Elise could have learned just as well as Bertram had that Feodor had

been accidentally saved. Her lover himself could have sent her this

information, and she, who in the bitterness of her grief had torn

herself loose from her father, might not have had the strength to

withstand his ardent prayers. Perhaps in her sense of bereavement,

trusting to her love, she might have found the sad courage to brave

not only her father, but the judgment and scorn of the world, in order

to be united to her lover.

Such thoughts as these arrested Bertram's steps, and compelled him

to reflection. Only one thing was positive--he must save her at every

hazard, even against her will, even if he should reap, as the sole

reward of his devoted love, her aversion; he must save her from

her own passionate, foolish heart, or from the wild lust of the

unprincipled man to whom she trusted her innocence, her youth, and

beauty.

But this duty he had to perform alone; he dared not trust any one with

his secret, for fear of thereby defeating the object he had in view,

and, instead of saving, bringing disgrace upon her. His resolve was

formed. He must seek her out. He must penetrate to where she was, even

if hid behind a wall of Russian soldiers. Faithful and unselfish as

ever, she should find him at her side, ready to protect her against

every attack, every danger, even from her own inexperience or the

reckless passion of her lover. Especially above all things, her

abduction must remain a secret. To her maidens, therefore, Bertram

said, that their young mistress had withdrawn into her room, and

shut herself in, in order, after so many sleepless nights, to enjoy a

little rest. The same information he left behind for Gotzkowsky, and,

providing himself with weapons, he betook himself to the search for

Elise. In the first place, he naturally directed his steps to the

dwelling of Colonel von Brenda. Here he learned that the latter was

not at home, but had gone to an entertainment at the mess-room of

his regiment. Thither he hastened, firmly resolved to overcome all

obstacles, and in spite of every refusal to see the colonel, and

read in his countenance whether he were an accomplice of the crime

committed, or whether Elise had followed him of her own free will.

At first, he had been obstinately refused admittance; then in his

despair and anguish he had made use of Gotzkowsky's name, a golden

key to open the doors, as he well knew. In fact, scarcely had the

gold-greedy Russian officers ascertained that the young stranger came

as a messenger from Gotzkowsky and wished to inquire of Count von

Brenda, after a young lady who had been carried off by the Cossacks,

than with a yell of delight they rushed toward the door of the room in

which were Feodor and the captured maiden. Bertram had, therefore, to

thank the avarice of the Russian officers that the door was opened and

he was allowed to enter.

As Bertram appeared on the threshold of the room a scream escaped

the lips of the female, and he was enabled, notwithstanding the

concealment, to recognize her whom he sought. His heart was convulsed

with pain, and his impulse for a moment was, to rush upon this

audacious, dissolute young man who stood next to Elise, to murder him,

and revenge in his blood the disgrace he had brought upon her. But

remembering the sacred duty he had undertaken of protecting Elise and

concealing her flight as far as possible, he controlled his anger and

grief, and forced himself to appear calm and collected.

Elise, in the mean while, with joyful emotion recognized Bertram. His

unexpected and unlooked-for appearance did not surprise her, it seemed

so natural to her that whenever danger threatened he should appear

as her protector and savior. She had such confidence in Bertram's

appearance whenever she stood in need of him, that when she saw him,

she looked upon herself as saved, and protected from every danger

which threatened her. She motioned Feodor to her side, and with a

touch of triumphant pride, said to him, "It is Bertram, the friend

of my youth. He has risked his life to save me from dishonor." Feodor

felt the reproof which lay in the intonation of these words, and his

brow grew dark. But he overcame this momentary irritation, and turning

to Bertram, who was approaching him with a firm and determined step,

asked him, "Well, sir, whom do you seek?"

"A young girl who has been carried off by force," replied Bertram, and

he regarded the young man with angry looks. But Feodor met his glance

with firmness and composure. "It is true," said he, "such an outrage

has been committed; some Cossacks kidnapped a young girl in a garden

and brought her here. I myself will inform the general of this

dishonorable deed, for you understand, sir, that this outrage is an

insult to us as well as to yourself. I have promised my protection to

this young person, and I am ready to defend her against any one who

dares to touch her honor or to doubt her virtue. Come, now, sir, and

see whether this he the same young girl whom you seek."

He stepped toward Bertram, and as he led him to Elise, he whispered

rapidly in a low tone. "Be silent, and do not betray her name, for

Elise's honor is at stake."

He raised the veil, and, pointing to Elise's abashed and blushing

countenance, he asked, with a derisive laugh, "Well, now, do you

recognize her? Will you swear that this is Gotzkowsky's daughter?"

Bertram looked at him with assumed surprise. "Gotzkowsky's daughter?"

asked he, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, it is the young lady herself

who sent me, and no one is looking for her."

Colonel Feodor turned with a laugh of triumph toward his comrades.

"Did I not tell you so?" cried he. "You credulous fools were hoping to

get half a million ransom, and I have been bargaining with her for the

last hour for a hundred dollars. She swears, with tears in her eyes,

that she is not worth a hundred pence. Gotzkowsky's daughter, indeed!

Do you imagine that she goes about in a plain white dress, without any

ornament or any thing elegant about her? She is just as fond of dress

as our own princesses and pretty women, and, like them, the daughter

of the rich Gotzkowsky is never visible except in silk and

velvet, with pearls diamonds. Oh! I would like myself to catch the

millionnaire's daughter, for then we might bargain for a decent

ransom."

"But who, then, is this woman?" roared the disappointed officers. "Why

does the rich Gotzkowsky send after her, if she is not his daughter?"

"Who is she?" cried Feodor, laughing. "Well, I will tell you, as you

attack so much importance to it. You have been served like the seekers

after hidden treasure. You have been seeking for gold, and, instead,

you have only found coals to burn your fingers. You sought after the

millionnaire, the rich heiress, and, instead of her, you have only

caught her--chambermaid."

"A chambermaid!" growled out his comrades, and turning their dark,

lowering looks on Bertram, they inquired of him whether this woman

were only a chambermaid in Gotzkowsky's house, and assailed him with

reproaches and curses because he had deluded them into the belief that

Gotzkowsky's daughter had been captured.

"If we had not thought so, we would not have let you in," cried

Lieutenant von Matusch. "It was not worth while making so much fuss

about a little chambermaid."

"It was just for that very reason," replied Bertram, "and because I

knew that you would not otherwise help me, that I let you believe it

was Gotzkowsky's daughter whom you had captured; otherwise you would

never have let me come near Colonel von Brenda. And Mademoiselle

Gotzkowsky had expressly directed me to apply to that gentleman, and

I did so. You can understand my doing so, when I inform you that this

young girl is my sister!"

Feodor turned himself to Elise with an expression of anger on his

countenance. "Is this true?"

"It is true!" cried she, reaching her hand out to Bertram, with a look

of heartfelt gratitude. "He is my brother, my faithful brother!"

But, as she read in Feeder's darkened countenance the marks of

ill-concealed anger and jealousy, she turned toward her lover with a

rare, sweet smile. "Oh," said she, "there is nothing nobler, nothing

more sacred and unselfish, than the love of a brother."

Feodor's searching look seemed to penetrate into the inmost recesses

of her heart. Perhaps he read all the love, innocence, and strength

that lay therein, for his brow cleared up, and his looks resumed

their open cheerfulness. Quickly he took Bertram's hand and laid it

in Elise's. "Well, then," said he, "you happy pair, take each other's

hands, and thank God that the danger is over. We have nothing to do

with young and pretty girls--we only want rich ones. Go!"

"No, no," cried the officers, "not at all, not without ransom!" Saying

which, they pressed noisily and angrily nearer, raising their clinched

fists. "She must pay, or we will keep her!"

"Dare one of you touch her?" cried Feodor, drawing his sword, and

placing himself in front of Elise.

"I have come to fetch my sister," said Bertram, turning to the

officers, "but I knew very well that you would not let her go unless

her ransom were paid. I therefore brought all my little portion with

me. Take this purse full of ducats, and let it pay for her."

A cry of triumph was the answer from the soldiers as they drew Bertram

toward the table that he might count out the money. While they were

dividing it among themselves, talking loudly and laughing merrily,

Feodor remained standing at Elise's side, neither daring to break the

impressive silence. Their souls communed with each other, and they

needed not words nor outward signs. At last, after a long pause,

Feodor asked--

"Are you satisfied now, Elise?"

She answered him with a sweet smile, "I am thine forever!"

"And will you never forget this hour?"

"I will not forget it. I will remember that I have sworn to follow

you voluntarily from my father's house, even against his will." And

letting her blushing face droop upon her breast, she whispered, in a

voice scarcely audible--"I await you!"

But these words, low as they had been spoken, reached the ears of two

men at the same time. Not only Colonel Feodor, but also Bertram, who

had drawn close up to Elise again, had overheard them. The first

they filled with emotions of delight, the other with painful anguish.

Bertram, however, was accustomed to wrestle with his love, and smother

the expression of his pain, under the appearance of quiet composure.

He approached Elise, and offered her his hand, said, "Come sister, let

us go."

"Yes, go," said the colonel, with the proud superiority of a preferred

rival. He extended his hand to Bertram, and continued, "Be a good

brother to her, and conduct her safely home."

Bertram's countenance, usually so quiet and calm, assumed for an

instant an offended and almost contemptuous air, and bitter words were

on his tongue; but his angry eye accidentally met Elise's, anxiously

and imploringly directed toward him. He could not master himself

sufficiently to accept Feodor's hand, but at least he could control

his anger. "Come, sister," said he, gently leading Elise toward the

door which the colonel indicated to him by a silent nod.

Elise had not the courage to leave her lover without a word of

farewell; or rather, she was cruel enough to inflict this torture on

Bertram. Stretching both hands toward him, she said softly, "I thank

you, Feodor; God and love will reward you for having greatly and nobly

conquered yourself."

Feodor whispered to her, "And will you remember your vow?"

"Ever and always!"

In bending over to kiss her hand, he murmured, "Expect me, then,

to-morrow."

"I will expect you," said she, as she passed him on her way to the

door.

No word of their whispered conversation escaped the attentive ear of

Bertram; and he understood it, for he loved her, and knew how to read

her thoughts in her looks and her eyes. As he followed her through the

long corridor, and her light, graceful figure floated before him like

a vision, a deep, despairing melancholy settled on his heart, and he

murmured to himself, "To-morrow she expects him!" But with desperate

determination he continued to himself, "Well, then, woe to him if I

find him going astray!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER X.

AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.

Thanks to Bertram's forethought and caution, he had succeeded in

restoring Elise to her father's house, without her absence having been

remarked, or having occasioned any surmise. In the close carriage in

which they performed the journey home, they had not exchanged a word;

but leaning hack on the cushions, each had rest and repose after the

stormy and exciting scenes they had just passed through. Elise's hand

still rested on Bertram's, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps because she

had not the courage to withdraw it from him to whom she owed so much

gratitude.

Bertram felt the feverish warmth of this trembling hand, and as he

looked at her and remarked the paleness of her cheeks, the painful

twitching of her lips, he was overcome by a feeling of deep

wretchedness, of pitying sadness, and was obliged to turn his head

away to conceal his tears from her.

When the carriage stopped, and he accompanied her into the house,

Elise pressed his hand more firmly, and turned her gaze upon him

with a look of deep gratitude, which made his heart palpitate with a

mixture of delight and anguish. He wished to withdraw, he wished to

let her hand go, but she held his still more firmly clasped, and drew

him gently up the steps. Powerless with emotion, he followed her.

As they entered the hall which led to her room, she cast a searching

look around to see if any one were present, and perceiving that

they two were alone, she turned toward Bertram with an indescribable

expression. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips, a deep

glow suffused her cheeks, and completely overpowered, and giddy

from the tumult of her feelings, she leaned her head on her friend's

shoulder.

Gently he passed his arm around her delicate, trembling figure, and

his eyes beamed with a pure emotion. In the depth of his heart he

renewed to God and himself his vow of fidelity and self-sacrificing

love to this poor girl who lay on his bosom like a drooping flower.

Suddenly she raised her head, her face wet with tears and convulsed

with deep feeling. "Bertram," she said, "I know that I am not worthy

of your noble, generous love, but yet, in my crushed heart, I thank

God that I possess it. A time may come when all the thoughts and

feelings which now fill my soul will appear as vain dreams and

illusions. It may be that some day I will look upon life as a grand

delusion, a fruitless striving after happiness and repose. But never,

my brother, never will that time come when I can doubt your faithful,

pure affection. No power, no other feeling, will ever succeed in

supplanting the deep and boundless gratitude which pervades my whole

soul and binds me to you forever."

And then it seemed to him as if he felt the breath of an angel wave

over his face; as if the dream and desire of his whole life had closed

his lips in unexpected bliss; as if the wishes and hopes of his

ardent but resigned heart had been fulfilled, and become a delightful

reality.

When he recovered from this sweet dream, which for a moment robbed him

of his consciousness, Elise had disappeared. But her kiss still glowed

on his lips, and seemed to bless and sanctify his whole life.

This stream of happiness lasted but for a short time, and Bertram soon

awoke, with a sad sigh, from his delightful fancies, to recall the

painful hours he had just gone through, and to say to himself that

Elise was lost to him forever, that he never could hope to rescue that

heart from the lover to whom she had yielded it with all the devotion

of her ardent nature. With a sorrowing heart did he remember the

last words of the lovers. She had appointed a meeting for him on the

morrow, she expected him, and, braving the anger of her father, had

giving him a rendezvous in his house.

As Bertram thought over this, he paced the room up and down, panting

with excitement, and wringing his hands. "If Gotzkowsky knew this, he

would kill her, or die himself of grief. Die of grief!" continued he,

after a pause, completely buried in his sad and bitter thoughts--"it

is not so easy to die of grief. The sad heart is tenacious of life,

and sorrow is but a slow grave-digger. I have heard that one could die

of joy, and it seemed to me just now, when Elise rewarded me with a

kiss, that I could understand this. If she only loved me, it were a

blessing of God to die, conscious of her love."

Completely overcome by his painful thoughts, he remained for a while

motionless and sad. But he soon recovered himself, and shook off the

dark cloud which overshadowed his soul. "I am not born to die such

a death. It is my destiny not to be happy myself, but to save others

from unhappiness. I feel and know that Elise cannot be happy in this

love. A loving heart is gifted with prophetic second sight to read the

future. Elise can never be happy without her father's blessing, and

Gotzkowsky will never give his sanction to this love. How can I lead

her past this abyss which threatens to engulf her? May God, who sees

my heart, help me! He knows how hopeless and disinterested it is. Help

me, Father in heaven! show me some way of saving her noble father from

the grief which lies before him."

It seemed as if God had heard his prayer, and taken compassion on his

pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him assistance. A loud knocking

at the door aroused him suddenly from his gloomy thoughts, and he

hastened to open it.

A veiled lady stood there, wrapped in furs, and attended by a servant

in rich livery. In fluent French, which it could be perceived,

however, was not her native tongue, she inquired whether, as she had

been told, Herr von Brink, Tottleben's adjutant, resided there. As

Bertram answered this question in the affirmative, but added, that

Herr von Brink was in the habit of not returning from the general's

quarters before evening, she added, in a decided tone, "Well, then, I

will wait for him."

Without deeming Bertram's consent necessary, she entered the hall and

motioned to her servant to remain at the door.

After a pause, there ensued between the two one of those superficial,

ceremonious conversations, the usual refuge of those who have nothing

to say to each other; but the evident uneasiness and confusion of the

young lady prevented her from joining freely in it. Her large, bright

eyes strayed restlessly around the room. A hectic flush alternated

on her cheeks with deathly pallor, and the smile, which occasionally

played around her lips, seemed but a painful expression of mental

suffering. Suddenly she raised her head, as if determined no longer to

bear this constraint, or submit to the fetters of conventionality.

"Sir," said she, in a tone vibrating with excitement and anxiety, "you

will excuse my asking you a question, on the answer to which depends

my future happiness, my life, indeed--to obtain which I have travelled

from St. Petersburg here. I have just left my carriage in which I

performed the journey from that city. You can therefore judge

how important the cause of this undertaking is to me, and what an

influence it may have on my whole existence. Its object lies in the

question I am about to put to you."

Bertram took pity on her painful agitation. "Ask" he said, "and, on

the honor of a gentleman, I assure you that your question shall be

answered truly, and that I am ready to serve you as far as it lies in

my power."

"Are you acquainted with General Bachmann's adjutant?" asked she,

shortly and hurriedly.

"I am," replied Bertram.

She trembled as in an ague. "I am come to inquire after a man of whom

I have not heard for six months. I wish to know whether he is alive,

or only dead to me."

"His name?" asked Bertram, with painful misgiving.

Her voice was scarcely audible as she replied: "Colonel Count Feodor

von Brenda, of the regiment Bachmann."

Bertram was quite taken aback by this unexpected turn of the

conversation, and she continued with great excitement, "You do not

answer! oh, have compassion on me, and speak! Is he alive?"

"He is alive, and is here," answered Bertram sadly.

A cry of delight escaped the lips of the lady. "He lives," she

exclaimed loudly. "God has then heard my prayer, and preserved him to

me."

But suddenly the cheerful smile on her lips died away, and, dropping

her head on her breast, she cried, "He is alive, and only dead to me.

He is alive, and did not write me!" For a moment she stood in this

position, silent and depressed; then drawing herself up erect, her

eyes sparkling with passionate warmth, she said: "Sir, I crave your

pardon for a poor stranger, who hardly knows what she is doing or

saying. I am not acquainted with you, or even your name, but there is

something in your noble, calm countenance which inspires confidence."

Bertram smiled sadly. "Fellow-sufferers always feel attracted to each

other by a community of feeling. I, too am a sufferer, and it is God's

will that our sorrows should spring from a common source. The name you

have uttered is but too well known to me."

"You know Colonel Brenda?" she asked.

"I do know him," answered Bertram.

"The count was at one time a prisoner of war," continued the lady. "He

visited this house frequently, for I have been told that it belongs to

Mr. Gotzkowsky, of whom the colonel wrote me, in the commencement of

his captivity, that he received him most hospitably."

"Did he write you any word of Gotzkowsky's handsome daughter?" asked

Bertram, looking inquiringly into the countenance of the stranger.

She shuddered, and turned pale. "O Heaven!" she murmured low, "I have

betrayed myself!"

Bertram seized her hand, his features evincing deep emotion. "Will

you answer me one question?" he asked, and as she bowed her head in

silence, he proceeded--"is the Count von Brenda your brother?"

"Oh, sir," she said, with a faint smile, "one does not suffer for a

brother as I have suffered for Feodor. I am the Countess Sandomir,

and Count Feodor is my betrothed. The good empress herself joined our

hands, and blessed our union. A short time after our marriage the war

broke out, and deprived me of my lover and husband. For six months I

have had no tidings of him, and, tortured by anxiety and apprehension,

I resolved to come myself to Germany to seek my betrothed, either to

bury or nurse him, for I believed he must be sick or dead, as he did

not return to me."

Bertram offered in his heart a prayer of gratitude to God. With

feelings of sympathy, he then turned his eyes on the quivering

features of the stranger. "Listen to me," said he, gently. "As you

entered, I had just prayed to God, in the suffering and sadness of my

heart, to show me some way and means of escape from the labyrinth

in which Count Brenda has placed us. It would seem as if He has

had compassion on us all, for at the very moment he sends you, the

affianced bride of the count, and through you alone can we be saved.

We must be open and candid toward each other. Therefore, listen to me.

I love Gotzkowsky's daughter--I love her without hope, for she loves

another."

"And this other?" asked she breathlessly.

"She loves Count Feodor von Brenda, and is about to escape with him."

"Escape!" cried the lady, and her voice sounded threatening and angry,

and her eyes flashed. "Oh!" said she, gnashing her teeth, "I will

prevent this, even if I kill this girl!"

Bertram shook his head sadly. "Let us rather try to kill this love in

her heart. Let us contrive some means of bringing your lover back to

you."

"Are there any such means?" asked she, anxiously.

Bertram did not answer immediately. His brow was clouded with deep

thought, and a heavy sigh escaped him. He then asked quickly, "Will

you follow me and enter into my plot?"

"I will," she said firmly.

"Above all things, then, let us be cautious. Count Feodor must have no

suspicion that you are here, for your presence would drive him to some

desperate resolve, and I fear Elise loves him sufficiently not to draw

back from any thing."

"You are very cruel," murmured the lady. "You know not what torture

you are preparing for me."

"If I did not know it, I would not undertake the enterprise that is to

serve us both. I have told you that I love Elise, but I have not told

you how deep and sacred this love is. I would cheerfully venture my

life for her, but now I dare to interfere with her love, and earn her

hatred."

"You have, then, already made your plan?"

"I have made my plan, and if you will allow me to escort you to

your hotel, I will disclose it to you, so that we may arrange the

particulars together."

"Come, then," said she, grasping his hand warmly, "and may God assist

us, and restore to you your bride, and to me my lover!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER XI.

THE JEW EPHRAIM.

Much sorrow and tribulation were suffered during this time by the

inhabitants of Berlin. But the saddest lot of all fell to the Jews,

who were threatened with the greatest danger. In Berlin, as everywhere

else, they only led a tolerated, reviled, and derided existence.

They possessed no rights, only duties; no honor, only insults; no

dignities, but humiliation and disgrace. Now they were called on to

give up the last and only thing which shed some gleam of brightness on

their poor, down-trodden existence--their gold and their treasures.

The Russian commander had imposed upon the Jewish community in Berlin

a special tax; and as they hesitated about paying it, and declared

themselves incapable of raising such a large sum, General von

Tottleben had the three elders of the Jews arrested and strictly

guarded in the Vincenti House in Brueder Street.

But who could despise or blame the poor Jews for not wishing to

give up their gold? Gold was to them a condition of existence, their

future, their happiness, their family. Gold enabled some of them to

raise themselves from the dust and degradation to which the cruel

severity of _Christian charity_ had condemned them, and to indulge

in human aspirations, human happiness, and human feelings. Only those

among them who possessed wealth were tolerated, and dared hope by

strenuous industry, ceaseless activity, and fortunate speculation,

to amass sufficient fortune to found a family or beget children. The

happiness of domestic life was only allowed to them on condition of

their being rich.

Frederick the Great had learned with indignation that the Jewish

families in Berlin far exceeded the number of one hundred and

fifty-two allowed by law, and that there were fifty-one too many.

Consequently a stringent decree was issued that they should no longer

be counted by families, but by heads, and that when the poll exceeded

the permitted number, the poorest and lowest of them should be

shipped off.[1] Gold was therefore to the rich Jew a certificate of

naturalization, while the poorer ones had no certainty of a home. They

could at any moment be turned off, driven out of Berlin, if a richer

one should by his wealth and trading acquire the right to take to

himself a wife, and by her have a child. But even he, the rich one,

could only have one child; only one child was allowed to him by law.

For one child only could he obtain legal protection, and only in

exceptional cases, as when their factories and firms succeeded

remarkably well, did the king, in the fulness of his grace, allow a

second child to inherit its guardianship.[2]

Of what avail, then, was it to the poor Jews to have toiled and

worked so hard, driven by the necessity of paying the hateful

_Jewish poll-tax,_ and thereby procuring for themselves a temporary

toleration? At any moment they could be driven off in case the rich

Ephraim or the rich David Itzig, in the arrogance of their wealth,

should venture to give to the world more than one child, and

purchase for the sum of three thousand dollars another certificate of

protection for the second! Of what avail was their wealth even to the

rich Jews Ephraim and Itzig? They were nevertheless under the ban of

their proscribed race. No privileges, no offices existed for them.

They could only build factories or carry on commerce. All other paths

of life, even agriculture and horticulture, were forbidden to them.

And now they were called on to give up to the Russians their very

life, the nerve of their existence, the heart which carried blood and

warmth to their entire organization--their money.

Ephraim and Itzig were rich and powerful in Berlin; they could build

houses, found factories, and even determine the value of money, for

the mint was in their hands. They had farmed it from the king, and

paid him an enormous rent for the same, which had increased each year,

and in 1760 amounted to seven millions. But, thanks to this farming,

the value of money had increased exorbitantly. Twenty dollars were

paid for a Frederick d'or, and five-and-thirty for the mark of fine

silver. Owing to the labors of these Jewish lessees, there were many

millions of light money, many millions of bad eight-groschen pieces,

which, to this day, are known by the name of _Ephraimites_, and whose

repudiation at a later period ruined many thousands of honest,

worthy tradesmen, while Ephraim and Itzig became wealthy and powerful

thereby. Yet it was now this same money which brought misfortune to

them, and was the cause of their suffering and mortal anxiety; for

General Tottleben had threatened that if the Jews could not pay

the tax imposed on them, he would take the mint farmers with him as

hostages, and destroy their factories. Besides this, he had, as we

said before, arrested their elders and sworn to send them to Siberia,

if the Jews did not pay.

The payment was to be made in three days. But the three days had

elapsed, and they had not been able to raise the money which was

demanded of them. In this dire extremity, the two mint-contractors

remembered the man whom they had hitherto most cordially hated, and

whose ruin was the cherished wish of their life. They now recollected

that John Gotzkowsky was the only man who, in the generosity and

kindness of his heart, was capable of forgetting their former insults

and injuries, and of remembering only their need and misery. They

determined, therefore, to apply to him, and request his intercession

and assistance, but they did this with a bitter sigh, for they felt

the hatred and grudge which they nursed in their hearts toward him

become only more intense and stronger.

"Who would have thought it?" said Ephraim, as, by the side of Itzig,

and accompanied by some of the most wealthy Jewish merchants, he took

the road to Gotzkowsky's dwelling--"who would have thought it? The

powerful Russian General von Tottleben is the friend of Gotzkowsky,

and the greatest men among our people are now obliged to go to

Gotzkowsky's house to implore his influence and protection."

"Yes," sighed the rich merchant David, "we are obliged to apply to

him to befriend us, and yet what is he compared to you? You are much

richer than he is."

"Silence, unfortunate man!" cried Ephraim with a shudder, as he looked

shyly around. "I am poor, and for that reason can pay nothing. I am

poor, as all of us wretched Jews are. Have we not to contribute the

greater portion of the war-tax? Are not all our means exhausted? Is

that not enough?"

"Too much!" groaned Itzig, who till now had walked in melancholy

contemplation at Ephraim's other side. "It is too much. Are we then

treated like human beings? Have we any rights? Only when we have

to pay, do they remember that we have the right of giving up our

hard-earned property. If the Jew has no money, is he not at least a

man, say I?"

"Pshaw! a man!" cried Ephraim. "Whoever is without money is no man, be

he Jew or Christian. If Gotzkowsky had no money, he would be no better

than we are. Why does the Russian general have any thing to do with

him? Because he is rich. Why do the counts and lords pay court to him?

For the same reason. Why do they call his daughter an angel, and

swear she is the handsomest woman in Berlin? Because her father is

the richest Christian merchant in the town. The whole world knows and

admires him. And why? Because he is rich."

"No one is rich," said Itzig, shaking his head. "He who has not every

thing is not rich. There is no such thing as riches, for he who has

much has to give much."

"God knows we will have to give much!" whimpered Ephraim, and all his

companions joined in with groans and sighs as a chorus to his speech.

"They mean to take every thing from us that we own, and Itzig is

right; if the Jew has not money, he is nobody. Have we not suffered as

much as others? Have we not protected our people, and fed and housed

our poor? No one talks about these things, but the whole town talks

about Gotzkowsky. They praise him, they exalt him; they cry out his

name everywhere, so that one's heart actually burns for vexation. And

yet at the highest calculation he is not worth more than a million."

"He is worth more than ourselves; he is worth much more, for he has

the favor of the Russian general. For this reason we must bow down

before him, and flatter him, and assure him of our eternal gratitude,

for it is a question not of life, but what is more precious than

life--money."

With deep-drawn sighs they whined out, "Yes, we must bow to him, and

flatter him, and yet we are richer than he is."

As long as they were on the street they maintained an air of pride and

vexation; but as soon as they entered Gotzkowsky's house and stood in

his presence, they were all gentleness, humility, and friendliness.

With tears they implored Gotzkowsky to have pity, and to beg General

Tottleben to have compassion on them. They vowed eternal gratitude to

him, and swore with solemn oaths that if he succeeded in relieving

the Jews from the special impost, they would love him forever, and be

everlastingly thankful to him.

Gotzkowsky smiled in pity. "That means that you would feel yourselves

under obligations to me, and, if ever you got me in your power, you

would take the opportunity to ruin me. But that is of no consequence

to me. This impost is a crying injustice, and therefore will I plead

for you, for it never shall be said that Gotzkowsky suffered an

injustice to be done when he could prevent it. Go home in peace, for,

if I can, I will help you."

"How arrogant this man is!" said Itzig, when they had left the house.

"One would suppose that he had all virtue and honor on lease, just as

we have the mint."

"And if he has," said Ephraim with a laugh, "if he has the monopoly

of virtue and honor, it is only to trade on. No doubt his speculation

will turn out just as profitably as ours with the mint. No doubt he

will coin it into light eight-groschen pieces, cheat the people with

them, and make more than his expenses, as we have done."

"But woe be unto him," growled Itzig, "if any light coin of his virtue

come into my hands! I will throw them back into his face till blood

flows, and I will never forgive him that this day we have had to stand

before him begging and pleading. If he ever comes to grief, I will

remember it. If the Jew has no money, he is nobody. Well, we will see

what Gotzkowsky is worth without money. Let me tell you we will all of

us live to see that day. He has too much stupid generosity, which some

day or other will run away with his purse, and then there will be a

grand blow-up, honor and virtue and all, sky high. Then there will be

no more talk about the great Gotzkowsky and his virtue and all that.

Oh! I do so rejoice over that time a-coming. But in the mean time I am

so very glad that Gotzkowsky can be of some service to us!"

[Footnote 1: Büsching's Travels, 1780.]

[Footnote 2: "Annals of the Jews in the Prussian States,"

Berlin.--UNGER.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER XII.

THE RUSSIAN GENERAL AND THE GERMAN MAN.

Scarcely had the Jewish deputation left Gotzkowsky's house, before

he betook himself, full of the important information received from

General Bachmann, to General Tottleben's residence, fully determined

to venture every thing to prevent the execution of the cruel order

which threatened the factories and other branches of industry. But

this was not the sole object which led him there. He went there as

a representative of the whole town. Every one who needed assistance

applied to him, and to each one he had promised to intercede for

him. Laden with petitions and commissions from the magistracy,

the merchants, and the citizens of Berlin, he entered the Russian

general's quarters. Deeply inspired with the importance of his

commission, he traversed the halls which led to the general's private

apartments, saying to himself, "This is the most important mission I

have ever undertaken, for the welfare of the whole town depends upon

it--a million dollars depend upon every word I may utter. Many a

struggle have I had in these days, but this is the hardest of them

all, and victory hangs on my tongue."

With beaming countenance and sparkling eyes, with his whole being

animated with the sacredness of his office, he entered the cabinet

of the Russian general. Tottleben did not offer him, as heretofore, a

friendly welcome. He did not even raise his eyes from the dispatches

which he was in the act of reading, and his contracted brows and the

whole expression of his countenance was such as to discourage any

petition or pleading. At this moment General von Tottleben was a true

Russian, and, thanks to General Fermore's dispatches, he had succeeded

in suppressing his German sympathy. At least he flattered himself that

he had, and for that reason he avoided meeting Gotzkowsky's clear,

bright eye.

Without taking any notice, he finished reading the papers, and then

rose and walked about the room. After a while he seemed as if by

accident to perceive Gotzkowsky's presence, and stopped short. "Have

you come back already?" he asked in a sullen, grumbling tone. "I

know very well that you have returned to beg for all sorts of useless

trash; I can't bear such eternal begging and whining--a pitiful rabble

that is all the time creeping to our feet."

"Yes, your excellency, it is nothing but a poor, pitiful rabble," said

Gotzkowsky with a smile; "and for this very reason the Russians are

despised all over Europe. Toward the high and mighty they behave

like fawning hounds, and toward the low and humble they are rude and

arrogant."

"I am not speaking of the Russians," cried the general, as he turned

his lowering countenance toward Gotzkowsky, "I am speaking of _you_.

All day long you have done nothing but beg and demand."

But Gotzkowsky met him with quiet and smiling composure. "Pardon, your

excellency, it is you who demand; and because you are all the time

demanding, I must all the time be begging. And, in fact, I am only

begging for yourself."

Tottleben looked at him in inquiring astonishment, but in silence. "I

am not begging for favor," continued Gotzkowsky, "but for justice; and

if you grant this, why, it is so much gained for you. Then, indeed,

the world will esteem you as not only brave, but just; and then

only will history honor you as truly great--the equitable and humane

conqueror. The Vandals, too conquered by the sword; and if it only

depended on mere brute strength, wild bulls would be the greatest

generals."

Tottleben cast a fierce, angry look toward him "For that reason,"

cried he, threateningly, "he is a fool who irritates a wild bull."

Gotzkowsky bowed and smiled. "It is true one should never show him

a red cloak. A firm, unterrified countenance is the only way to tame

him. The bull is powerless against the mind which beams out of the

human eye."

It was very probably the very boldness of this answer which pleased

the general, accustomed as he was to Russian servility. His features

assumed a softer expression, and he said, in a milder tone: "You are

an extraordinary man, and there is no use in contending with you.

One is obliged to do whatever you wish. Well, now--quick, out with

it--what do you want of me?"

"Justice," said Gotzkowsky. "You gave me your word that your soldiers

should not rob nor plunder, and, notwithstanding, they do it."

"That is not true!" thundered the general.

"It is true," replied Gotzkowsky, calmly.

"Who dares to contradict me?" cried Tottleben, trembling with rage,

and striding toward Gotzkowsky.

"I dare," answered the latter, "if you call that 'to dare' which is

only convincing you of your error. I, myself, have seen your soldiers

striking down the flying women with the butts of their muskets,

robbing and plundering the houses. Your orders have been but poorly

obeyed; and your soldiers _almost_ equal the Austrians in rudeness and

violence."

A light smile played over Tottleben's countenance. Gotzkowsky had

understood how to soften his anger. "_Almost_--only," said he, "woe

be to my soldiers if they equal the Austrians in rudeness!" With

hasty steps he traversed the apartment, and called his adjutant. "Send

patrols through the whole town," was his order to the officer as

he entered, "and give orders to all the soldiers to maintain strict

discipline. Whoever dares to plunder, is guilty of disobedience to

military orders, and shall be tried by military law. The gallows

for thieves and marauders--say so to my men; they know that General

Tottleben keeps his word. Are you satisfied now?" he asked Gotzkowsky,

as the adjutant left the room.

"I thank your excellency," said Gotzkowsky, hesitating.

"Thank God that at last you are satisfied, and have nothing more to

ask!" cried Tottleben, almost cheerfully.

"But indeed I have a great deal yet to ask, and if you allow me I will

ask your excellency a question. You have just issued an order. How

high up does this order reach?"

"How high up?" asked the general, surprised.

"I mean does this order which forbids the soldiers from robbing and

plundering under pain of death, affect only the common private, or

must the higher officers also obey it?"

"I would advise every one to do so," cried Tottleben, with a harsh

laugh. "The order is for all."

"Even the highest officers?"

"Not even the generals are excepted." "Then, sir," said Gotzkowsky,

drawing himself up and advancing a step toward the general, "I accuse

before you an officer who has had the presumption to disobey

your general order. You forbid, under severe penalty, robbery and

plundering, and yet he is intent on them. You have strictly ordered

the army to preserve discipline, and not to ill-treat nor abuse the

defenceless, and yet a general is about to do it."

"Who dares that? Give me the name of this general!"

"It is General von Tottleben," answered Gotzkowsky, quietly.

Count Tottleben stepped back and gazed at him in amazement.

Gotzkowsky did not lower his eyes, but met his flashing glance firmly.

"Are you beside yourself?" asked the general, after a long pause. "Is

your life such a burden to you that you are determined to lose it?"

"If my head were to fall, it would only be a confirmation of what I

have asserted--that General von Tottleben issues an order, and does

not respect it himself; that while he forbids his soldiers to rob and

steal, under penalty of death, even _he_ commits those very offences."

The excess of this boldness had the effect upon the general on which

Gotzkowsky had calculated. He had speculated somewhat on the leonine

nature of Tottleben's character.

The general, instead of annihilating his foolhardy antagonist, found

pleasure in his presumption, and it flattered him that he was esteemed

too magnanimous to revenge himself for a few words of insult.

"Look here, my friend, you are so outrageously bold that you make me

laugh. For the sake of its rarity, I will hear you out, and try to

remain cool. Speak on, then. Accuse me--but woe to you if I justify

myself! Fail not to prove what you say."

"The proverb says, 'Small thieves are hung, while great ones go

free,'" replied Gotzkowsky, shrugging his shoulders. "You wish to

prove the truth of this proverb. The soldier who enters the house

for theft and plunder, you condemn; but you acquit the general who

devastates a whole town, and in the arrogance of his victory wishes to

make himself, like Erostratos, immortal by incendiarism and arson."

"Do not presume too much on my forbearance," interrupted Tottleben,

stretching his arm out threateningly toward the bold speaker.

"Erostratos was a violator of temples."

"You are not less one!" cried Gotzkowsky; "you mean, with impious

hand, to cast a firebrand into the holy temple of labor. Erostratos

only destroyed the temple of an imaginary deity; but you, sir, are

worse--you wish to destroy factories!"

"Do you know what that means?"

"It means to deprive the poor man of the morsel of bread which, by the

sweat of his brow, he has earned for his wife and children! It means

to rob him who possesses nothing but the craft of his hands and his

body, of his only right--the right to work. You are going to destroy

the gold and silver manufactories, to burn the warehouse, to tear down

the brass works in the New Town Eberswald! And why all this? Why

do you intend to leave behind you this memorial of your vandalism?

Because your empress is angry with our king!"

"Because enemies wish to revenge themselves on enemies," interrupted

the general.

"Do that!" cried Gotzkowsky, warmly. "Revenge yourself on your enemy,

if you consider the destruction of his property a noble revenge.

Destroy the king's palaces; rob him, if you choose, of his most

ennobling enjoyment! Rob him of his pictures; do like the Saxons, who

yesterday destroyed Charlottenburg. Send your soldiers to my house;

there hang splendid paintings bought by me in Italy by the king's

order. I know that our noble king anticipates much pleasure in

carrying them some day to Sans Souci. But revenge yourself, take these

pictures, set fire to these noble works of art, but spare what belongs

to the poor man!"

He spoke with noble warmth, with glowing eloquence, and against his

will Tottleben's German heart was touched, and moved him to clemency

and compassion. But he would not listen to it. General Fermore's

dispatches lay before him, and compelled him to be harsh.

"You think you speak wisely, and yet you talk nothing but impudent

nonsense," said he, with assumed severity. "Who thinks of destroying

the poor man's property? The royal property shall be destroyed, and

nothing else."

"But the gold and silver manufactories and the warehouse are not the

property of the king," said Gotzkowsky quickly. "Not a penny goes

thence into the king's treasury."

The general's countenance brightened up considerably. "Not into the

king's treasury?" said he; "where, then, does it go?"

"The money, your excellency, which is earned at the gold and silver

factories and at the warehouse is devoted to a praiseworthy and

touching purpose. Perhaps you are a father--have children; and when

you go into battle you think of them, and utter a silent prayer,

intrusting them to God's care, and praying that they may not be left

orphans."

Count Tottleben muttered some untelligible words, and stretched

out his hand deprecatingly. His lips trembled, and to conceal his

agitation he turned away.

Gotzkowsky cried out joyously: "Oh, I see in your eyes that you are

vainly trying to compel yourself to look at me in anger. Yes, you are

a father. Well, then, father, spare the orphans! From the proceeds

of the gold and silver factories, and the warehouse, the new, large

orphan-house in Potsdam is supported. Oh, you cannot be so cruel as

to deprive the poor children, whom the pitiless war has rendered

fatherless, of their last support, of their last refuge!"

The general stepped up to him, and grasped his hand. "God be my

witness that I will not! But is this so certainly? Do you speak the

truth?"

"Yes, it is the truth!"

"Can you swear to it?"

"Yes, with the most sacred oath."

The general paced the room in silence several times, and then, pausing

before Gotzkowsky, laid his hand on his shoulder. "Listen," said he.

"I have often been reproached at home for being too soft and pitiful.

But never mind! I will once more follow my own inclination, and act in

spite of the orders which I have received. You must help me. Put

all that you have just stated down on paper. Write down that these

buildings are not the property of the king, but of the orphan-house.

Swear to it with a sacred oath, and affix your signature and seal.

Will you do this?"

"Gladly will I do it," cried Gotzkowsky, his face radiant. "Never have

I signed my name with a happier heart than I will have when I sign

it to this affidavit, which will procure for us both the heart-felt

blessings of so many children."

He stepped to the general's writing-table, and, following his

direction, seated himself and wrote.

Tottleben in the mean while walked up and down pensively, his arms

folded. His features wore a thoughtful and mild expression. No trace

of the late angry storm was visible. Once he stopped, and murmured

in a low voice: "Orphans one dare not plunder. Elizabeth has a tender

heart, and if she learns the reason of my disobedience, she will be

content. Yes, my course is the right one."

"I have finished, sir," said Gotzkowsky, standing up and handing him

the paper on which he had written.

Tottleben read it over carefully, and laid it alongside of the

dispatches to his empress. He then called to his adjutant and ordered

him immediately to place strong safeguards over the gold and silver

manufactories and the warehouse, and to protect these against any

attack.

Gotzkowsky clasped his hands, and directed his eyes to heaven with

joyful gratitude, and in the deep emotion of his heart he did not

perceive that the general again stood before him, and was looking at

him with inquiring sympathy. His voice first awakened him from his

reverie. "Are you contented now?" asked Tottleben, in a friendly tone.

"Content, general," said Gotzkowsky, shaking his head, "only belongs

to him who lies in his coffin."

Again the general's brow grew dark. "What is troubling you now? Don't

hesitate--"

"To speak on, your excellency?" inquired Gotzkowsky, with a gentle

smile.

"No--to put yourself in your coffin," answered the other, rudely.

"I have not time for that, as yet," replied Gotzkowsky, sadly. "Both

of us, general, have still too much to do. You have to add fresh

laurels to your old ones--I have to clear thistles and thorns from the

path of my fellow-men."

"Ah! there are more thorns, then?" asked Tottleben, as he sank down

into a chair, and regarded Gotzkowsky with evident benevolence.

"A great many yet, sir," answered Gotzkowsky, sighing. "Our whole body

is bloody from them."

"Then call on the regimental surgeon to cure you," said Tottleben,

with a coarse laugh.

"You only can cure us," said Gotzkowsky, seriously, "for only you are

able to inflict such severe wounds. You are not satisfied with having

conquered and humiliated us, but you wish to tread us in the dust, and

make our cheeks, which were pale with sadness, now redden with shame.

You have ordered that the citizens of Berlin should be disarmed. You

are a brave soldier, sir, and honor courage above all things. Now,

let me ask you, how could you bear to exhibit the certificate of your

cowardice? Could you survive it? You look at me in anger--the very

question makes you indignant; and if that is your feeling, why would

you subject the citizens of Berlin to such disgrace? With our weapons

we have fought for our just rights and our liberty. God has willed

it that we should be subdued nevertheless, and that you should be the

conquerors. But methinks it would redound more to your honor to be

the conquerors of honorable men than of cowardly slaves! And when you

require of us, the conquered, that we shall give up our manly

honor, our weapons, you convert us into abject cowards, and deprive

yourselves of all honor in having conquered us. Let us then, sir, keep

our weapons; leave us this one consolation, that on our tombstones

can be inscribed: 'Freedom died, but with arms in her hand!'" and

Gotzkowsky, quite overcome by his painful emotions, leaned back

against the wall, breathless, his imploring looks fixed upon the

general.

But the latter avoided meeting his eyes, and directed his own darkly

toward the ground.

Gotzkowsky perceived the indecision, the wavering of the general, and

he felt that he must now risk every thing to overcome his resistance.

"Leave us our weapons. Oh, you are a German! spare your German

brethren."

Tottleben sprang from his seat as if a venomous snake had stung

him. Dark and terrible were his features, his eyes flashed fire, and

raising his right hand threateningly, he cried out: "You remind me

in an evil hour that I am a German. Germany drove me out to find in a

foreign land the appreciation which my own country refused me! Had I

been a foreigner, Germany would long ago have proclaimed my fame;

but, being the son of the family, the mother drives me out among

strangers--and that they call German good-nature!" and he broke out

into a bitter, scornful laugh.

"It is but too true," said Gotzkowsky, sadly. "Our mother Germany is

fond of sending her greatest sons out from home on their pilgrimage to

fame. For her great men she has but the cradle and the grave. But show

your unfeeling mother that you are better than she is; prove to her

how unjust she has been. Be magnanimous, and leave us our weapons!"

"I cannot, by Heaven! I cannot do it," said Tottleben, sadly, in a low

tone. "I must obey the higher authorities above me--the empress and

the commander-in-chief, General Fermore. My orders are very strict,

and I have already yielded too much. It is written in these dispatches

that the arms must be given up."

"The arms?" said Gotzkowsky, hastily. "Yes, but not _all_ arms. Take

some of them--we have three hundred inferior rifles--take them, sir,

and fulfil the letter of your orders, and save our honor."

General von Tottleben did not answer immediately. Again he paced the

room, from time to time casting sharp, piercing glances at Gotzkowsky,

whose firmness and animation seemed to please him. He stopped

suddenly, and asked in a voice so low that Gotzkowsky was scarcely

able to distinguish the words--"Do you think the Germans will praise

me, if I do this thing?"

"All Germany will say, 'He was great in victory, still greater in his

clemency toward the conquered,'" cried Gotzkowsky, warmly.

The general dropped his head upon his breast in deep meditation. When

he raised it again, there was a pleasant smile upon his face. "Well,

then, I will do it. I will once more remember that I am a German.

Where are the three hundred rifles?"

"In the armory, sir."

The general made no reply, but stepped toward his writing-table

hastily. He wrote off a few lines, and then with a loud voice called

his adjutant again to him. As the latter entered, he handed him the

writing. "Let the disarming take place. There are not more than three

hundred muskets. Let the citizens bring them to the Palace Square.

There they will be broken up, and thrown into the river."

"O general!" cried Gotzkowsky, his countenance radiant with delight,

when the adjutant had left the room, "how I do wish at this moment

that you were a woman!"

"I a woman!" cried Count Tottleben, laughing, "why should I be a

woman?"

"That I might kiss your hand. Believe me, I never thanked any man so

truly and sincerely as I now do you! I am so proud to be able to say,

'Berlin is conquered, but not dishonored!'"

Tottleben bowed amicably toward him. "Now, after this proof of my

generosity, the town will hasten to pay its war-tax, will it not?"

Then seeing the dark cloud which gathered on Gotzkowsky's brow, he

continued with more vehemence, "You are very dilatory in paying. Be

careful how you exhaust my patience."

"Pray let me know, sir, when it is exhausted," said Gotzkowsky. "It

is cruel to drive an exhausted animal beyond his strength. Do you not

think so?"

The general nodded his assent in silence.

"You are of my opinion," cried Gotzkowsky. "Well, then, you will be

just, and not exact of this exhausted city, wearied unto death, more

than she can perform."

With glowing words and persuasive eloquence he explained to the

general how impossible it was for the city to pay the demanded war

contribution of four millions.

Tottleben let himself again be persuaded. In the presence of this

ardent, eloquent German patriot, his German heart resumed its power,

and compelled him to mercy and charitableness. He consented to reduce

the tax to two millions of dollars, if Gotzkowsky would guarantee the

punctual payment of the bonds given by the body of merchants, and

give two hundred thousand of it in cash down, as hush-money to the

Austrians.

The latter declared himself gladly willing to accept the orders, and

to stand security with his whole fortune for their payment. Both then

remained silent, as if fatigued by the long and severe war of words,

from which Gotzkowsky had always come out victorious.

The general stood at the window, looking into the street. Perhaps

he was waiting for Gotzkowsky to give vent to his warm and delighted

gratitude before he took leave. But Gotzkowsky did neither the one

nor the other. He remained with folded arms, his countenance full of

earnest courage and bold determination.

"I will finish what I have commenced," said he to himself. "I will

keep my word, and not move from the spot before I have pleaded for all

those to whom I promised my assistance. The general is at liberty to

curse my importunity, if I only do my duty toward my fellow-citizens."

As he still remained silent, Tottleben turned toward him laughingly.

"What," said he, "are you dumb? Is your eloquence exhausted? Indeed,

when I think of all that you have got out of me to-day, it almost

makes me smile." And he broke out into a merry, good-natured laugh.

"Well, laugh, sir," said Gotzkowsky, "I know you are fond of a laugh.

For example, you have just played a little joke on the Jews, and made

them believe that they have to pay an imposition--"

"Made believe?" interrupted Tottleben, hastily. "Man! be satisfied

that I have remitted two millions to the citizens. Don't speak up now

for the Jews."

"But the Jews are a part of the citizens."

"Are you crazy, man?" cried Tottleben, violently. "Is the Jew a

citizen with you?"

"Yes," answered Gotzkowsky, "as far as paying goes. The Jew is obliged

honestly to contribute his proportion of the war-tax. How can you,

with any semblance of justice, require of him another further tax,

when he has already, in common with us, given up all he possesses?"

"Sir," cried Tottleben, with suppressed vexation "this is enough, and

more than enough!"

"No," said Gotzkowsky, smiling. "It is too much. The Jews are not able

to pay it--"

"I will remit their contribution," cried the general, stamping

violently on the floor, "to please you--just to get rid of you--but

now--"

"But now," interrupted Gotzkowsky, insinuatingly, "one more favor."

The general stepped back astounded, and looked at Gotzkowsky with a

species of comical terror. "Do you know that I am almost afraid of

you, and will thank God when you are gone?"

"Then you think of me as the whole town of Berlin thinks of you," said

Gotzkowsky.

The general laughed. "Your impudence is astonishing. Well, quick, what

is your last request?"

"They are preparing at the New Market a rare and unheard-of

spectacle--a spectacle, general, as yet unknown in Germany. You have

brought it with you from Russia. You are going to make two men run the

gantlet of rods--not two soldiers convicted of crime, but two writers,

who have only sinned in spirit against you, who have only exercised

the free and highest right of man--_the right to say what they think_.

You are going to have two newspaper writers scourged, because they

drew their quills against you. Is not that taking a barbarous revenge

for a small offence?"

"A small offence," cried the general, whose countenance had resumed

its dark, fierce expression. "Come, that's enough. Stop, if you do not

wish me to take back all that I have granted you. Do you call that a

small offence? Why, sir, the editor of _Spener's Journal_ called me

an adventurer, a renegade. Ah! he at least shall feel that I have the

power of punishing."

"Why," said Gotzkowsky calmly, "that would only prove to him that he

had hit you on a tender spot."

"And the scribbler of the _Vossian Gazette_, did he not venture even

to attack my gracious empress?" continued Tottleben, perfectly carried

away by his indignation. "He wrote a conversation between peasants,

and in it he made fun of the empress. He even went so far as to make

his own king join in the dirty talk, in the character of a peasant.

Sir, I am very much surprised that you should defend a man who carries

his impudence so far as to canvass and scandalize the conduct of his

own king in such a disrespectful and audacious manner."

"The king is great enough to be able to bear this calumny of little

minds. Whosoever is truly great, is not afraid of free speaking nor of

calumny. Have you never heard the story of how the king was riding by,

where the people were collected at the corner of a street, stretching

out their necks to read a pasquinade which had been hung on the wall,

and was directed against the king himself? The king reigned in his

horse, and read the hand-bill. The people stood in silent terror, for

the paper contained a sharp abuse of the king, and a libel on him in

verse. What does your excellency think the king did when he had read

this most treasonable placard?"

"He had the mob cut it down, as it deserved to be, and the author

strung up on the gallows," cried Tottleben.

"Not at all, sir," replied Gotzkowsky. "He said, 'Let the paper be

hung lower; the people can't see to read it up so high.' He then

saluted the crowd, and rode off, laughing."

"Did the _great Fritz_ do that?" said Tottleben, unconsciously using

the epithet which the Prussian people had applied to their king.

"He did it _because_ he is great," replied Gotzkowsky.

"Strange, hard to believe," muttered the general, folding his arms,

and striding up and down. After a pause, Gotzkowsky inquired, "Would

you not like to emulate the great king, general?"

Count Tottleben awoke from his reverie. Approaching Gotzkowsky, he

laid his hand upon his shoulder; his expression was indescribably mild

and gentle, and a melancholy smile played around his lips. "Hark'ee, I

believe it would do me good if we could be always together. Come with

me. Settle in Russia. The empress has heard of you, and I know that

she would be rejoiced if you came to Petersburg. Do it. You can make

a large fortune there. The empress's favor will elevate you, and she

will not let you want for orders or a title."

Gotzkowsky could hardly suppress a smile of contempt. "Orders for me!

A title! What would I do with them? Sir, I am more powerful than all

your counts, for the greatness of the nobility lies in the past, in

mouldering ancestors; but the greatness of the manufacturer lies in

the future, and the future belongs to industry. I founded the first

large factories here in Berlin, and the manufacturers who come after

me can call me their ancestor. No other nobility do I desire, count."

"You would then be capable of refusing a count's title?" asked

Tottleben, in astonishment.

Gotzkowsky shrugged his shoulders. "If I had wished for nobility I

could long ago have bought a countship of the holy German empire, for

such things are for sale, and thirty thousand ducats is the

highest price for a count's title; and as for the orders, my own

ribbon-factory turns out the ribbons for them."

General Tottleben looked at him for a long time in mild astonishment.

"You are a wonderful man, and I wish I were like you. If I had thought

as you do, my life would have been a less stormy one, and less tossed

by care and restlessness. I would have--"

The general was interrupted by the hasty entrance of the adjutant.

He was the bearer of dispatches brought by a courier who had just

arrived. The courier, he said, had ridden so hard, that his horse had

fallen dead on his arrival.

Tottleben tore open the dispatches and read them rapidly. His

countenance immediately lost its former expression of mildness and

gentleness. His German heart was silenced by the will of the Russian

general.

He seemed to forget Gotzkowsky's presence, and turning to his

adjutant, with proud military bearing, he said: "These dispatches

contain important and surprising information. They announce that the

Prussian army is drawing on in forced marches, with the king at

its head. We cannot give him battle here, and must, in consequence,

arrange for a rapid retreat from Berlin. Call all the generals and

staff-officers together. Let the alarm be sounded. In three hours

the whole army must have left the city. And, further, summon the Town

Council to the New Market, that we may take our leave, for we must not

leave Berlin as fugitives, but as conquerors, who are proceeding on

their march."

"And the poor editors who are to be flogged?" asked Gotzkowsky, when

the adjutant had left.

The general smiled, as he took Gotzkowsky amicably by the hand.

"We will hang them a little lower," said he, significantly. "Come,

accompany us to the market-place!"

NOTE.--Count von Tottleben expiated his clemency toward Berlin very

dearly. A few months later he was sent to Petersburg under arrest,

accused principally of having behaved too leniently and too much in

the German interest for a Russian general.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIII.

THE EXECUTION.

The morning was cold and rainy, the wind howled down the empty

streets, rattling the windows, and slamming the open house-doors.

Surely the weather was but little suited for going out, and yet the

Berlin citizens were to be seen flocking toward the New Market in

crowds, regardless of wind and rain.

The Berliners have, from time immemorial, been an inquisitive race,

and where any thing is to be seen, there they rush. But this day there

was to be a rare spectacle at the New Market.

The editors of the two newspapers were to run the gantlet; and

besides, General von Tottleben had summoned the Town Council and Jews

thither, to receive his last orders and resolutions before he left

Berlin. People were, therefore, very much excited, and curious to

witness this double show, and in their eagerness they forgave the

hostile general, who had prepared such a delightful entertainment for

them, all the terrors of the last few days. Two gentlemen--two learned

men--were to be flogged. That was, indeed, a precious and delightful

sight for cold, hungry, ragged poverty, which always takes delight in

seeing those whom fortune has favored, suffer and smart.

How often had these shoemakers and tailors worried and fretted

themselves over their pot of beer, that the newspaper writers should

have had the hardihood and stupidity to write so violently against the

Russians, without taking into account that the Russians would one day

occupy Berlin, and take revenge on its innocent citizens! It served

these newspaper writers quite right that they should be punished for

their arrogance. And, besides, the good people would see the Russian

general and his staff, and the grand Town Council and the chief

magistrate, who, in his golden chain and his robes of office, was to

hand over to the hostile general a present of ten thousand ducats.

The Berliners were, therefore, quite happy, and delighted to hear the

hollow sound of the drum, and the Russian word of command.

A regiment of Russian soldiers marched past the corner of the Bishop

Street, toward the market-place. They ranged themselves in two long

lines, leaving a lane between them, just wide enough for a man to pass

through. Then came two provost-marshals, and walked slowly down the

lane, delivering to each soldier one of the long slender rods they

carried under their arms.

The Russian soldiers were now armed, and awaited the victims they were

to chastise. These were dragged out of the guard-house. First came

tottering the gray-headed Mr. Krause, slowly and sadly; then came Mr.

Kretschmer, formerly the brave, undaunted hero of the quill--now a

poor, trembling, crushed piece of humanity. They stood in the middle

of the square, and, bewildered with terror, their help-imploring looks

swept over the gaping, silent multitude, who gazed at them with eager

countenances and malicious joy, and would have been outrageously

mad if they had been denied the enjoyment of seeing two of their

brother-citizens scourged by the enemy's soldiers.

"I cannot believe it!" whimpered Mr. Krause; "it is impossible that

this is meant in earnest. They cannot intend to execute so cruel a

sentence. What would the world, what would mankind say, if two writers

were scourged for the articles they had written? Will the town of

Berlin suffer it? Will no one take pity on our distress?"

"No one," said Mr. Kretschmer, mournfully. "Look at the crowd which is

staring at us with pitiless curiosity. They would sooner have pity on

a murderer than on a writer who is going to be flogged. The whole town

has enjoyed and laughed over our articles, and now there is not one

who would dare to beg for us."

At this moment another solemn procession came down the Bishop Street

toward the square. This was the Town Council of Berlin. Foremost came

the chief burgomaster Von Kircheisen, who had recovered his speech and

his mind, and was memorizing the well-set speech in which he was

to offer to the general the thanks of the town and the ten thousand

ducats, which a page bore alongside of him on a silken pillow.

Behind the Council tottered trembling and broken-hearted the elders of

the Jews, including those of the mint, in order to receive their final

condemnation or release from General Tottleben.

The people took no notice of the Council or of the Jews. They were

busy staring with cruel delight at the journalists, who were being

stripped by the provost-marshals of their outer clothing, and prepared

for the bloody exhibition. With a species of barbarous pleasure they

listened to the loud wailing of the trembling, weeping Krause, who was

wringing his hands and imploring the Russian officer who had charge of

the execution, for pity, for mercy.

The Russian officer was touched by the tears of sorrow of the editor;

he did have pity on the gray hairs and bowed form of the old man, or

perhaps he only acted on instructions received from General Tottleben.

He motioned to the provosts to lead the other editor to the lane

first, and to spare Mr. Krause until Mr. Kretschmer had been

chastised. The provost seized hold of Mr. Kretschmer and dragged him

to the terrible lane; they pushed him in between the rows of soldiers,

who, with rude laughter, were flourishing the rods in their hands.

Already the first, the second, the third blow has fallen on the back

of the editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, when suddenly there sounds

a powerful "Halt!" and General Count von Tottleben appears, with

Gotzkowsky at his side, and followed by his brilliant staff.

With a wild scream Kretschmer tears himself loose from the hands of

the provost-marshals, and rushes toward the general, crying out aloud;

Mr. Krause awakens from his heavy, despairing brooding, and both

editors sink down before the Russian general.

With a mischievous smile, Tottleben looked at Mr. Kretschmer's

bleeding back, and asked, "Who are you?"

"I am the _Vossian Gazette_" whined out Mr. Kretschmer, "whom you have

accused of such cruel things. Ah! we have suffered great injustice,

and we have been represented as worse than we really are. Oh, believe

me, your excellency, I have been belied. I never hated Russia!"

"You are both of you accused of libel," said Tottleben, sternly.

"If we are guilty of libel, it is without our knowledge," said Mr.

Krause. "Besides, we are very willing to recall every thing. I confess

we were in error. We did not know you and your army, and we spoke

ignorantly, as the blind man does about colors. Now we are better able

to judge. You are the noblest among noble men, and finer soldiers than

the Russians, and a chaster woman than the Empress Elizabeth, are not

to be found anywhere. Oh, yes, your excellency, _Spener's Journal_ is

ready to eat its words. Only don't let me be flogged, sir, and I will

sing your praises everlastingly, and proclaim to all the world that

the Prussian has no better friend than the Russian, and that God has

ordained them to be brothers."

"Only don't let us be flogged," implored Mr. Kretschmer, rubbing his

sore back, "I promise your excellency that the _Vossian Gazette_

shall be as tame as a new-born infant. It shall never indulge in bold,

outspoken language; never have any decided color. I swear for myself

and my heirs, that we will draw its fangs. Have, therefore, mercy on

us!"

The general turned away with a smile of contempt. "Enough, gentlemen,"

said he, roughly, and laying his hand on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he

continued: "I pardon you, not in consequence of your idle talk, but

for the sake of this noble gentleman, who has begged for you. You

are free, sirs!" As the two editors were about to break out into

expressions of gratefulness, Tottleben said to them, "It is Gotzkowsky

alone that you have to thank for your liberty."

They threw themselves into Gotzkowsky's arms; with solemn oaths they

vowed him eternal, inviolable gratitude; they called him their savior,

their liberator from shame and disgrace.

Gotzkowsky smiled at their glowing protestations of friendship, and

withdrew himself gently from their ardent embraces. "I did not do it

for the sake of your thanks, and personally you owe me therefore no

gratitude."

"Gotzkowsky, have you entirely forgotten us?" said a plaintive voice

near him. It was Itzig, one of the rich Jews of the mint, to whom

Gotzkowsky had promised assistance.

"Ask the general," said the latter, smiling.

"He has spoken for you, and his intercession has freed you from the

special tax," said Count Tottleben.

"He has saved us, the great Gotzkowsky has had pity on our

wretchedness," cried the Jews, crowding around Gotzkowsky to press his

hand, to embrace him, and with tears of grateful emotion to promise

him their unalterable attachment.

"You have saved my life," said Itzig, "for I had determined to die

rather than pay any more money. For what is life to me without money?

If the Jew has not money, he is nobody. In saving my money you saved

my life. If ever you should be without money, Gotzkowsky, come to me;

I will lend you some at very low interest."

"I will lend it to you gratis," said Ephraim, pressing his hand

affectionately in his own.

Gotzkowsky answered sadly: "If it ever came to pass that I were

obliged to borrow, you would not remember this day, and I would not be

the man to remind you of it."

"Remind us of it," protested Ephraim, "and you shall see that we

keep our word. Come to us and say, 'Remember the tax that I freed you

from,' and you shall see all that you desire shall be fulfilled."

"God grant that I may never have need to remind you of it!" said

Gotzkowsky, pressing back the excited Jews, and approaching General

Tottleben.

"You forget, sir, that you summoned the honorable Council of Berlin

hither, and that these gentlemen are awaiting your orders."

The general seemed to awaken out of a deep reverie. "Yes," said he,

as if to himself, "the German dream is finished, and now I must be a

Russian again." He then turned quickly to Gotzkowsky and offered him

his hand. "Gotzkowsky," said he, gently and persuasively, "consider it

once more--come with me and be my teacher."

"What I can teach you is but little. It is an easy lesson for him who

has a heart, an impossible one for him who has none. Learn to love

mankind. That is all my wisdom, and my farewell."

The general sighed. "You will not go with me? Well, then, farewell!"

And as if to disperse the painful and bitter feelings which assailed

his German heart, he turned away and called, in Russian, to his

adjutant: "Let us break up, gentlemen. To horse, to horse!"

But in the midst of the confusion of the soldiers, and the tramping

of horses, the chief burgomaster made a way for himself. He had to

sustain the honor of the Council, and pronounce the beautifully worded

oration which had cost him two sleepless nights to compose; he had to

place in the hands of the general the offering of Berlin gratitude.

At last he succeeded in reaching the general, and he began his speech.

Full and powerful did his voice sound through the New Market, and the

delighted people rejoiced over the oratorical talent of their chief

magistrate, and gazed with pride and admiration at his golden chain

of office--that chain which had gone through so much, had endured so

much, without growing pale or dim.

But General Tottleben did not accept the present which the city of

Berlin offered him. He said: "If the town believed that its fate was

rendered more tolerable by my discipline than it otherwise would have

been, let it thank the express orders of my empress. The honor of

having been commander of Berlin for three days is sufficient reward

for me."

Three hours later Berlin was freed from Russians and Austrians.

Gotzkowsky, who had finally succeeded in freeing himself from the

tumultuous expressions of gratitude of the Council, the editors, and

the Jews, returned to his home, of which he himself says: "My house

resembled more a cow-house than a dwelling, having been filled for a

while, night and day, with Russians."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIV.

BRIDE AND DAUGHTER.

At the mere announcement of the approach of the king toward Berlin,

the Russian army had left the city and withdrawn to Frankfort. But no

inconsiderable number of officers had stayed behind; some of them

to organize the withdrawal of the troops, while others, detained by

personal affairs, had merely obtained short leave of absence. To the

latter belonged Colonel Feodor von Brenda. General Bachmann had given

him two days' leave, under the impression that he would avail himself

of the time to enjoy, undisturbed, the society of his bride, the

Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir.

The general knew nothing of the difference between the colonel and

his betrothed. He did not know that, according to her agreement with

Bertram, Lodoiska had not informed Feodor of her arrival in Berlin.

But, nevertheless, Feeder had heard of it. The countess's own

chambermaid, knowing the liberality of the young count, had gone to

him, and for a golden bribe had betrayed to him her presence, and

communicated all that she knew of her plans and intentions.

This news detained the colonel in Berlin. The unexpected arrival of

his affianced pressed upon him the necessity of a decision, for he was

aware of the impossibility of tearing asunder the firm and heart-felt

bond which attached him to Elise, to unite himself to a wife to whom

he was only engaged by a given promise, a pledged word.

Feodor would probably have given up his whole fortune to pay a debt of

honor; would have unhesitatingly thrown his life into the scale if it

had been necessary to redeem his word. But he was not ashamed to break

the vow of fidelity which he had made to a woman, and to desert her to

whom he had promised eternal love. Besides, his pride was wounded by

the advent of the countess, which appeared to him as a restraint on

his liberty and an espionage on his actions.

She had concealed her arrival from him, and he consequently concluded

that she was acquainted with his faithlessness, and nursed some plan

of removing the obstacles which lay between her and her lover. His

pride was irritated by the thought that he should be compelled to

maintain an engagement which he could no longer fulfil from love, but

only from a sense of duty. Such a restraint on his free will seemed

to him an unparalleled hardship. He felt a burning hatred toward the

woman who thus forcibly insisted on fastening herself upon him, and

an equally ardent love toward the young girl of whom they wished to

deprive him.

Doubly charming and desirable did this young, innocent, lovely girl

appear to him when he compared her with the mature, self-possessed,

worldly woman of whom he could only hope that he might be her last

love, while he knew that he was Elise's first.

"If I must positively be chained, and my hands bound," said he to

himself, "let it be at least with this fresh young girl, who can

conceal the thorny crown of wedlock under freshly-blown rosebuds. My

heart has nothing more to do with this old love; it has grown young

again under the influence of new feelings, and I will not let this

youthfulness be destroyed by the icy-cold smiles of duty. Elise has

promised to be mine, and she must redeem her promise."

Still full of the passionate and defiant thoughts which the vicinity

of his affianced bride had provoked, he had gone out to seek Elise.

But to find her had become not only difficult, but almost impossible.

Bertram, who had not thought fit to reveal to Gotzkowsky the forcible

abduction of his daughter, had yet quietly arranged his precautions

that a repetition of the attempt from any quarter, or at any time,

should be impossible.

Under the pretence that the withdrawal of the troops rendered the

city unsafe, and filled it with marauders and plundering stragglers,

Bertram, secure of Gotzkowsky's approval beforehand, had armed a

number of the factory workmen, and placed them as sentinels on the

wall, in the court, and on the ground-floor. These had orders not to

let any one enter who was not able to tell the object and purpose of

his coming. By this precaution Bertram prevented any attempt of Feodor

to climb the wall; and, furthermore he obtained the advantage that

Elise, to whom the presence of the sentinels was unpleasant and

objectionable, not only did not visit the dangerous, solitary parts of

the garden, but withdrew into her own room. In this manner Bertram had

rendered any meeting between Feodor and Elise impossible, but he could

not prevent his servant, Petrowitsch, from meeting his sweetheart,

Elise's chambermaid, on the street.

By means of these a letter of Feodor reached Elise's hand. In this

Feodor reminded her solemnly and earnestly of her promise; he now

called upon her to fulfil her vow, and to follow him from the house of

her father. He adjured her to unite herself to him at the altar as his

wife, and to give him the right to carry her abroad with him as his

own.

Elise received this letter of her beloved, and her heart during

its perusal was moved by unfamiliar emotions. She could not herself

determine whether it was joy or dread which caused it to beat so

convulsively, and almost deprived her of consciousness. She could

have screamed aloud with joy, that at last she would be united to her

lover, wholly, sacredly as his own; and yet she was filled with deep

grief that the path to the altar would not be hallowed by her father's

blessing. Even love, which spoke so loudly and powerfully in her

heart, could not silence the warning voice of conscience--that voice

which again and again threatened her with sin and sorrow, disgrace and

shame. Yet Elise, in the warmth and passion of her heart, sought to

excuse herself, and in the pride of her wounded filial love said to

herself: "My father does not regard me; he will not weep for my loss,

for I am superfluous here, and he will hardly perceive that I am gone.

He has his millions and his friends, and the whole multitude of those

to whom he does good. He is so rich--he has much on which his heart

hangs! But I am quite poor; I have nothing but the heart of my

beloved. His love is my only possession. Would it not be wicked in me

to cast this away, and lead here a lonesome, desolate life, without

pity or sympathy? If my father loved me, would he have left me during

these days so full of danger? After the terrible scene in which I,

in the desperation of my heart, offended him, he would at least have

given me some opportunity of asking his pardon, of begging him for

forbearance and pity. But he seems purposely to have secluded himself,

and avoided any meeting with me. He has shut me out from his heart,

and withdrawn his love from me forever. And so I am forced to carry

my heart full of boundless affection over to my lover. He will never

repulse, neglect, or forget me; he will adore me, and I will be his

most cherished possession."

As these thoughts passed through her mind, she pressed his note to

her lips, each word seeming to greet her, and with Feodor's imploring

looks to entreat her to fulfil the vow she had made him. There was

no longer any hesitation or wavering in her, for she had come to a

determined resolution, and with glowing cheeks and panting breast she

hastened to the writing-table, in order to clothe it in words, and

answer Feodor's note.

"You remind me of my pledged word," she wrote. "I am ready to redeem

it. Come, then, and lead me from my father's house to the altar, and I

will be your wife; and wherever you go I will be with you. Hence-forth

I will have no other home than your heart. But while I cheerfully

elect this home, at the same time I am shutting myself out from my

father's heart forever. May God forgive the sins that love causes me

to commit!"

But when this note had been sent, when she knew that her lover had

received it, and that her decision was irrevocable, she was seized

with trembling faintness, with the oppression of conscious guilt; and

it seemed to her as if a new spring of love had suddenly burst forth

in her heart, and as if she had never loved her father so sincerely,

so devotedly, so tenderly, as now that she was on the point of leaving

him.

But it was too late to draw back; for in the mean, time she had

received a second letter from Feodor, imparting the details of a plan

for their joint flight, and she had approved of this plan.

Every thing was prepared, and all that she had to do was to remain

in her room, and await the concerted signal with which Feodor was to

summon her.

As soon as she heard this signal she was to leave the house with her

maid, who had determined to accompany her, come out into the street,

where Feodor would be in waiting with his carriage, and drive in the

first place to the church. There a priest, heavily bribed, would meet

them, and, with the blessing of the Church, justify Feodor in carrying

his young wife out into the world, and Elise in "leaving father and

home, and clinging only unto her husband."

Some hours were yet wanting to the appointed time. Elise, condemned to

the idleness of waiting, experienced all the anxiety and pains which

the expectation of the decisive moment usually carries with it.

With painful desire she thought of her father, and, although she

repeated to herself that he would not miss her, that her absence

would not be noticed, yet her excited imagination kept painting to

her melancholy fancy, pictures of his astonishment, his anxiety, his

painful search after her.

She seemed, for the first time, to remember that she was about to

leave him, without having been reconciled to him; that she was to part

from him forever, without having begged his forgiveness, without even

having felt his fatherly kiss on her brow. At least she would write to

him, at least send him one loving word of farewell. This determination

she now carried out, and poured out all her love, her suffering, her

suppressed tenderness, the reproaches of her conscience, in burning

and eloquent words, on the paper which she offered to her father as

the olive-branch of peace.

When she had written this letter, she folded it, and hid it carefully

in her bosom, in order to carry it unnoticed to her father's room. He

would not be there--for two days he had not been at home; she could,

therefore, venture to go there without fear of meeting him. She felt

as if she would not be able to bear his gaze--the full, bright look of

his eye.

Carefully and softly, with the secret fear of meeting Bertram, whose

sad, reproachful looks she dreaded even more, perhaps, than the eye

of her father, she crept along the corridor, and finally reached the

antechamber, breathing more freely, and glad to have met no one. Every

thing here was quiet and silent; her father, therefore, had not yet

returned, and she was quite safe from any surprise by him.

She now entered his private room, and crossing this, was in the act of

opening the desk of his writing-table in order to deposit the letter

therein, when she heard the door of the antechamber open. It was too

late for flight, and she had only time to conceal the letter in her

bosom, when the door of the room itself was opened.

It was her father who now entered the apartment. Speechless and

motionless they both stood, confounded at this unexpected meeting,

each waiting for a word of greeting of reconciliation from the other.

But however earnestly their hearts yearned toward each other, their

lips remained silent, and their looks avoided one another.

"She shuns me. This is my reception after so many toilsome days of

absence," thought Gotzkowsky, and his heart was full of sadness and

sorrow.

"He will not look at me, his eye avoids me, he has not yet forgiven

me," thought Elise, as she regarded her father's pale, care-worn

countenance. "No, he does not wish to see me. For the last time,

therefore, I will show him obedience, and leave the room." Sadly and

softly, with her looks cast on the ground, she took her way to the

door on the opposite side.

Gotzkowsky followed her with his eyes. If she had only ventured to

raise her looks once more to him, she would have perceived all his

love, all the forgiving affection of a father, in his face. But she

did not, and Gotzkowsky said to himself, in the bitterness of his

heart, "Why should I speak to her?--she would only misunderstand me. I

will lie down and sleep, to forget my cares and my sorrows. I will not

speak to her, for I am exhausted, and tired to death. I must have rest

and composure, to be able to come to an understanding with her."

And yet he regarded her with longing looks as she directed her sad

steps toward the door. Now she stands on the threshold; now her

trembling hand clasps the bright handle of the lock, but still she

hesitates to open it; she still hopes for a word, if even an angry

one, from her father.

And now she hears it. Like an angel's voice does it sound in her

ear. He calls her name, he reaches his hand out to her, and says with

infinite, touching gentleness, "Give me your hand, Elise. Come here to

me, my child--it is so long since I have seen you!"

She turned to him, and yet she dared not look upon him. Seizing his

offered hand, she pressed it to her lips. "And do you remember that

you have been so long absent? You have not then forgotten me?"

"Forgot you!" cried her father tenderly; and then immediately, as if

ashamed of this outburst of fatherly love, he added calmly and almost

sternly--"I have much to talk with you, Elise. You have accused me."

Elise interrupted him with anxious haste: "I was beside myself," said

she, confused and bashfully. "Forgive me, my father; passion made me

unjust."

"No, it only developed what lay hidden in your heart," said

Gotzkowsky; and the recollection of that unhappy hour roughened his

voice, and filled his heart with sadness. "For the first time, you

were candid with me. I may have been guilty of it all, but still it

hurts!" For a moment he was silent, and sank his head on his breast,

completely overpowered by painful reminiscences.

Elise answered nothing, but the sight of his pale and visibly

exhausted countenance moved her to tears.

When Gotzkowsky raised his head again, his face had resumed its usual

determination and energy. "We will talk over these things another

time," said he seriously. "Only this one thing, remember. I will not

restrain you in any way, and I have never done so. You are mistress

of every thing that belongs to me except my honor. This I myself must

keep unsullied. As a German gentleman I cannot bring the dishonor upon

me of seeing my daughter unite herself to the enemy of my country--to

a Russian. Choose some German man: whoever he may he, I will welcome

him whom you love as my son, and renounce the wishes and plans I have

so long entertained. But never will I give my consent to the union of

my only child with a Russian."

While he spoke the expression of the countenance of both changed

surprisingly. Both evinced determination, defiance, and anger, and the

charm which love had laid for a moment on their antagonistic souls was

destroyed. Gotzkowsky was no longer the tender father, easily appeased

by a word, but the patriot injured in his holiest right, his most

delicate sense of honor. Elise was no longer the humble, penitent

daughter, but a bride threatened with the loss of her lover.

"You would, then, never give your consent?" asked she, passionately.

"But if this war were ended, if Russia were no longer the enemy of

Germany; if--"

"Russia remains ever the enemy of Germany, even if she does not appear

against her in the open field. It is the antagonism of despotic power

against culture and civilization. Never can the free German be the

friend of the barbarous Sclavonian. Let us hear nothing more of

this--you know my mind; I cannot change it, even if you should,

for that reason, doubt my love. True love does not consist only in

granting, but still more in denying."

Elise stood with bowed head, and murmured some low, unintelligible

words. Gotzkowsky felt that it would be better for both to break off

this conversation before it had reached a point of bitterness and

irritation. At the same time he felt that, after so much excitement,

his body needed rest. He, therefore, approached his daughter and

extended his hand toward her for a friendly farewell. Elise seized

it, and pressed it with passionate feeling to her lips. He then turned

round and traversed the room on the way to his bedchamber.

Elise looked after him with painful longing, which increased with

each step he took. As he was in the act of leaving the room she rushed

after him, and uttered in a tone of gentle pleading, the single word,

"Father!"

Gotzkowsky felt the innermost chord of his heart touched. He turned

round and opened his arms to her. With a loud cry of joy she threw

herself on his breast, and rested there for a moment in happy,

self-forgetting delight. They looked at one another, and smilingly

bade each other good-by. Again Gotzkowsky turned his steps toward his

bedroom. And now he was gone; she saw him no more. Father and daughter

were separated.

But Elise felt an unutterable grief in her heart, a boundless terror

seized her. It seemed as if she could not leave her father; as if it

would be a disgrace for her, so secretly, like a criminal, to sneak

out of her father's house, were it even to follow her lover to the

altar. She felt as if she must call her father back, cling to his

knees, and implore him to save her, to save her from her own desires.

Already had she opened her lips, and stretched forth her arms, when

she suddenly let them fall, with a shudder.

She had heard the loud rolling of a carriage, and she knew what it

meant. This carriage which stopped at her door--could it be the one in

which Feodor had come to take her? "It is too late--I cannot go back,"

muttered she low, and with drooping head she slowly left her father's

room in order to repair to her own chamber.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

THE RIVALS.

Elise, immediately on reaching her room, hurried to the window and

looked into the street, already darkened by the shades of evening. She

was not mistaken--a carriage stood at the door; but to her surprise,

she did not perceive the signal agreed on, she did not hear the

post-horn blow the Russian air, "Lovely Minka, I must leave thee." Nor

was it the appointed hour; neither did her chambermaid, who waited in

the lower story, come to seek her. She still stood at the window,

and involuntarily she felt herself worried by this equipage. A sharp

knocking at the door was heard. Before she had time to come to any

determination, it was hastily opened, and Bertram entered with a lady,

deeply veiled, on his arm.

"Bertram!" cried Elise, drawing back shyly. "What do you wish here?"

"What do I wish here?" answered Bertram, earnestly. "I come to ask a

favor of my sister. I have promised this lady that she shall see and

speak with you. Will my sister fulfil her brother's promise?"

"What does the lady wish with me?" asked Elise, casting a timid look

toward the mysterious veiled figure.

"She will herself tell you. She requested me, with tears, to bring her

to Elise Gotzkowsky, for, she assured me, the happiness of her life

depended on it."

Elise felt an icy shudder run through her. She laid her hand on her

heart, as if to protect it against the terrible danger which she felt

threatened her, and with trembling lip she repeated, "What does the

lady wish with me?"

Bertram did not answer her, but letting go the arm of the unknown,

he bowed low. "Countess," said he, "this is Mademoiselle Elise

Gotzkowsky. I have fulfilled my promise: allow me now to leave you,

and may God impart convincing power to your words!"

He greeted the ladies respectfully, and left the room quickly. The

two ladies were now alone together. A pause ensued. Both trembled, and

neither ventured to break the silence.

"You desired to speak to me," said Elise, finally, in a low, languid

voice. "May I now beg of you--"

The lady threw back her veil, and allowed Elise to see a handsome

countenance, moistened with tears. "It is I who have to beg," said

she, with a touching foreign accent, while seizing Elise's hand, she

pressed it warmly to her breast. "Forgive me; since I have seen you,

I have forgotten what I had to say. At sight of you, all my words, and

even my anger have left me. You are very beautiful. Be as noble as

you are beautiful. My fate lies in your hands. You can restore me to

happiness."

"God alone can do that," said Elise, solemnly.

"At this moment you are the divinity who has the disposal of my fate.

You alone can restore me to happiness, for you have deprived me of

it--yes, you, so young, so handsome, and apparently so innocent. You

are the murderess of my happiness." Her eyes sparkled, and a bright

blush suffused her hitherto pale cheeks. "Yes," cried she, with a

triumphant laugh, "now I am myself again. My hesitation has vanished,

and anger is again supreme. I am once more the lioness, and ready to

defend the happiness of my life."

Elise drew herself up, and she, too, felt a change in her heart. With

the instinct of love, she felt that this handsome woman who stood

opposite to her was her rival, her enemy with whom she had to struggle

for her most precious property. Passion filled her whole being, and

she vowed to herself not to yield a single step to this proud beauty.

With an expression of unspeakable disdain, she fixed her eyes upon

the countess. Their flashing looks crossed each other like the bright

blades of two combatants in a duel.

"I do not understand you," said Elise, with angry coldness. "You must

speak more plainly, if you wish to be understood."

"You do not wish to understand me," cried the countess. "You wish to

avoid me, but I will not let you. I have suffered so much that I will

not suffer any longer. We stand here opposite each other as two women

engaged in a combat for life and death."

Elise suppressed the cry of pain which rose in her breast, and

compelled herself to assume a proud and impassible composure. "I still

do not understand you, nor do I desire to contend with an unknown

person. But if you will not leave my room, you will allow me to do

so."

She turned to go, but the countess seized her hand, and held her back.

"No! you cannot go!" cried she, passionately. "You cannot go, for

I know that you are going to him, to him whom I love, and I come to

demand this man of you."

These half-threatening, half-commanding words, at last drove Elise

from the assumed tranquillity she had maintained with so much

difficulty. "I know not of whom you speak," cried she, in a loud

voice.

But the countess was tired of dealing in these half-concealed

meanings, these mysterious allusions. "You know of whom I speak,"

cried she, vehemently. "You know that I have come to demand the

restoration of my holiest possession, the heart of my beloved. Oh!

give him back to me, give me back my betrothed, for he belongs to me,

and cannot be another's. Let my tears persuade you. You are young,

rich, handsome; you have every thing that makes life happy. I have

nothing but him. Leave him to me."

Elise felt furious. Like a tigress, she could have strangled this

woman, who came to destroy her happiness. A wild, angry laugh rang

from her lips: "You say that you love him," exclaimed she. "Well,

then, go to him and ask him for his heart. Why do you demand it of

_me_? Win it from him, if you can."

"In order to be able to win it, you must first release him from the

fetters with which you have bound him."

An angry flush overspread Elise's pale face. "You become insulting,"

she said.

The countess paid no attention to these words, but continued still

more vehemently: "Make him free. Loose the bands which fetter him, and

then, I am sure, he will return to me and be mine again."

Elise stared terrified at the face of the countess, excited and

streaming with tears. She had heard but one little word, but this word

had pierced her heart like a dagger.

"_Return_ to you?" asked she, breathlessly. "Be yours _again_? He was

then _once_ yours?"

"I yielded to him what is most sacred in life, and yet you ask if he

was mine!" said the countess, smiling sadly.

Elise uttered a loud, piercing shriek, and covered her face with her

hands. Her emotion was so expressive and painful that it touched the

heart even of her rival. Almost lovingly she passed her arm around

Elise's waist and drew her down gently to her on the sofa. "Come,"

said she, "let us sit by each other like two sisters. Come, and listen

to me. I will disclose a picture which will make your soul shudder!"

Elise yielded to her mechanically. She let herself involuntarily glide

down on the sofa, and suffered the countess to take her hand. "Feodor

once belonged to her," she murmured. "His heart was once given to

another."

"Will you listen to me?" asked the countess; and, seeing Elise still

lost in silent reverie, she continued: "I will relate to you the

history of Feodor von Brenda, and his unhappy, forsaken bride." Elise

shuddered, and cast a wandering, despairing look around.

"Will you listen to me?" repeated the countess.

"Speak--I am listening," whispered Elise, languidly. And then, the

Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, often interrupted by Elise's plaintive

sighs, her outbursts of heartfelt sympathy, related to the young girl

the sad and painful story of her love and her betrayal.

She was a young girl, scarcely sixteen, the daughter of a prince,

impoverished by his own fault and prodigality, when she became the

victim of her father's avarice. Without compassion for her tears, her

timid youth, he had sold her for a million. With the cruel selfishness

of a spendthrift miser, he had sold his young, fresh, beautiful

daughter for dead, shining metal, to a man of sixty years, fit to be

her grandfather, and who persecuted the innocent girl with the ardent

passion of a stripling. She had been dragged to the altar, and the

priest had been deaf to the "No!" she had uttered, when falling

unconscious at his feet. Thus she had become the wife of the rich

Count Sandomir--a miserable woman who stood, amidst the splendor of

life, without hope, without joy, as in a desert.

But one day this desert had changed, and spring bloomed in her soul,

for love had come to warm her chilled heart with the sunbeam of

happiness. She did not reproach herself, nor did she feel any scruples

of conscience, that it was not her husband whom she loved. What

respect could she have for marriage, when for her it had been only a

matter of sale and purchase? She had been traded off like a slave, and

with happy exultation she said to herself, "Love has come to make me

free, and, as a free and happy woman, I will tear this contract

by which I have been sold." And she had torn it. She had had no

compassion on the gray hairs and devoted heart of her noble husband.

She had been sacrificed, and now pitilessly did she sacrifice her

husband to her lover. She saw but one duty before her--to reward the

love of the man she adored with boundless devotion. No concealment, no

disguise would she allow. Any attempt at equivocation she regarded as

an act of treason to the great and holy feeling which possessed her

whole soul.

Usually all the world is acquainted with the treachery and infidelity

of a woman, while it is yet a secret to her husband. But the countess

took care that her husband should be the first to learn of his injured

honor, her broken faith. She had hoped that he would turn from her in

anger, and break the marriage-bond which united her to him. But her

husband did not liberate her. He challenged the betrayer of his

honor, whose treachery was the blacker, because the count himself had

introduced him into his house, as the son of the friend of his youth.

They fought. It was a deadly combat, and the old man of sixty, already

bowed down by rage and grief, could not stand against the strength of

his young and practised adversary. He was overcome. The dying husband

had been brought to Countess Lodoiska, his head supported by his

murderer, her lover. Even in this terrible moment she felt no anger

against him, and as the eyes of her husband grew dull in death, she

could only remember that she was now free to become his wife. She had

thrown herself at the feet of the empress to implore her consent to

this marriage, on which depended the hope and happiness, the honor and

atonement of her life. The empress had not refused her consent, had

herself appointed the wedding day which should unite her favorite with

the young countess.

But a short time before the arrival of this day, so ardently longed

for, looked forward to with so many prayers, such secret anxiety and

gnawing self-reproaches, the war broke out, and Lodoiska did not

dare to keep back her lover, as with glowing zeal he hastened to his

colors. He had sworn to her never to forget her; to return faithful to

her, and she had believed him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Elise had followed the countess in her narration with intense

attention and warm sympathy. Her face had become pale as marble,

her countenance sad, and her eyes filled with tears. A fearful

anticipation dawned in her heart, but she turned away from it. She

would not listen to this secret voice which whispered to her that this

sad tale of the countess had reference to her own fate.

"Your lover did not deceive your trust?" asked she. "With such a

bloody seal upon your love he dare not break his faith."

"He did break it," answered the countess, painfully. "I was nothing

more to him than a guilty woman, and he went forth to seek an angel.

He forgot his vows, his obligations, and cast me away, for I was a

burden to him."

Both were silent in the bitterness of their sorrow. The countess

fastened her large, bright eyes upon the young girl, who stared before

her, pale, motionless, absorbed in her own grief.

This anxious silence was finally broken by the countess. "I have not

yet told you the name of my lover. Shall I name him to you?"

Elise awoke as if from a heavy dream. "No," cried she, eagerly, "no,

do not name him. What have I to do with him? I do not know him. What

do I care to hear the name of a man who has committed so great a

crime?"

"You must hear it," said the countess, solemnly. "You must learn the

name of the man who chained me to him by a bloody, guilt-stained past,

and then deserted me. It is Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda!"

Elise uttered a cry, and sank, half fainting, back on the cushions of

the sofa. But this dejection did not last long. Her heart, which for a

moment seemed to stop, resumed again its tumultuous beating; her blood

coursed wildly through her veins, and her soul, unused to the despair

of sorrow, resolved to make one last effort to free itself from the

fetters with which her evil fate wished to encompass her. She drew

herself up with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "This is false," she

cried; "a miserable invention, concocted to separate me from Feodor.

Oh! I see through it all. I understand now my father's solemn

asseverations, and why Bertram brought you to me. But you are all

mistaken in me. Go, countess, and tell your friends, 'Elise offers up

every thing and gives every thing to him whom she loves, in whom she

believes, even if the whole world testifies against him.'" And with a

triumphant smile, throwing back her head, she stood up and was about

to leave the room.

The countess shrugged her shoulders as if in pity. "You do not believe

me, then?" said she; "but you will believe this witness?" and she drew

a letter from her bosom and handed it to Elise.

"It is his handwriting," cried the young girl, terrified, as she took

the letter.

"Ah! you know his handwriting, then? He has written to you, too?"

sighed the countess. "Well, then, read it. It is a letter he wrote me

from Berlin at the commencement of his captivity. Read it!"

"Yes, I will read it," murmured Elise. "These written words pierce my

eyes like daggers, but I will not mind the pain. I will read it."

She read the letter, which annihilated her whole happiness, slowly and

with terrible composure. Drop by drop did she let the poison of these

words of love, directed to another, fall into her soul. When she had

finished reading it, she repeated to herself the last cruel words,

the warm protestations, with which Feodor assured his bride of his

unalterable love and fidelity, with which he swore to her that he

looked upon his love to her not only as a happiness, but as a sacred

obligation; that he owed her not only his heart but his honor. Then

long and carefully she considered the signature of his name, and

folding up the paper, she handed it back, with a slight inclination to

the countess.

"Oh, my God! I have loved him beyond bounds," muttered she, low; and

then, unable to restrain her tears, she put her hands to her face and

wept aloud.

"Poor, unhappy girl!" exclaimed the countess, laying her arm tenderly

around her neck.

Elise drew back violently and regarded her almost in anger. "Do not

commiserate me. I will not be pitied by you! I--"

She suddenly stopped, and an electric shock passed through her whole

frame. She heard the concerted signal; and the tones of the post-horn,

which slowly and heavily sounded the notes of the sad Russian melody,

grated on her ear like a terrible message of misfortune.

The two women stood for a moment silent and motionless. They both

listened to the dirge of their love and their happiness, and this

simple, hearty song sounded to them horrible and awful in the

boundless desolation of their hearts. At last the song ceased, and a

voice, too well known and loved, cried, "Elise! Elise!"

The maiden started up, shuddering and terrified. "His voice frightens

me."

But still she seemed not to be able to withstand the call; for she

approached the window, and looked down hesitatingly.

The countess observed her jealously, and a fearful thought suddenly

entered her mind. How, if this young girl loved him as much as she

did? If she were ready to forgive him every thing, to blot out the

whole past with the hand of love and commence a new existence with

him? If she felt no compassion for Feodor's forsaken bride, and were

willing to trample triumphantly on her broken heart at the call of her

lover, and follow him to the altar? Her whole soul writhed in pain,

"Follow his call," cried she, with a derisive smile. "Leave your

father, whom you have betrayed, for the sake of a traitor! You have

vowed to love him. Go and keep your vow."

Outside Feodor's voice called Elise's name louder and more pressingly.

A moment she listened, then rushed to the window, threw it open, and

called out, "I come, I come!"

Lodoiska flew to her; drew back the young girl violently from the

window, and throwing both arms firmly around her, said, almost

breathlessly, "Traitress! You shall not cross this threshold! I will

call your father. I will call the whole household together! I will--"

"You will call no one," interrupted Elise, and her proud, cold

composure awed even the countess. "You will call no one, for I stay,

and you--you go in my stead."

"What say you?" asked Lodoiska.

Elise raised her arm and pointed solemnly to the window. "I say,"

cried she, "that your bridegroom is waiting down there for you. Go,

then."

With an exclamation of joy the countess pressed her in her arms. "You

renounce him, then?"

"I have no part in him," said Elise coldly. "He belongs to you; he

is bound to you by your disgrace and his crime. Go to him," cried she

more violently, as she saw that the countess looked at her doubtingly.

"Hasten, for he is waiting for you."

"But he will recognize me; he will drive me from him."

Elise pointed to her clothes, which were placed ready for her

departure. "There lie my hat and cloak," said she haughtily. "Take

them; drop the veil. He knows this dress, and he will think it is me."

At this moment the door was torn open, and Bertram burst in. "Make

haste," he cried, "or all is lost. Count Feodor is becoming impatient,

and may himself venture to come for Elise. Gotzkowsky, too, has been

awakened by the unaccustomed sound of the post-horn."

"Help the countess to prepare for the journey," cried Elise, standing

still, motionless, and as if paralyzed.

Bertram looked at her, astonished and inquiringly; but in a few

rapid words the countess explained to him Elise's intention and

determination, to allow her to take the journey in her stead, and with

her clothes.

Bertram cast on Elise a look which mirrored forth the admiration he

felt for this young girl, who had so heroically gained the victory

over herself. His reliance on her maiden pride, her sense of right and

honor, had not been deceived.

The countess had now finished her toilet, and donned Elise's hat and

cloak.

Bertram called on her to hasten, and she approached Elise to bid her

farewell, and express her gratitude for the sacrifice she had made

for her. But Elise waved her back proudly and coldly, and seemed to

shudder at her touch.

"Go to your husband, countess," cried she, and her voice was hoarse

and cold.

Lodoiska's eyes filled with tears. Once more she attempted to take

Elise's hand, but the latter firmly crossed her arms and looked at her

almost threateningly. "Go!" said she, in a loud, commanding voice.

Bertram took the arm of the countess and drew her to the door.

"Hasten!" said he; "there is no time to lose."

The door closed behind them. Elise was alone. She stood and listened

to their departing steps; she heard the house door open; she heard the

post-horn once more sound out merrily, and then cease. "I am alone!"

she screamed, with a heart-rending cry. "They are gone; I am alone!"

And stretching her arms despairingly to heaven, and almost beside

herself, she cried out, "O God! will no one have compassion on me?

will no one pity me?"

"Elise," said her father, opening the room door.

She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his

arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly,

"Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you! You are my only

refuge in this world."

Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully

to heaven. "Oh! I well knew my daughter's heart would return to her

father."

He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was

resting on his breast. "Do not weep, my child, do not weep," whispered

he, tenderly.

"Let me weep," she answered, languidly; "you do no know how much

sorrow and grief pass off with these tears."

The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and

then the rapid rolling of a carriage.

Elise clung still more closely to her father. "Save me," she cried.

"Press me firmly to your heart. I am quite forsaken in this world."

The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath,

exclaiming: "She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for

you. The countess--"

He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had

just become aware.

Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, "Who is gone? What does all this

mean?"

Elise raised herself from his arms and gazed at him with flashing

eyes. "It means," she answered, "that the happiness of my life is

broken, that all is deception and falsehood where I looked for love,

and faith, and happiness!" With a touching cry of suffering, she fell

fainting in her father's arms.

"Do not rouse her, father," said Bertram, bending over her; "grant her

this short respite, for she has a great sorrow to overcome. When she

comes to herself again, she will love none but you, her father."

Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her brow, and blessed her in his

thoughts. "She will find in me a father," said he, with deep emotion,

"who, if necessary, can weep with her. My eyes are unused to tears,

but a father may be allowed to weep with his daughter when she is

suffering."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BANQUET OF GRATITUDE.

Berlin had recovered from the terrors it had undergone. It was eight

days since the enemy had left, and every thing was quiet and calm. But

on this day the quiet was to be interrupted by a public merry-making.

Berlin, which had suffered so much, was to rejoice again.

The festival which was to be celebrated, was intended for none else

than John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin, the man whom all looked

upon as their guardian angel and savior. He had cheerfully borne

hardship and toil, danger and injustice, for the good of his

fellow-men; he had always been found helping and ready to serve,

unselfish and considerate. The whole town was under obligation to him;

he had served all classes of society, and they all wished to evince

their gratitude to him.

Gotzkowsky had been requested to remain at home on the morning of

the festal day, but to hold himself in readiness to receive several

deputations. They were to be succeeded by a grand dinner, given by the

citizens of Berlin in his honor. They were to eat and drink, be merry,

and enjoy themselves to his glorification; they were to drink his

health in foaming glasses of champagne, and Gotzkowsky was to look

upon it all as a grand festival with which the good citizens of Berlin

were glorifying him, while they themselves were enjoying the luscious

viands and fragrant wines.