“As you say,” replied the officer; “and it will all be settled before the fashion of French farthingales reaches Copenhagen.” “Frederic’s son must be about twenty-two years old, for I had been in Copenhagen fortress a year when the news of his birth reached me. Let him marry young,” added Schumacker with a bitter smile. “When disgrace comes upon him, at least no one can accuse him of having aspired to a cardinal’s hat.” The old favorite alluded to one of his own misfortunes, of which the lieutenant knew nothing. “No, indeed,” said he, laughing heartily. “Baron Ordener will receive the title of count, the collar of the Order of the Elephant, and a colonel’s epaulettes, which would scarcely match with the cardinal’s hat.” “So much the better,” answered Schumacker. Then after a pause he added, shaking his head as if he saw his revenge before him, “Some day they may make an iron collar of his fine order; they may break his count’s coronet over his head; they may strike him in the face with his colonel’s epaulettes.” Ordener seized the old man’s hand. “For the sake of your hatred, sir, do not curse an enemy’s good fortune before you know whether it be good fortune in his eyes.” “Pooh!” said the lieutenant. “What are the old fellow’s railings to Baron Thorwick?” “Lieutenant,” cried Ordener, “they may be more to him than you think. And,” he added, after a brief silence, “your grand marriage is not so certain as you suppose.” “_Fiat quod vis_,” rejoined the lieutenant, with an ironical bow; “the king, the viceroy, and the chancellor have, it is true, made every arrangement for the wedding; but if it displeases you, Sir Stranger, what matter the lord chancellor, the viceroy, and the king!” “You may be right,” said Ordener, seriously. “Oh, by my faith!”--and the lieutenant threw himself back in a fit of laughter,--“this is too good! How I wish Baron Thorwick could hear a fortune-teller so well instructed in regard to the things of this world decide his fate. Believe me, my learned prophet, your beard is not long enough for a good sorcerer.” “Sir Lieutenant,” coldly answered Ordener, “I do not think that Ordener Guldenlew will ever marry a woman whom he does not love.” “Ha, ha! here we have the Book of Proverbs. And who tells you, Sir Greenmantle, that the baron does not love Ulrica d’Ahlefeld?” “And, if it please you, in your turn, who tells you that he does?” Here the lieutenant, as often happens, was led by the heat of the conversation into stating a fact of which he was by no means certain. “Who tells me that he loves her? The question is absurd. I am sorry for your powers of divination; but everybody knows that this match is no less a marriage of inclination than of convenience.” “At least, everybody but me,” said Ordener, gravely. “Except you? So be it. But what difference does that make? You cannot prevent the viceroy’s son from being in love with the chancellor’s daughter.” “In love?” “Madly in love!”