f a very different character. This letter was from
Flemming, the Saxon ambassador in Berlin, and contained strange, wild
rumors. The King of Prussia, it seemed, had left Berlin the day before,
with all the princes and his staff officers, and no one knew exactly
where he was going! Rumor said, though, that he and his army were
marching toward Saxony! After reading this, Count Bruhl broke out into a
loud laugh.

"Well," said he, "it must be granted that this little poet-king,
Frederick, has the art of telling the most delightful fairy-tales to
his subjects, and of investing every action of his with the greatest
importance. Ah, Margrave of Brandenburg! we will soon be in a condition
to take your usurped crown from your head. Parade as much as you
like--make the world believe in you and your absurd manoeuvres--the day
will soon come when she will but see in you a poor knight with naught
but his title of marquis." With a triumphant smile he threw down the
letter and grasped the next. "Another from Flemming?" said he. "Why,
truly, the good count is becoming fond of writing. Ah," said he, after
reading it carelessly, "more warnings! He declares that the King of
Prussia intends attacking Saxony--that he is now already at our borders.
He then adds, that the king is aware of the contract which we and our
friends have signed, swearing to attack Prussia simultaneously. Well,
my good Flemming, there is not much wisdom needed to tell me that if the
king knows of our contract, he will be all the more on his guard,
and will make preparations to defend himself; for he would not be so
foolhardy as to attempt to attack our three united armies. No, no. Our
regiments can remain quietly in Poland, the seventeen thousand men here
will answer all purposes."

"There is but one more of these begging letters," said he, opening it,
but throwing it aside without reading it. Out of it fell a folded piece
of paper. "Why," said the count, taking it up, "there are verses. Has
Flemming's fear of the Prussian king made a poet of him?" He opened it
and read aloud:

"'A piece of poetry which a friend, Baron Pollnitz, gave me yesterday.
The author is the King of Prussia.'"

"Well," said the count, laughing, "a piece of poetry about me--the king
does me great honor. Let us see; perhaps these verses can be read at the
table to-day, and cause some amusement. 'Ode to Count Bruhl,' with this
inscription: 'il ne faut pas s'inquieter de l'avsnir.' That is a wi