Whether the interpreter really spoke so wisely, or merely so painted the scene to himself, as one is apt to do after a good and fortunate action, I will not decide; at least he never varied it in repeating it.  Indeed, this day seemed to him both the most anxious and the most glorious in his life.

One little incident will show how the count in general rejected all false parade, never assumed a title which did not belong to him, and how witty he was in his more cheerful moods.

A man of the higher class, who was one of the abstruse, solitary Frankforters, thought he must complain of the quartering of the soldiers upon him.  He came in person; and the interpreter proffered him his services, but the other supposed that he did not need them.  He came before the count with a most becoming bow, and said, “Your Excellency!” The count returned the bow, as well as the “excellency.”  Struck by this mark of honor, and not supposing but that the title was too humble, he stooped lower, and said, “Monseigneur.”—­“Sir,” said the count very seriously, “we will not go farther, or else we may easily bring it to Majesty.”  The other gentleman was extremely confused, and had not a word to utter.  The interpreter, standing at some distance, and apprised of the whole affair, was wicked enough not to move; but the count, with much cheerfulness, continued, “Well, now, for instance, sir, what is your name?”—­“Spangenberg,” replied the other.  “And mine,” said the count, “is Thorane.  Spangenberg, what is your business with Thorane?  Now, then, let us sit down:  the affair shall at once be settled.”

And thus the affair was indeed settled at once, to the great satisfaction of the person I have here named Spangenberg; and the same evening, in our family circle, the story was not only told by the waggish interpreter, but was given with all the circumstances and gestures.

After these confusions, disquietudes, and grievances, the former security and thoughtlessness soon returned, in which the young particularly live from day to day, if it be in any degree possible.  My passion for the French theatre grew with every performance.  I did not miss an evening; though on every occasion, when, after the play, I sat down with the family to supper,—­often putting up with the remains,—­I had to endure my father’s constant reproaches, that theatres were useless, and would lead to nothing.  In these cases I adduced all and every argument which is at hand for the apologists of the stage when they fall into a difficulty like mine.  Vice in prosperity, and virtue in misfortune, are in the end set right by poetical justice.  Those beautiful examples of misdeeds punished, “Miss Sarah Sampson,” and “The Merchant of London,” were very energetically cited on my part:  but, on the other hand, I often came off worst when the “Fouberies de Scapin,” and others of the sort, were in the bill; and I was forced to bear reproaches for the delight felt by the public in the deceits of intriguing servants, and the successful follies of prodigal young men.  Neither party was convinced; but my father was very soon reconciled to the theatre when he saw that I advanced with incredible rapidity in the French language.