“See, Wolff! I beg,” said the young man, “see that old waddling duck, Mollendorf. I know the old fellow, he is from Gotha; he imagines himself of the greatest importance, and thinks Prussia begets fame and honor from his grace. He trumpets forth his own glories at a dinner, and abuses his king. He makes Frederick the Great an insignificant little being, that he may look over him.” “Unimportant men always do that,” answered the other. “They would make great men small, and think by placing themselves on high pedestals they become great. The clown striding through the crowd on his stilts may even look over an emperor. But fortunately there comes a time when the dear clown must come down from his stilts, and then it is clear to others, if not to himself, what little, earth-born snips the men of yesterday are.” “Only look, Wolff, there is just such a moment coming to that stiltsman Mollendorf. How the great man stoops, and how small he looks on his gray horse, for a greater springs past! Look at him well, Wolff--we shall dine with him, and he does not like to be stared at in the face.” “Is that, then, Prince Henry passing?” asked Wolff, with animation; “That little general, who just galloped into the circle with his suite, is that the king’s brother?” “Yes, that is just his misfortune that he is the king’s brother,” answered a deep, sonorous voice behind them. Turning, they beheld a young, elegantly dressed man, in the light gray frock and gold-bordered, three-cornered hat, and a Spanish cane, with an ivory handle. “What did you remark, sir?” asked Herr Wolff; his great, brown eyes flashing over the pale, intellectual face of the other, so that he was quite confused, yet, as if enchanted, could not turn away. “What did you remark, sir?” asked again Herr Wolff. “I believe,” stammered the other, “that I said it was the misfortune of the prince that he was the brother only, as he was worthy of being mentioned for himself; but I beg, sir, be a little indulgent, and do not pry into my very soul with your godlike eyes. It will craze me, and I shall run through the streets of Berlin, crying that the Apollo-Belvedere has arrived at Potsdam, and invite all the poets and authors to come and worship him.” “I believe you are right,” cried the youngest of the two gentlemen, laughing. “I believe myself it is the Apollo-Belvedere.” “Be still, my dear sir, hush, and preserve our incognito,” interrupted his companion. “But I cannot help it, Wolff. Am I to blame that this clever fellow sees through your mask, and discovers the divine spark which hides itself under a gray Werther costume?” “I pray, sir, grant my request, and respect our incognito,” begged the other, gently but firmly.