Deesen seated himself at the table, and the king began walking up and down as before, his hands and book behind him.
“Are you ready?” asked the king.
“I am ready, sire,” returned Deesen, dipping his pen into the ink. “Write then,” commanded the king, as he placed himself immediately in front of Deesen—“write, then, first the heading: ‘My beloved—‘”
Deesen started, and glanced inquiringly at the king. Frederick looked earnestly at him, and repeated, “‘My beloved—‘”
Deesen uttered a sigh, and wrote.
“Have you written that?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire, I have it—‘My beloved.’”
“Well, then, proceed. ‘My beloved, that old bear, the king—’ Write,” said the king, interrupting himself as he saw that Deesen grew pale and trembled, and could scarcely hold the pen—“write without hesitation, or expect a severe punishment.”
“Will your majesty have the kindness to dictate? I am ready to write every thing,” said Deesen, as he wiped his brow.
“Now then, quickly,” ordered the king, and he dictated—“‘That old bear, the king, counts every hour against me that I spend so charmingly with you. That my absence may be shorter in the future, and less observed by the old scold, I wish you to rent a room near here in the suburbs of Brandenburg, where we can meet more conveniently than in the city. I remain yours until death.’”