It is odd; elsewhere the daughters of tradesmen marry into the nobility;--in Austria the sons of the nobility marry into trade! "Into trade?" Truyn repeated slowly, and interrogatively. "What did he die of?" asked Pistasch. "It does not say," replied Truyn re-reading the notice in the newspaper. "Hm!--that looks suspicious," said Pistasch. CHAPTER III. The election is over. Pistasch has shaken hands with all the middle-class land-owners, and has done wonders with that haughty condescension of his wherewith he was wont to charm the hearts of such people. Truyn has been enlightened by his political friends as to the state of Bohemian affairs, and Oswald has been cordially congratulated by every one. He is one of those universally popular men before whom even envy and malice lower their weapons. His career has been hitherto like the triumphal march of a young king--let him but appear, and lo! an illumination, and flowers strewed before him. After the election Truyn went to dine at the chief restaurant in Prague with some friends whom he had met for the first time for years;--Georges, Pistasch, and Oswald with the indifference of youth took their lunch at 'The Black Horse,' whither they went from the station. Then Georges departed to revive old associations in various quarters of ancient Prague. Oswald's father had been wont to pass his winters in Vienna, but his younger, poorer brother had his winter quarters in the comparatively humble Moldavian town. Georges looked up the confectioner who had been his first creditor, wandered dreamily through the gray precincts of the public school where he had studied for two years, after his tutors could do nothing more for him, walked across the picturesque Carl's bridge to the Lesser-town, the hoary old Lesser-town, the home of the aristocracy of Prague, cowering in pious veneration at the feet of the Kaiserburg, like a grey-haired child who still believes in fairy stories. There, in one of the angular, irregular squares, just opposite two tall narrow church windows, stood the small palace where Georges passed his boyhood, and which his father finally sold to a wealthy vinegar manufacturer. He scarcely recognised it again. The old stucco ornamentation had been painted a staring red; and a dealer in hams and sausages had his shop in the lower story. "_Tempera mutantur!_" muttered Georges. * * * In a spacious room, tolerably cool, the shades all drawn down, the furniture consisting of dim misty mirrors in shabby gilt frames, of cupboards with brass hinges, and of green velvet chairs and sofas, Oswald lay back, in an arm-chair, laughing heartily at Pistasch's account of a late adventure. Pistasch went to one of the three windows, and drawing the shade half up looked out into the street. The front of 'The Black Horse' looks out on the _Graben_, the _Corso_ of Prague.