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Updated: June 5, 2025
But Gretchen? "The Princess Hildegarde has no scar upon either arm," continued Grumbach. "I have seen them. They are without a single flaw." "More than that," reiterated the duke. "That is not enough." They became silent. Now and then one or the other stirred. The duke never took his eyes off the door through which her highness would enter.
"That was a great fight," remarked the officer. "I should like to have been there." "Four years; pretty long. Do you know Herr Carmichael?" "The American consul? Oh, yes." "He and I fought in the same regiment." "Then you saw some pretty battles." Grumbach took off his hat. "See that?" "Gott! That must have been an ugly one." "Almost crossed over when I got it. Is this the door?" "Yes.
And quietly the clerk returned to his table of figures. But later he intended to write a letter, unsigned, to his serene highness. Carmichael, scowling, undertook to answer his mail, but not with any remarkable brilliancy or coherency. And in this condition of mind Grumbach found him; Grumbach, accompanied by the old clock-mender from across the way, and a Gipsy Carmichael had never seen before.
The chancellor turned to the passports. "There is only one question, Herr Grumbach. It says here that you were a native of Bavaria before going to America. How long ago did you leave Bavaria?" "A good many years, your Excellency." Grumbach inspected the label in his hat. "You have, of course, retained your Bavarian passport?" Carmichael was now leaning forward in his chair, deeply interested.
Grumbach went into his wallet still again. This document the chancellor read with an interest foreign to the affair under his hand. Presently he laughed softly. Why, he could not readily have told. "I am sorry, Herr Grumbach. All this unnecessary trouble simply because of the word Bavaria." "No trouble at all, your Excellency," restoring his papers.
Grumbach took off his derby and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. This moisture had not been wrung forth by any atmospheric effect. From the top of his forehead to the cowlick on the back of his head ran a broad white scar. At one time or another Grumbach had been on the ragged edge of the long journey. He went out of doors. There is nothing like sunshine to tonic the ebbing courage.
But, God in Heaven, where should he begin? How? The Gipsy, standing in the center of the walk, did not see Grumbach, for he was looking toward the palaces, a kind of whimsical mockery in his dark eyes. Grumbach, even more oblivious, crashed into him. Grumbach stammered an apology, and the other replied in his peculiar dialect that no harm had been done.
Help her!" wildly; and he shook the bars with supernatural strength till his hands were bleeding. But Gretchen did not answer. Carmichael tramped about his room, restless, uneasy, starting at sounds. Half a dozen times his cigar had gone out, and burned matches lay scattered on the floor. He was waiting for Grumbach and his confrères.
Two little yellow shoes, so small that they lay on his palm as lightly as two butterflies; a little cloak trimmed with ermine; a golden locket shaped like a heart! Grumbach was very fond of music, and in America there were never any bands except at political meetings or at the head of processions; and that wasn't the sort of music he preferred.
"You once had a brother named Hans." Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his voice dull and empty. "Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have." Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a scoundrel." Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would have refused it. "Perhaps he was a scoundrel.
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