“Do you know what it is, Ditlinde?”
“Yes, though unfortunately not from you. But Jettchen Isenschnibbe has kept me well posted—you know she is always a fund of news—and at first I was horribly shocked, I don't deny it. But after all they live in Delphinenort, he has a private physician, and Philipp thinks they are in their way of equal birth with ourselves. I believe I once spoke disparagingly about them, Klaus Heinrich; I said something about a Crœsus, if I remember rightly, and made a pun on the word ‘taxpayer.’ But if you consider them worthy of your friendship, I've been wrong and of course withdraw my remarks, and will try to think differently about them in future. I promise you. You always loved rummaging,” she went on, after he had laughed and kissed her hand, “and I had to do it with you, and my dress (do you remember it—the red velvet?) suffered for it. Now you have to rummage alone, and God grant, Klaus Heinrich, that it won't bring you any horrible experience.”
“I really believe, Ditlinde, that every experience is fine, whether it be good or bad. But my present experience is splendid.”
At half-past five the Prince left the “Hermitage” again, in his dogcart, which he drove himself, with a groom at his back. It was warm, and Klaus Heinrich was wearing white trousers with a double-breasted coat. Bowing, he again drove to the town, or more precisely to the Old Schloss. He did not enter the Albrechtstor, however, but drove in through a side door, and across two courtyards till he reached that in which the rose-bush grew.
Here all was still and stony; the stair-turrets with their oblique windows, forged-iron balustrades, and fine carvings towered in the corners; the many-styled building stood there in light and shadow, partly grey and weather-worn, partly more modern-looking, with gables and box-like projections, with open porticoes and peeps through broad bow-windows into vaulted halls and narrow galleries. But in the middle, in its unfenced bed, stood the rose-bush, blooming gloriously after a favourable season.
Klaus Heinrich threw the reins to a servant, and went up and looked at the dark-red roses. They were exceptionally fine—full and velvety, grandly formed, and a real masterwork of nature. Several were already full-blown.
“Call Ezekiel, please,” said Klaus Heinrich to a moustachioed door-keeper, who came forward with his hand to his hat.
Ezekiel, the custodian of the rose-bush, came. He was a greybeard of seventy years of age, in a gardener's apron, with watery eyes and a bent back.
“Have you any shears by you, Ezekiel?” said Klaus Heinrich, “I should like a rose.” And Ezekiel drew some shears out of the pocket of his apron.
“That one there,” said Klaus Heinrich, “that's the finest.” And the old man cut the thorny branch with trembling hands.