On New Year's day we started early and went to Potsdam to visit the
palace of Sans Souci.
A most curious and interesting little old man who had been a guide
there for thirty years showed us through the grounds, where the King's
greyhounds are buried, and where he pleaded to be buried with them.
The guide had no idea that he possessed a certain dramatic genius for
pathos, for, parrot-like, he was repeating the story he had told
perhaps a thousand times before. But when he showed us the graves of
the greyhounds which ate the poisoned food which had been prepared for
the King, he said:
"And they lie here. Not there with the other dogs, the favorites of
the King, but here, alone, disgraced, without even a headstone.
Without even their names, although they saved the great King from
death and gave their lives for his. Yet they lie here, and the others
lie there. It is the way of the world, ladies."
Then he took us to the top of the terrace facing the palace, and,
pointing to the entrance, he said:
"In the left wing were the chambers of the King's guests. In the right
wing were his own.
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