This was not difficult, for she had already been obliged to read it aloud three times to Adrian, who could no longer decipher written characters.
The address was not omitted; it had pleased them both. It ran as follows:
“To his Majesty’s good and faithful servant, Adrian Dubois, from his affectionate friend of former days, Dona Magdalena de Ulloa, wife of Don Luis Mendez Quijada, Lady of Villagarcia.”
Frau Trout read these noble names aloud to Barbara proudly, as if they were her own; but before she went on Adrian interrupted—
“As to friendship, you may think, Frau Barbara, that Dona Magdalena is showing me far too much honour in using those words; but I would still give my right hand for that lovely creature with her kindly soul. When, just after Don Luis married her, his Majesty took her young husband away, she entreated me most earnestly to look after him, and I could sometimes be of assistance. To be sure, we broke many a piece of bread together in war and peace in the same service. Ah, Frau Barbara! I am far better off here than I deserve to be; but sometimes my heart is ready to break when I think of my Emperor, and that I must leave the care of him to others.”
“But it is hard enough for the major-domo and his Majesty to do without you,” said Frau Traut importantly. “Don Luis, the letter says, would gladly have written with his own hand, but he had not a single leisure moment; for, since Adrian had gone, he was obliged to be at hand to serve his Majesty by day as well as by night. My husband’s successor, Bodart, whom he trained for the service, is skilful and makes every effort, but he can not replace Adrian to his suffering master.”
Then Frau Traut looked more closely at the letter, and began to translate its contents.
“Of course,” she began, “San Yuste is not like Brussels; but if they think there that his Majesty lives like a monk and submits to the rules of the monastery, they are misinformed.”
Here she lowered the sheet; but Barbara’s cheeks were glowing with impatient interest, and she exclaimed with urgent warmth: “Oh, please, read on! But where—it is probably in the letter—where is our child?”
“One thing after the other, as the letter communicates it,” replied the translator in a reproving tone; but her husband nodded soothingly to Barbara, and said:
“Only this first: Our John is near his father, and there is something especially good about him toward the end. Dona Magdalena is a true Castilian—first the King, then her husband, then the others according to their rank. It is different here and in your country. Patience and you, Frau Barbara, have been bad friends ever since I knew you.”
Barbara’s sorrowful smile confirmed this statement, and when Frau Traut at last went on, the tone of her voice betrayed how little she liked interruptions just now.