_Histoire Secrette de la Duchesse d’ Hanover, Épouse de Georges Premier_, etc., said to be written by the Baron von Poellnitz. Published in French, London, 1732. This work is not trustworthy. Footnote 32: In King William’s chest was found a large bundle marked “The Electress Sophia’s correspondence with St. Germains”. ----- After a time some sort of wretched truce was patched up between the ill-mated couple, probably through the mediation of the Duchess Sophia, and Sophie Dorothea returned to her apartments in the Old Palace and to outward union with her husband. Königsmarck had then left Hanover for a period. The death of his uncle, Count Otho William, in the latter part of 1688, called him to Italy, and in the February of the following year we find him attending the splendid obsequies of that distinguished relative at Venice, for Count Otho William was not buried until many months after he died. By his brother’s death Königsmarck had become a rich man; by his uncle’s death he became one of the wealthiest noblemen in Europe, and the splendour of his equipages, the lavishness of his entertainments, and his reputation for gallantry made him an acquisition to any court. He was one of Fortune’s favourites: born in the purple, entering upon a large inheritance while yet a young man, he had the opportunity of making the most of the good gifts Fortune showered upon him. Every court in Europe was open to him; there were many capital cities where he might have found a fitting scene for the spending of his wealth and the display of his peculiar talents, but Hanover, little Hanover, drew him back again—whereof who shall say? He had no ties there of long standing, no attractions equal to those of Versailles and Dresden, no friends, unless it were the Princess whom he had known in boyhood, and who was now in a position which should have debarred intimacy. Whether it was chance or a set plan, whether it was destiny or the desire of the moth for the flame, whatever it was, Königsmarck returned to Hanover, and from that moment Sophie Dorothea’s good angel deserted her. CHAPTER IX. PLAYING WITH FIRE. (1689.) Yet this joy, waited on by fear and doubt, Plucked casually as by a flower of accident, On the rough lip and edge of danger’s breach, How sweeter is it than the rose to smell We gather from our garden with gloved hands, And find nor thorn, nor perfume! SWINBURNE.