Some days later, a messenger from the Emperor’s court arrived at the chateau:  “May it please my lord Minister,” he began—­

“I am no Minister,” replied Durer, impatiently; “but have patience, sir, have patience; I may be Minister one day.”  Then he began to walk up and down hastily in the gallery of the chateau, perpetually saying, “I might have been a Minister by this time, sir, if your great ones did not leave men of strong intellect, and ability, and purpose, in the jaws of a misery which eats away the very brain as rust eats away the steel.  Why—­why, I ask, debar these men from high offices—­these men who have nothing—­merely out of a prejudice, which is as fatal to the individual as it is deadly to the state?” Then turning sharply on the Emperor’s emissary, “Go, and tell your master, sir,” said he, “that yesterday I was—­I was—­I was”—­pressing his hand, as he spoke, above his forehead, as though he was trying to find a coronet which had belonged to it.  Then rushing away distractedly—­“Minister!” cried he, “I am—­I was—­No, no—­I was not—­but I soon will be!—­Leave me, sir! leave me! leave me!”

Another day, his wretched family, who watched him with terror, overheard him talking to his gardener:  “What a magnificent piece of work you are laying out, my good boy,” said Durer; “a garden admirably designed, if there ever was such a thing.”  Then casting a disturbed glance toward the chateau, “’Tis a grand place, this,” said he; “rich and elegant, and capitally situated—­to whom does it belong, Joseph?”

“My lord baron knows right well that park, gardens, and chateau, belong to his noble self,” said the gardener, leaning on his spade, and raising his cap.

Durer began to laugh to himself—­but it was a piteous laugh—­“Belong to me, my good boy!” said he; “not yet—­not yet—­and yet it seems to me as if I had owned—­as if I had owned”—­and he passed his hand over his forehead, as if he could call back some recollection which had drifted away out of his reach—­murmuring, after a pause, “Is it to be this shepherd’s hovel—­for ever?—­for ever?—­for ever?” He fell on a turf seat, sobbing bitterly; then raising his head, he saw his two fair little children, who were at play in one of the alleys of the park.

“What lovely children!” sighed he; “ah!—­he must, at least, be happy, whoever he be, that is father to such a pair of angels!”

The children came and flung themselves, laughing, into the Minister’s arms, and hung about him with all manner of tender caresses.  In return, he could but press their tiny hands in his, or let his lean, feverish fingers play with their golden curls.  They kept calling him “Father.”

“What are they saying!” murmured the Baron; “the blessing of being called father I shall never know!  What is life—­without a home, without a family round me!  But these gifts only belong to fortune, and come with it.”  Then looking from one lovely little creature to another, with his dim and bloodshot eyes, he said, “And yet these children—­these children—­” He could not finish his sentence, but again passed his hand over his forehead; and the children became silent and awe-stricken, for they saw that he was weeping to himself.