He tried to wake up the councillor, but he was lying like a log; the only doctor who could bring him to his senses was time. Brühl, coming back slowly, seemed to hesitate, as though pondering something in his mind. He entered the King's room as noiselessly as he could.
The King stood in the centre holding the papers in his hand; his brows were contracted.
'Pauli!'
'It is impossible to awaken him.'
'I wish he would die! But the letters! Who will write them? Do you hear?'
'Your Majesty,' said Brühl humbly, 'my daring is great, almost criminal, but my love for your Majesty must be my excuse. One word from your Majesty--a small indication--and I will try to write the letters--'