Only two people stood to greet us on the steps, Baron Carl von Lichtenberg and a man--a great man, with a dominating face, and hooded eyes that never wavered, never lowered, eyes direct, far-seeing, and fearless as the eyes of an eagle. I was in a terrible fright. Those words, "The King is here," had thrown me in consternation. Though my father was a close friend of Napoleon, I had never been brought into contact, as yet, with that enigmatical person. I knew nothing of courts; and the idea that I was to sleep under the same roof as the King of Prussia, and be spoken to by him, perhaps, filled my imaginative mind with such a panic that I quite forgot my ghostly dread of Baron von Lichtenberg. I thought the big man with the strange eyes was the King. He was not the King. He was Bismarck. Bismarck! Good heavens! How little we know of a man till we have seen him in his everyday mood! Bismarck slapped my father on the back--he had all the good-humour and boisterous manner of a great schoolboy--as he accompanied us up the steps. He had met my father several times before, and liked him, as everyone liked him. And in the vast hall of the schloss, hung with trophies of the battle and the chase, I stood by, forgotten, whilst my father, in the midst of a group of gentlemen, stood talking to the boisterous great man, whose hard voice and tremendous personality dominated the scene. I have said that Bismarck's voice was hard. It was, but it was not a mean or commonplace voice; it was as full of force as the man, and you never forgot it, once you heard it. A large party of guests were at the schloss; and I, standing alone, felt very much alone indeed--shy, and filled with fear of the King. I was standing like this, when from the door of a great room opening upon the hall came a little figure skipping. Gay as a beam of sunshine, she came into the vast and gloomy hall. She wore a blue scarf, white dress, frilled pantalettes, and shoes with crossed straps over her tiny insteps. She glanced at me as she passed, making straight for Bismarck, whose coat she plucked at. "Another time--another time!" growled he, letting drop a hand for the sunbeam to play with whilst he continued his conversation with the others. But I noticed that, despite his hardness and seeming indifference, the big hand, with the seal-ring on the little finger, caressed the child's hand; but she wanted more than this. Swinging around, still clasping his hand, but pouting, and with a finger to her lips, her eyes rested on me. I had forgotten the King now; a flood of bashfulness overwhelmed me, and, as I stood there holding my képi in one hand, I, mesmerised by the figure in pantalettes before me, made a stiff little bow. Dropping Bismarck's hand, she made a little curtsey, and came skipping to me across the shining floor. "And you, too, are a soldier?" said she, speaking in French. "Bon jour, M. l'Officier!" "Bon jour, mademoiselle!"