“Herr van Swiet embraced me warmly, and commenced his preparations for the wedding immediately.  Esther, however, my bride, never spoke to me; never seemed to see me.  Her eyes were swollen, and she was half-blind from weeping.  Once we met alone in the saloon.  She hastened to leave it; but, as she passed by me, she raised her arms to heaven, then extended them threateningly toward me.  ’You are a cruel and bad man.  You will sacrifice a human soul to your greed and your irresistible and inordinate desires!  If God is just, you will die of a truffle-pie!  I say not that you will yield up your spirit, for you have none!  You will, you must die like a beast—­from beastly gluttony!’”

“The maiden possessed the wisdom of a sibyl,” said the king, “and I fear she has prophesied correctly as to your sad future.  Hate has sometimes the gift of prophecy, and sees the future clearly, while Love is blind.  It appears to me your Esther did not suffer from the passion of love.”

“No, sire, she hated me.  But her lover, the young Mieritz, did not share this dislike.  He seemed warmly attached to me; was my inseparable companion; embraced me with tears, and forgave me for robbing him of his beloved, declaring that I was more worthy of her than himself.  He went so far in his manifestations of friendship as to invite me to breakfast on the morning of my wedding-day, at which time he wished to present me with something sumptuous he had brought from Amsterdam.  I accepted the invitation, and as the wedding-ceremony was to take place at twelve o’clock, in the cathedral, we were compelled to breakfast at eleven.  I was content.  I thought I could better support the wearisome ceremony if sustained by the fond remembrance of the luxurious meal I had just enjoyed.  Our breakfast began punctually at eleven, and I assure your majesty it was a rare and costly feast.  My young friend Mieritz declared, however, that the dish which crowned the feast was yet to come.  At last he stepped to the kitchen himself to bring this jewel of his breakfast.  With a mysterious smile he quickly returned, bringing upon a silver dish a smoking pie.  A delicious fragrance immediately pervaded the whole room—­a fragrance which then recalled the hour most rich in blessing of my whole life.  Beside myself—­filled with prophetic expectation—­ I rushed forward and raised the top crust of the pie.  Yes, it was there!—­it met my ravished gaze!—­the pie which I had only eaten once, at the table of the Duke de Grammont!  Alas!  I lost the good duke at the battle of Fontenoy, and the great mystery of this pasty went down with him into the hero’s grave.  And now that it was exhumed, it surrounded me with its costly aroma; it smiled upon me with glistening lips and voluptuous eyes.  I snatched the dish from the hands of my friend, and placed it before me on the table.  At this moment the clock struck twelve.

“‘Miserable wretch!’ I cried, ’you bring me this pie, and this is the hour of my marriage!’