The king had left town for some distant watering-place, and had requested Irma to write to him at times.  Knowing her love of flowers, he had given orders for a fresh bouquet to be placed every day in her room, and, perhaps to conceal the favour, in the rooms of two other ladies of the court.  Irma considered both the thought and the expedient unworthy of her hero, and resolved not to write to him.  She spent much of her time at the studio of a professor of the academy, who not only modelled a bust of her for a figure of Victory to be placed on the new arsenal, but gave her instruction in his art.  In spite of this new occupation, she found herself in a state of feverish excitement, which became almost unbearable when the queen showed her a passage in a letter just received from the king.  “Please make Countess Irma send me regular reports about our son.  Remember me to the dear fourth leaf of our clover-leaf.”

She was indignant at this unworthy attempt at forcing her to write.  Was Walpurga right after all?  Were lovers’ glances to be exchanged over the child’s cradle?  She longed for solitude and peace.  On the way to her room she had to stop to think where she was.  A gallop might cool her feverish head.  She ordered her horse to be saddled, but had scarcely changed into her riding-habit when a letter was handed to her, which was unsealed with trembling fingers.  It was a simply worded invitation from her father, who wished to see her again after her long absence at court.  Here was salvation, balm for her aching heart!  She gave a few orders, then hurried to the queen’s apartments to obtain leave of absence; and, accompanied by her maid, sped to her paternal home the same evening as fast as the horses would carry her.

The days passed quickly at the manor house, where Irma, for the first time, gained an insight into the noble mind and firm character of her father.  In his many soothing talks Count Eberhard told her of his regrets at having been forced by circumstances—­her mother’s death before Irma had reached the age of three, and his inability to give her a proper education in his mountain retreat—­to send her first to her aunt, then to the convent, and thus neglecting his duties as father.  A word from him would have decided her to remain under his roof, but the old philosopher held that each intelligent being must work out its own destiny, and would not influence her decision.  His slighting remarks about the monarchic system, about the impossibility of the king, with all his noble intentions, being able to see the world as it is, since everybody approaches him in pleasing costume, struck the final jarring note and destroyed the complete understanding between father and daughter.  A half jocular joint letter from the king and his entourage, in which the signatories expressed in exaggerated terms their longing for her presence at court, decided her to return.