As for Fritzing, he is Hofbibliothekar of the Prince’s father’s court library; a court more brilliant than and a library vastly inferior to the one he had fled from at Kunitz.  He keeps much in his rooms, and communes almost exclusively with the dead.  He finds the dead alone truly satisfactory.  Priscilla loves him still and will always love him, but she is very busy and has little time to think.  She does not let him give her children lessons; instead he plays with them, and grows old and patient apace.

And now having finished my story, there is nothing left for me to do but stand aside and watch Priscilla and her husband walking hand-in-hand farther and farther away from me up a path which I suppose is the path of glory, into something apparently golden and rosy, something very glowing and full of promise, that turns out on closer scrutiny to be their future.  It certainly seems radiant enough to the superficial observer.  Even I, who have looked into her soul and known its hungers, am a little dazzled.  Let it not however be imagined that a person who has been truthful so long as myself is going to lapse into easy lies at the last, and pretend that she was uninterruptedly satisfied and happy for the rest of her days.  She was not; but then who is?