“Madame,” he went on, not patronizingly but with a growing consciousness of his own impregnable position which impressed even the self-seeking woman he addressed, “to you I am only Kreutzer, the poor flute-player; but in my native country I am more—­Count Otto Von Lichtenstahl.”

“Good heavens!” she cried.  “The man is mad!”

“No, Madame.  I have been unfortunate.  I have not even told my Anna of my title, because I have not wished to make her feel unhappy.  It is so long since I have lived as would befit my rank, that, almost, I had quite forgotten it; but always I have kept the proofs.”

From an inner pocket of his coat the old man drew a worn cloth envelope which held long, folded papers.

“Look, Madame.”

Almost as one who dreams she took the little packet from his hand and hastily glanced through the papers which comprised it.  Though evidently somewhat impressed her doubts still remained.

“It is easy to manufacture such documents,” she said finally.  “How am I to know that these are genuine?”

The old man, wounded to the quick, made no reply, but looked at her with a silent dignity and stern reproof that affected her more than any words could have.  It was evident that his pent-up indignation, however, was on the point of breaking forth; but what he might have said must always remain mystery, for at that moment, M’riar entered, a large, impressive envelope held in her hand.

“Postman’s bean ’ere,” she explained, and held it toward the old musician.

As Herr Kreutzer saw this letter he gasped with astonishment and, taking it eagerly from her hand, quickly tore it open.  As he read it great joy showed upon his face.  He stood transfigured, speechless.  At last he handed it to Mrs. Vanderlyn.

“Perhaps Madame will believe this,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Vanderlyn gave an ecstatic little cry after her first glance at the imposing document.

“The Imperial Seal!” she exclaimed.  “A letter from the Emperor himself!

“But, what is this?” she continued, as she read farther.  “He speaks about a pardon.  What have you done, Herr Kreutzer?”

“It is very simple, Madame,” he replied.  “Now that I have this, now I can tell all.  It had been necessary, as I have explained, that my marriage to my dear Anna’s mother be kept secret.  When, after one short year, she died, as I have already told you, all came to light.

“I was an officer in His Majesty’s Imperial guards.  One day a fellow officer, an enemy who had always hated me, insulted me because of my marriage—­insulted the memory of my dead wife.  There was a duel.  He fell, as I thought, mortally wounded.  The law was strict against participants in duels, and because I could not be parted from my little Anna I took her in my arms and we left Prussia—­I believed forever.  But at last the Emperor has relented and has pardoned me.  He calls me back to Prussia!  Ah, it is like him!  He has not forgotten!”