“Every circumstance of that evening,” he said, “is as fresh in my remembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die.  It is a joy, a triumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade.  The words that roused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance and fame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, and to bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age—­

     “GOD willing, he will be a credit to the town.”

     “GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country.”

     “He shall have a liberal education, and will be
      a great man.”

“It is as good as a poem,” said the delighted Duke.  “I shall tell the company to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany.  I have heard your unpublished poem.  By the bye, Poet, is that ballad published?”

“No, and never will be.  It shall never know less kindly criticism than it received then.”

“And are you really in earnest?  Was this indeed the happiest triumph your talents have ever earned?”

“It was,” said Friedrich.  “The first blast on the trumpet of Fame is the sweetest.  Afterwards, we find it out of tune.”

“Your parents are dead, I think?”

“They are, and so is my youngest sister.”

“And what of Marie?”

“She married—­a man who, I think, is in no way worthy of her.  Not a bad, but a stupid man, with strong Bible convictions on the subject of marital authority.  She is such an angel in his house as he can never understand in this world.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“Sometimes, when I want a rest.  I went to see her not long ago, and found her just the same as ever.  I sat at her feet, and laid my head in her lap, and tried to be a child again.  I bade her tell me the history of Bluebeard, and strove to forget that I had ever lost the childish simplicity which she has kept so well;—­and I almost succeeded.  I had forgotten that the great poet was jealous of my ‘Captive Queen,’ and told myself it would be a grand thing to be like him.  I thought I should like to see a live Emperor.  But just when the delusion was perfect, there was a row in the street.  The people had found me out, and I must show myself at the window.  The spell was broken.  I have not tried it again.”

They were on the steps of the palace.

“Your story has entertained and touched me beyond measure,” said the Duke.  “But something is wanting.  It does not (as they say) ’end well.’  I fear you are not happy.”

“I am content,” said Friedrich.  “Yes, I am happy.  I never could be a child again, even if it pleased GOD to restore to me the circumstances of my childhood.  It is best as it is, but I have learnt the truth of what Marie told me.  It is the good, and not the great things of my life that bring me peace; or rather, neither one nor the other, but the undeserved mercies of my GOD!”