“Three thousand ducats for a copy!  Who knows whether Titiano Vecellio was paid more for his original in his own time?  Ah! you poor, beautiful woman, how dismal and cheerless it will seem to you in the cold north, and how much you will miss the golden light of your sunny Italian home here in this dirty northern Mark!  We two must console one another, and try to forget that we do not live in your own fair Italy, but here, here, where there is more rain than sunshine, and where in place of music we often hear nothing but the grunting of swine and the bleating of sheep!”

And, as if in confirmation of his words, just then was heard from the street a loud tumult, a confused discord of grunts and squeals.  The count turned from the Italian beauty, and looked out into the street, or, rather, the great square fronting his palace.[8] The rain, which had streamed down incessantly for a few days past, had drenched the unpaved ground, and here and there, where the soil was impermeable to moisture, had formed puddles and pools.  These, the sheep and hogs, which were ensconced in stalls before the houses, had chosen for their pleasure ground, and whole herds of them had come to bathe in these puddles before Count Schwarzenberg’s palace and in the neighborhood of the cathedral.  A few merry, naughty boys, attracted by their squealing and bleating, likewise ventured into the black sea of the cathedral square, but, finding that they forthwith sank in the same, they had called for help, shouting, screaming, and laughing, thereby attracting still other boys and idlers, who now with prudent caution stood on certain less saturated spots, and with shrieks of mockery and laughter watched the vain efforts of the sunken boys, who were striving to work themselves out of the morass.  Such was the melancholy picture that presented itself to Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, and he gazed upon it with sad and gloomy looks.

“And this is the residence of the Stadtholder in the Mark!” he sighed—­“the outlook of von Schwarzenberg, count of the empire!  Oh! it shall be otherwise!  Out of this pigstye Berlin, I will construct a neat and handsome residence for myself, from this miserable house a splendid palace shall spring forth, and all the arts and sciences shall find their patron in the lord commanding in the Mark, when he is no longer merely called Stadtholder, but—­”

He looked anxiously behind him, as if he dreaded being overheard by some one.  “Hush!” he murmured then, “be still!  There are thoughts and plans which may never find expression in words, but, like Minerva from the brain of Jupiter, must come forth ready for action, spear in hand.  Creep back into my heart, and never let it be perceived that you are there, until the right hour shall come, the hour—­”

He was silent, and again glanced searchingly around.  Then, taking the silver whistle from his writing table, he let ring forth a shrill, loud call.  A lackey in rich livery, its original material totally hidden beneath a mass of golden trappings and silver lace, appeared in the doorway.