of my scorn once so abundant and vigorous. The Baron perhaps detected the beginnings of ennui; he rose to his feet.
"Forgive me, if I say that your Majesty will understand my feelings better in two or three years," he observed.
"I suppose I shall," I answered, rather uneasily.
"Meanwhile I must live it down; I must master it."
"It's the only thing to do."
"And she"
"Oh, she'll get over it," I assured him, nodding my head.
I am inclined sometimes to count it among my misfortunes, that the first love affair with which I was brought into intimate connection and confronted at an age still so impressionable, should have been of the shallow and somewhat artificial character betrayed by the romance of my sister and Baron Fritz. She was a headstrong girl; longing to exercise power over men, surprised when a temporary gust of feeling carried her into an emotion unexpectedly strong; he was a self-conscious fellow, hugging his woes and delighting in the picturesqueness of his misfortune. The notion left on my mind was that there was a great deal of nonsense about the matter. Baptiste strengthened my opinion.
"I ask your pardon, sire," he said with a shrug, "but we know the sentimentality of the Germans. What is it? Sighs and then beer, more sighs and more beer, a deluge of sighs and a deluge of beer. A Frenchman is not like that in his little affairs."
"What does a Frenchman do, Baptiste?" I had the curiosity to ask.
"Ah," laughed Baptiste, "if I told your Majesty
