The duke stepped out from under the trees, and looked along the highway with his sharp hunter’s eye. “A vehicle approaches, but no chance for us, as it appears to be a farm-wagon, crowded with men and women.”
“Indeed it does,” said Goethe, joining him; “a very merry company they are too, singing gayly. Now, grant the rain rain has ceased—”
“Charlotte von Stein is at Weimar,” interrupted the duke. “Give me your arm, and we will walk on.”
They advanced briskly arm in arm. A stranger meeting them would have supposed that they were brothers, so much alike were they in form, manners, and dress, for the duke as well as Goethe wore the Werther costume.
As they descended, the carriage came nearer and nearer. The duke’s keen eye had not been deceived. It was a farm-wagon, filled with a frolicsome party, sitting on bags of straw for cushions. They were chatting and laughing absorbed in fun, and did not observe the two foot-passengers, who turned aside from them. A sudden cry of surprise hushed the conversation; a form rose, half man and half woman, enveloped in a man’s coat of green baize, crowned with a neat little hat of a woman. “Oh, it is Charles!” cried the form, and at the same instant the duke sprang to the wagon. “Is it possible, my dear mother?”
“The Duchess Amelia!” cried Goethe, astonished.
“Yes,” laughed the duchess, greeting them with an affectionate look. “The proverb proves itself—‘Like mother, like son.’ On the highway mother and son have met. You should have done the honors in a stately equipage.”
“May I be permitted to ask where you come from?” asked the duke. “And the dress, of what order do you wear?”
“We walked to Ziefurt, and intended to walk back. Thusnelda is so delicate and weak, that she complained of her fairy feet paining her,” answered the duchess, laughing.
“Ah, duchess, must I always be the butt?” cried the lady behind the duchess, crouching between the straw-sacks. “Must I permit you to follow in my footsteps, while I—”