d of the appointment and the promotion of many distinguished men to
important positions.

It was an actual fact--beautiful reality.

In the city it was said, with a significant smile, that the baron had
received the appointment in order to place him in the proper position
to marry Countess Irma. Others, who were less kindly disposed, asserted
that it was freely offered to the gallant court fool, as the court had
always regarded theatrical matters as a sort of time-honored
buffoonery, furnishing amusement of a light and trivial character.

But Baron Schoning--or, as he must now be styled, the
intendant--received the visits of his subordinates with great dignity
and then drove to the palace.

On the way, he was obliged to pass Countess Irma's apartments. He
stopped and sent in his card.

The countess received him kindly, and offered him her sincere
congratulations. He plainly intimated that he, in a great measure, owed
his promotion to her, and he remarked that a lady of good taste and
true artistic feeling could be his greatest aid and support in his new
calling. She affected not to understand him and assented, in an absent
manner. Her thoughts were wandering. She would often look out of the
window that opened on the park. The snow had almost disappeared and the
marble statues of gods and goddesses had thrown off their winter
covering. Nearest her window, and in a position which showed its
profile, stood the Venus de Milo.

"Pardon me," said she, at last, as if collecting her thoughts, "I am
delighted that you have again resumed your connection with art, and
would be very glad to have a talk with you on the subject. Above all
things, let me beg of you to let us have music again at the theater: if
not during the _entr'actes_, before the performance, at all events."

"The musicians are all opposed to such a course."

"I know that very well. Each art endeavors to isolate itself, to remain
independent of all others. But a play without music is like a feast
without wine. Music cleanses the soul from the dust and dross of
every-day life and seems to say to every one: 'You are no longer in
your office, in the barracks, or in the workshop.' If it could be done,
I would prescribe a special costume for all who frequent the theater.
Their uncovered heads should be a token of spiritual reverence, and,
besides that, I would have theatrical performances only once a week."

"You are perfectly right as regards the music," inte