, who had persuaded herself
into believing that she was the first person in the palace, and now,
for the first time, experienced the mortification of being ignored,
just as if she were nothing more than empty air.

"I won't lose my temper, in spite of you. And I won't do you the favor
to get sick, so that you may send me off," muttered Walpurga, laughing
to herself, while the countess withdrew.

And now followed a beautiful and happy hour. Two maidens came, who
dressed the prince. Walpurga also allowed them to dress her, and
greatly enjoyed being thus waited upon.

All the bells, throughout the city, were ringing; the chimes of the
palace tower joined in the merry din, and almost caused the vast
building to tremble. And now Baum came. He looked magnificent. The
richly-embroidered uniform with the silver lace, the scarlet vest
embroidered with gold, the short, gray-plush breeches, the white
stockings, the buckled shoes--all seemed as if they had come from some
enchanted closet, and Baum well knew that he was cutting a grand
figure. He smiled when Walpurga stared at him, and knew what that look
meant. He could afford to wait.

"One should not attempt to reap too soon," had been a favorite saying
of Baroness Steigeneck's valet, and he knew what he was about.

Baum announced a chamberlain and two pages, who entered soon afterward.

Heavy steps and words of command were heard from the adjoining room.
The doors were opened by a servant and a number of cuirassiers entered
the room. They were a detachment from the regiment to which the prince
would belong, as soon as he had received his name.

The procession that accompanied the prince moved at the appointed hour.
The chamberlain walked in advance and then came Mademoiselle Kramer and
Walpurga, the pages bringing up the rear. It was fortunate for Walpurga
that Baum was at her side, for she felt so timid and bashful, that she
looked about her as if imploring aid. Baum understood it all and
whimpered to her: "Keep up your courage, Walpurga!" She merely nodded
her thanks, for she could not utter a word. Bearing the child on her
arms, she passed through the crowd of cuirassiers who, with drawn
swords and glittering coats of mail, stood there like so many statues.
Suddenly, she thought of where she had been last Sunday at the same
hour. If Hansei could only see this, too. And Franz, tailor Schenck's
son, is in the cuirassiers--perhaps he, too, is among those lifeless
ones; b