“An enemy has, sire; but not the one your majesty is thinking of!”
“How know you what enemy I mean?” said the king, impatiently. “Is it the Russians, or the French?”
“None of your mortal enemies, sire; and the mourning which now reigns in Berlin and will soon reign throughout Prussia, is caused by no enemy of your majesty but by Providence.”
The king looked at him earnestly for a moment. “I understand,” said he. “Some one of my family has died; is it not so?”
“Yes, sire; your—”
“Be still!” said the king, sternly. “I do not yet wish to know—I have not the strength to bear it—wait a while.”
Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the window, said: “Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak—who is it?”
“Sire, it is her majesty.”
“My wife?” interrupted the king.
“No, sire; her majesty—”