e?"

"Oh, Doctor Fritz, he is the kindest-hearted master! he is so frank and
so pleasant!" cried the dwarf, with hands clasped. "He has but one
fault."

"And what may that be?"

"He has no ambition."

"How do you prove that?"

"Why, he might have been anything he pleased. Think of a Nideck, one of
the very noblest families in Germany! He had but to ask to be made a
minister or a field-marshal. Well! he desired nothing of the sort. When
he was no longer a young man he retired from political life. Except that
he was in the campaign in France at the head of a regiment he raised at
his own expense, he has always lived far away from noise and battle;
plain and simple, and almost unknown, he seemed to think of nothing but
his hunting."

These details were deeply interesting to me. The conversation was of its
own accord taking just the turn I wished it to take, and I resolved to
get my advantage out of it.

"So the count has never had any exciting deeds in hand?"

"None, Doctor Fritz, none whatever; and that is the pity. A noble
excitement is the glory of great families. It is a misfortune for a noble
race when a member of it is devoid of ambition; he allows his family to
sink below its level. I could give you many examples. That which would be
very fortunate in a trader's family is the greatest misfortune in a
nobleman's."

I was astonished; for all my theories upon the count's past life were
falling to the earth.

"Still, Monsieur Knapwurst, the lord of Nideck has had great sorrows, had
he not?"

"Such as what?"

"The loss of his wife."

"Yes, you are right there; his wife was an angel; he married her for
love. She was a Zaan, one of the oldest and best nobility of Alsace, but
a family ruined by the Revolution. The Countess Odile was the delight of
her husband. She died of a decline which carried her off after five
years' illness. Every plan was tried to save her life. They travelled in
Italy together but she returned worse than she went, and died a few weeks
after their return. The count was almost broken-hearted, and for two
years he shut himself up and would see no one. He neglected his hounds
and his horses. Time at last calmed his grief, but there is always a
remainder of grief," said the hunchback, pointing with his finger to his
heart; "you understand very well, there is still a bleeding wound. Old
wounds you know, make themselves felt in change of weather--and old
sorrows too--in spring when the fl