"Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?" muttered he
presently, more to himself than to me. "If Legitimist, why not with his
King? If Bonapartist--then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passeth
my comprehension how we should hold him at Bruehl."
"Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!" whispered I,
putting my arms coaxingly about his neck.
"But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!" continued
my father, still talking to himself. "Ah, you don't know what politics are,
my little Gretchen!--so much the better for you!"
"I do know what politics are," replied I, with great dignity. "They are the
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of Satan. I heard you say so the other day."
My father burst into a Titanic roar of laughter.
"Said I so?" shouted he. "Thunder and Mars! I did not remember that I had
ever said anything half so epigrammatic!"
Now from this it will be seen that the prisoner and I were already
acquainted. We had, indeed, taken to each other from the first, and our
mutual liking ripened so rapidly that before a week was gone by we had
become the fastest friends in the world.
Our first meeting, as I have already said, took place upon the terrace.
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