THE next morning, before nine o’clock, a messenger came from the
Empress Queen to St. Arnaud, commanding his immediate presence at the
imperial palace.
St. Arnaud reappeared at dusk in the evening. Gavin was sitting by
the window, listening with amusement to the stories Lady Hamilton was
telling, in her soft, pleasant voice, to the two little girls, Freda
and Gretchen.
“Make ready,” said St. Arnaud to Gavin as he came in, “to start for
Breslau with me to-morrow, at midnight, with a flag of truce to the
King of Prussia. I was sent for by the Empress Queen for that purpose.
All is settled. I was allowed to choose a brother officer to accompany
me, and I chose you.”
“A thousand, thousand thanks,” cried Gavin, who realized the advantages
of being sent upon such an expedition.
“I warn you, though,” continued St. Arnaud, warming himself by the
fire, as the little girls lighted the candles and Lady Hamilton and
Gavin hung breathless upon his words, “our mission will fail. The
King of Prussia has never been celebrated for his kindness to the
unfortunate, whether prisoners, whom he generally browbeats, no matter
how humble or how exalted their station, or officers of his own who do
not prove always equal to victory. The Prince of Severn, who was taken
prisoner while reconnoitring near Breslau last October, wishes a letter
conveyed to the King of Prussia, in winter quarters at Breslau. The
Prince, you must know, being an ally of Frederick’s, fully expected
steps to be taken at once to secure his release on parole. But so far
the King of Prussia has not written him a line, or shown the slightest
interest in the fate of one of his best friends and generals. The poor
Prince, tired with waiting, declares there must be some misapprehension
on the King’s part, and solicited the Empress Queen to allow him to
send a letter to the King at Breslau. She at once agreed, for she is as
kind to prisoners and considerate of their feelings as Frederick is to
the contrary. She, therefore, from the goodness of her heart, consented
to transmit the letter, but, as it often is, there is sound political
wisdom as well as generosity in her action; because, if Frederick
wishes to befriend his ally, the Prince can be exchanged for a large
number of Austrian prisoners, and if his neglect is intentional, it
will place Maria Theresa’s conduct in shining contrast to her great
enemy’s. The Emperor and Prince Kaunitz saw this when they agreed to
her generous proposal. The Prince intimated a wish that I might be the
officer sent--I was able to show him a trifling kindness once some
years ago--and the Empress Queen assented with the utmost alacrity.
Great and magnanimous as she is, she is woman enough to be willing to
let the King of Prussia see us, his two prisoners, free and in good
case. All arrangements are made. I have letters and money and horses,
and we start on the stroke of midnight to-morrow. We shall probably be
gone two weeks, but if we are caught by the spring floods, we shall
be detained until they subside, for the Empress Queen and the King of
Prussia between them have scarcely left a bridge standing in Silesia.”
Gavin was overjoyed at the prospect of an expedition of so much
interest; and his mother showed her sympathy with him by at once
beginning to talk over preparations. Gavin ran downstairs to Madame
Ziska, who was just arranging the lamp and fire, and placing Kalenga
with a book for the evening, before going to the opera.
“I am charmed,” she cried, “although we shall be lonely without you
and Captain St. Arnaud. But you will have so much to tell us when you
get back! We shall be glad to take care of Lady Hamilton while you are
away. Luckily, I do not dance to-morrow night, so we can spend the
evening together.”
The Empress Queen, with her usual liberality, which sometimes exceeded
her means, having provided them with a considerable sum of money, next
day they made comfortable arrangements for the journey. Prince Kaunitz
offered them a small but excellent travelling chaise, which, being
brought to the house, Lady Hamilton and Madame Ziska proceeded to stock
with comforts not likely to be found on the road. By eight o’clock
their preparations were complete, and they sat down to a merry supper
in Madame Ziska’s apartment.
“I shall miss you both more than I can say,” said Lady Hamilton, “and I
shall not go to the palace or accept any invitations until you return.
But that I will not mind. I shall amuse myself, if Madame Ziska will
permit, by teaching Freda and Gretchen English, and so the weeks will
pass more quickly.”
“I shall be only too grateful,” quickly replied Madame Ziska, who saw
the advantage of her two young daughters having the training of a woman
so highly educated and well bred as Lady Hamilton.
“And pray,” she continued, laughing, as they drew up to the table, “to
make my most respectful compliments to the King of Prussia, and to tell
him that his snuff-box was treated with the highest respect wherever I
showed it, and often got me accommodations at inns and post-houses when
it would have been otherwise impossible. Likewise say to him, that I
think my dancing has improved--the Emperor has been pleased to say that
the ballerina of the Queen of the Naiads is the best thing yet done at
the opera.”
St. Arnaud and Gavin faithfully promised all.
The evening sped rapidly away, all, even Kalenga, being in the highest
spirits. When the clock struck twelve, and the chaise was at the door,
Kalenga, raising himself in his wheeled chair, proposed the health of
the two departing ones, which was drank with enthusiasm. Then followed
affectionate farewells, Gavin running back from the door for a last
embrace from his mother, and soon they were clattering off over the
frozen roadway toward the gates of the city.
As soon as they had passed the gates, and got into the open country
beyond, St. Arnaud, who was an experienced traveller, settled himself
to sleep; but Gavin, who had never made a journey in a chaise before,
was too excited to sleep. He compared his lot then--an officer with
a recognized position as a gentleman, regular, though small pay, his
mother with him, her position recognized, a powerful friend in St.
Arnaud, and other true friends in Madame Ziska and her husband, the
protection of a great and generous sovereign like Maria Theresa--and
the contemplation of these things caused a wave of reverential
gratitude to overwhelm his soul. A year before he had been a private
soldier, with all the hardships of a private soldier’s lot in those
times. He had been ragged and cold and hungry; his fellow-soldiers,
brave, honest fellows though they might be, were rude and ignorant
men, of coarse manners, and rarely could any of them read or write. He
recalled that he had not been really unhappy during the time that he
had trudged along, carrying a musket--in fact, it gave him something
like a shock to remember that he had begun to like the life, and
felt less and less the ambition to rise to something better. Perhaps
he would have risen in any event, but, surely, the finding himself
alone with St. Arnaud in a freezing desert after Rosbach was the most
fortunate circumstance of his whole life. These thoughts crowded upon
his mind, but after a while the steady motion of the chaise made him
drowsy, and he slept.
Seven days were they on the journey, although they travelled as fast as
the state of the country would permit, and at noon on the seventh day
they came within sight of the towers and steeples of Breslau, and met
the Prussian outposts.
St. Arnaud, tying his white handkerchief to the point of his sword,
got out of the chaise, as did Gavin, and advanced toward the Prussian
sentinel. The officer of the guard was at once sent for, and after a
very short delay they were blindfolded and driven inside the walls and
fortifications.
It was a tedious drive to the quarters courteously provided for them,
and both St. Arnaud and Gavin suspected that they were being driven
in a roundabout manner, to confuse their sense of locality. Arrived
at their quarters, the Prussian officer, Lieutenant Bohlen, led them,
into a room, and exacting the usual promises from them that they would
not leave the house without permission and an escort, removed the
handkerchiefs from their eyes. He then left, to report their arrival
at headquarters, after ordering dinner to be sent them. The dinner was
very good, and they were still at it when Lieutenant Bohlen returned.
“The King will see you to-night after he has supped, and meanwhile
desires that you be made comfortable.”
Gavin spent a good part of the afternoon making a toilet for the King
of Prussia. He bathed and shaved, and put on clean linen from top to
toe, and his handsome white uniform and varnished boots.
“And I think,” he complacently remarked to St. Arnaud, “the King will
find me a different person from the great gaby he hauled out of the
closet. Oh, I shall never forgive myself for not knocking him down--I
could have done it so easily.”
St. Arnaud, too, had made an elaborate toilet, and as he surveyed
himself and Gavin, he rather wounded Gavin’s self-love by saying:
“You and I are obliged to dress well. The King of Prussia is shabbier
than any captain in his army--but--he is the King of Prussia, and he
can afford to be shabby.”
About eight o’clock in the evening, another officer, Major Count von
Armfeld, appeared, and politely introducing himself as aide-de-camp to
his Majesty, requested them to go with him.
It was a beautiful moonlight night as the party emerged into one of
the quaintest and oldest streets of Breslau. They were near a splendid
bridge across the Oder, and the moon shone brightly on the placid
bosom of the river. Everywhere were the signs of military occupation.
Churches had been turned into barracks, public buildings into arsenals,
and nearly every house had officers billeted in it.
After crossing the bridge, they entered a handsome street, at the end
of which was a large and splendid mansion. A couple of sentinels were
pacing before the door.
“That is where his Majesty lives,” said Von Armfeld. “It is called the
King’s House. It has a garden to it, in which the King takes exercise.”
Von Armfeld giving the countersign, they entered the mansion, and
ascended a handsome staircase. The house seemed to be buzzing like a
beehive, all the rooms being lighted up, and officers at work in them.
At the end of a long corridor was a small door, before which they
stopped. Von Armfeld gave four peculiar raps on the door; a voice said,
“Come”--and St. Arnaud and Gavin found themselves in the presence of
the great Frederick. He was sitting by the fire and was wrapped in
an old military cape. His face was cadaverous, his eyes sunken, and
his whole appearance so changed by ill health, that St. Arnaud and
Gavin would have had difficulty in recognizing him. But if they found
recognition of the King difficult, the King found recognition of them
impossible. He looked at them as if he had never seen them before, and
motioning them to sit, consulted a little memorandum before him.
“Captain St. Arnaud of Major-General Loudon’s corps and companion,
Sublieutenant Hamilton. I knew General Loudon. I might have had his
services when he returned from Russia, but I frankly admit I saw not
the man of genius under his unpromising exterior. At the blockade of
Prague, his patent as Major-General, sent him by the Empress Queen,
fell into the hands of some of my hussars. I had it returned to him,
and was pleased to serve so gallant an officer.”
St. Arnaud bowed at these praises of his commander, and after a pause
Frederick said negligently:
“Have you the Prince of Bevern’s letter?”
St. Arnaud rose, and taking the Prince of Bevern’s letter from his
breast, handed it to Frederick, with another bow. It was a long letter,
and both St. Arnaud and Gavin watched the King closely as he read. He
had a speaking face, and as he read page after page of the letter his
countenance grew more sinister. St. Arnaud gave Gavin a slight glance,
which said plainly: “The Prince will get no help.”
After reading it over carefully, Frederick laid it down, and began to
speak on the topic, apparently, the farthest off, in more ways than
one, from Bevern’s letter that could be imagined.
“Did you ever study astronomy, Captain St. Arnaud?”
“Considerably, your Majesty. When I was at the College of St. Omer’s in
France--for I had some education before I joined the army--I was much
interested in it, and spent many nights at the telescope.”
“I confess, I knew very little about the science. There is a garden
communicating with the one we have here, and in it is an observatory
with a fine telescope. I have been troubled with sleeplessness this
winter, and I have spent many hours, in consequence, studying the
planets. I have found it singularly soothing. Nothing so reconciles
one to the chances and changes of this life as looking through a
telescope. There one sees the infinite smallness of triumphs; the utter
nothingness of misfortunes.”
“True, your Majesty,” replied St. Arnaud, as composedly as if he had
come all the way from Vienna to discuss astronomy. “Of course, the
uppermost thought in every mind is whether those infinite worlds are
inhabited or not.”
“It is a thought too staggering to pursue very far. The first
conception of space is noble and exhilarating beyond expression. But
I believe that the strongest mind, fixed perpetually on the vast
possibilities of the solar system, would become unbalanced. Astronomers
do not become so, because they pursue the science with exactness, and
do not let imagination into the matter at all. But for persons like you
and me, who look at the myriads of worlds with the eye of speculation,
it soon ceases to be exhilarating; it becomes overwhelming, and I, for
one, dare not dwell too long upon it. The night is clear. Will you go
with me to the observatory?”
“Certainly,” replied St. Arnaud, without showing the faintest surprise.
Frederick rose, and as he did so he fell into a violent paroxysm
of coughing. When it was over he sank into his seat, too overcome
with weakness to stand. Annoyance was pictured on his face at this
exhibition of illness before the officers of the Empress Queen, and
also a spirit of iron determination. His soul was ever stronger than
his body, and in this case he triumphed over illness and exhaustion.
After a few moments he rose, and going toward the door, St. Arnaud
respectfully opened it, and he passed out. He held his hat in his
hand, but had omitted to take his cloak, which hung over the back of
his chair. St. Arnaud had not noticed the omission, but Gavin had, and
picking the cloak up, he ran after the King, saying, “Your Majesty
would do well to take this; the night air is sharp.”
Frederick, with the ghost of a smile, proceeded to wrap himself up in
the cloak, and then said: “You may come also.”
Nothing loath, Gavin followed. Crossing a large garden, they ascended
the stairs of a moderately tall observatory. The effort made Frederick
gasp and tremble, but his step never faltered as he climbed up.
Reaching the top, he struck his flint and steel, and with St. Arnaud’s
assistance he lighted a large lamp, saying, “That is visible from every
part of the house, and signifies I am in the observatory, and I am not
to be disturbed.”
The telescope was soon arranged, and the King and St. Arnaud were deep
in astronomical surveys and discussions. St. Arnaud was singularly
well versed in astronomy, and Frederick seemed to be fascinated by his
intelligent conversation. Gavin, a mute listener, sat near by, and
longed unspeakably for a glimpse through the telescope.
An hour passed, and at the end of that time, while St. Arnaud was
giving his views in his clear and musical voice on certain aspects of
the planet Saturn, Frederick’s head sunk back in his chair, his head
rested against the wall, and he slept peacefully.
Neither St. Arnaud nor Gavin could restrain a feeling of pity for him
then. His face, thin and drawn, was a picture of sadness. He looked
not only ill, but frightfully worn, and his sleep was the sleep of
exhaustion.
St. Arnaud raised his hand as a sign to Gavin to keep perfectly still.
He remembered the King’s remark, that he had not slept well of late,
and thought this sudden drowsiness probably a blessed relief. So,
indeed, it was. Gradually, as he slept more soundly, his face lost its
look of pain. Soon it was plain there was no danger of his awaking. It
grew chill in the room, and Gavin, softly taking off his own cloak,
laid it over Frederick’s knees. The warmth appeared to soothe him still
more; he sighed profoundly, settled himself more comfortably in his
chair, and slept like a child.
Hours passed. No one came to disturb them, for the light shining
through the window was a warning that no one must enter. The town grew
still as the night advanced, and in the deep silence nothing was heard
but the faint tramp of sentries and the quiet flow of the river. But
after midnight this changed. The wind rose, clouds of inky blackness
scurried across the face of the moon, and presently it began to rain
furiously. The heavy drops battered down like thunder upon the roof
of the observatory, but no sound awakened Frederick, who slumbered
peacefully on.
Not so Gavin and St. Arnaud, both of whom sat up, wide-awake. There was
so little chance of awaking the King that they conversed together in
whispers.
“What did you see through the telescope?” asked Gavin.
“That the King has no mind to help the Prince of Bevern. I saw it as
plainly as I saw the moon.”
“It is strange he did not recognize us.”
At which St. Arnaud made a gesture which indicated that Frederick knew
them quite as well as they knew him, but for reasons known only to
himself did not choose to admit it.
About two o’clock the storm increased in severity. The sound of the
rushing river was distinctly heard over the wild swirl of wind and
rain. Presently there was a roar of waters, and looking out of the
window into the garden, forty feet below, they saw it was flooded
several feet. A culvert had given way, and the swollen river poured
itself into the garden.
In the house lights were moving about. The King’s household had
determined, in spite of his rigid prohibition, to come to the
observatory after him. But it was a question how they could get there,
as the water was already four feet deep and rising rapidly.
Just at this moment Frederick stirred in his sleep and waked. Like a
true soldier, he had his memory and all his wits about him the instant
he opened his eyes. He rose at once, and hearing the noise of the
storm, said:
“I must have slept many hours--more than I have slept in a week. I feel
much better for it.”
“Look, your Majesty,” said St. Arnaud, opening the window.
Frederick looked out, and as he looked he laughed. The running about in
the house was plainly visible by the moving and flashing lights.
“They are all in a panic over there. I suppose they will be sending
after me in a boat. It will take time to find me.”
“Pardon me, sire,” said Gavin. “If your Majesty will trust yourself
on my back, I can get you over safely. The water is not yet up to my
waist, and the distance is short.”
“Yes,” cried Frederick, laughing again. “While my staff are racing
about like frightened chickens in a barnyard I will walk in on them.”
He stooped and picked up Gavin’s cloak, which lay on the floor.
“I remember your laying this over my knees, although you thought I was
sleeping too soundly to know anything; but come, the water rises every
moment.”
He went rapidly down the stairs, followed closely by Gavin and St.
Arnaud. Gavin stepped boldly into the flood, which was up to his waist,
and cried to the King:
“Your Majesty must make yourself very small, for my honour is engaged
to get you across without wetting you. And you must also wear my cloak
over your own.”
Frederick sprang up on Gavin’s back with great agility, drawing his
heels up under Gavin’s arms. St. Arnaud covered him up well with the
two cloaks, and Gavin stepped lightly forward into the flood. His
young strength enabled him to withstand the flow of the waters with
considerable steadiness, and it was plain he could get the King over
without difficulty. About midway, however, he came to a dead stop.
“Your Majesty,” he asked, “do you remember us, and that night at the
country house in Silesia, and Madame Ziska?”
“Certainly I do,” coolly responded Frederick, “and had you not lost
your senses, it would have been by no means impossible for you to have
made your escape by a rush, when I broke the door in.”
“So I have often thought, your Majesty, if only I had had the wit to
knock your Majesty down. We declined to accept your parole, but you see
we got away from Glatz just the same.”
“I know it. That ridiculous old Kollnitz and his ‘system.’ But I have a
better man there than Kollnitz. You could not do it so easily now.”
“Sire, the Empress Queen gave me a sword for that escape, and both of
us got promotion.”
“Very naturally. Women are always taken with those showy things, which
count, however, for little in the long run. Your Empress Queen is like
the rest of her sex.”
“Sire, I do not know if you mean that disrespectfully or not, but if
you say one disparaging word about my sovereign I will drop you into
the water if I am shot for it to-morrow morning.”
“Then I shall certainly speak of the Empress Queen with the highest
respect, and feel it, too, until I am safe on dry land. Oh, the devil!
Go on!”
[Illustration: GAVIN CARRIES THE KING ACROSS THE FLOODED GARDEN]
“With pleasure, sire, since you have so handsomely respected my
wishes,” replied Gavin, and a few more strides brought him to the
house. The steps were submerged, but a window on the ground floor
was yet a few inches above the water. A general in epaulets and a
cook with a paper cap on his head heard the sound as the King rapped
loudly on the panes. The window was raised by them, and with their help
Frederick stepped inside. When he threw off his outer cloak he was as
dry as a bone. Gavin, who had climbed in after him, was like a river
god, water streaming from every part of him. Frederick, who disliked to
be questioned, said to the officer:
“Take this gentleman and provide him with dry clothes. He is Lieutenant
Gavin Hamilton of the Imperialist army, as you know. His companion,
Captain St. Arnaud, is still at the observatory. Let a boat be sent for
Captain St. Arnaud as soon as possible.”
While Frederick was speaking, he had turned to a table near by, and was
writing a few words rapidly. He handed the sheet of paper to Gavin. On
it was scrawled in the King’s peculiar handwriting: “On the night of
the first of March, 1758, Lieutenant Gavin Hamilton brought me on his
back through my flooded garden at Breslau, with the water four feet
deep. Midway he stopped and we conversed. The name of the Empress
Queen being mentioned, Lieutenant Hamilton told me if I should speak
disrespectfully of her Majesty he would drop me in the water if he were
shot next morning for it. I had no thought of speaking disrespectfully
of her Majesty, but if I had done so, I have no doubt Lieutenant
Hamilton would have instantly carried out his threat. Frédéric.”
Gavin’s mouth came open in a tremendous grin as he read this, the more
so when Frederick good-humouredly added:
“That ought to be good for one step in promotion at least.”