It was a brilliant assemblage, but it was well to be seen that deep drinking had been indulged in. Besides the Erbprincessin, only Osiander and the Erbprinz had calm and unflushed faces. The Landhofmeisterin's eyes wandered from Friedrich Wilhelm to Eberhard Ludwig; his face was flushed, and he swayed a little in his chair. His Highness was usually a moderate drinker, and, though during his various campaigns he had drunk and revelled like the rest, the Landhofmeisterin had never seen him with that vacant, sottish look, and her soul sickened at the sight. The Erbprincessin rose and took her leave, Friedrich Wilhelm shouting rough, good-natured pleasantries to her. Then his Majesty's friend, Grumbkow, craving the Duke's permission, called the lackey in charge, who produced the King's huge pipe, and in a few minutes the Landhofmeisterin saw the stately banqueting-hall take the aspect and smell of a tabagie. Dense clouds of smoke rose up, and she saw that the Prussian King was again served with an enormous jug of beer. The banqueting-hall was transformed, no trace of elegance or courtly grace seemed to remain; it had become a pothouse, of which Eberhard Ludwig was the jovial host. The Landhofmeisterin quivered with disgust, his Highness appeared sunken to a different level. She watched and listened; the music in the courtyard had ceased, and she could hear what they said in the banqueting-hall. 'What! Sapperment! you compose fiddling tunes, young man?' Friedrich Wilhelm was roaring at the shrinking Erbprinz. 'Just like my fool of a son. He blows squeaks on a tube which he calls my beloved flute' (the King gave a rough imitation of his son's refined speech). 'No good at all, this younger generation--eh! what, old comrade? A good fight, a good glass of beer, a good pipe, a good wife--that's what a man needs; no French jiggery and music nonsense. Fool's play--eh, what? what?' He spoke in German; such German as it was, too, vitiated by French words which he could not avoid, as he knew no others, adorned with unquotable oaths, short-clipped, rough phrases--the language of the man-at-arms in the guard-room. Yet he possessed a certain breezy charm, and Eberhard Ludwig seemed to respond to it. In truth, the King, when he was not in one of his furious rages, was a boon companion, and appealed to the brutish swagger which lies dormant in every man's being.