His confidential talks with Musdœmon distressed the count the more because the latter always unhesitatingly imputed to his master a good share of the crimes committed or about to be committed. Many courtiers think it wise to save great men from the appearance of wrong-doing; they assume the responsibility of evil, and often spare their patron’s blushes by allowing him to feign resistance to advantageous crime. Musdœmon, by a refinement of skill, pursued the contrary course. He wished it to seem that he seldom advised, and always obeyed. He knew his master’s soul as familiarly as that master knew his heart; therefore he never compromised himself without compromising the count. There was no head, save that of Schumacker, that the count would have been so glad to see fall; Musdœmon knew this as well as if his master had told him, and his master knew that he knew it.
The count had learned all that he wished to learn; he was satisfied; he was now eager to dismiss Musdœmon.
“Musdœmon,” said he, with a gracious smile, “you are the most faithful and most zealous of all my servants. All goes well, and I owe it to your devotion. I make you private secretary to the chancellor’s office.”
Musdœmon bowed low.
“Nor is that all,” added the count; “I will ask for you, for the third time, the Order of the Dannebrog. But I still fear that your birth, your humble relations—”
Musdœmon blushed, turned pale, and hid his change of color by another bow.
“Come,” said the count, offering him his hand to kiss, “come, Mr. Private Secretary, draw up your placeat! It may chance to find the king in gracious mood.”
“Whether his Majesty grant my petition or not, your Grace’s kindness overwhelms me.”
“Make haste, my dear fellow, for I am anxious to be off. We must try to get some exact information about this Hans.”
Musdœmon, with a third bow, opened the door.