In vain did Gotzkowsky refuse to accept the proffered festival.

At first he tried to excuse himself on the plea of his daughter's

illness, alleging that he could not leave her bedside. But information

had been obtained from her physician, who reported her out of danger,

and that Gotzkowsky might leave her for several hours without risk.

Gotzkowsky being able to find no other excuse, was obliged to accept.

Elise was indeed sick. The grief and despair of her betrayed and

deceived heart had prostrated her; and her wild, fever-dreams, her

desponding complaints, the reproachful conversations she carried on

with her lover--unseen but nevertheless present in her delirium--had

betrayed her secret to her father. Full of emotion, he thanked God for

her happy escape, and felt no resentment against this poor, misguided

child, who had taken refuge from the loneliness of her heart, in his

love, as in a haven of shelter. He only reproached his own want of

discernment, as he said to himself: "Elise had cause to be angry

with me and to doubt my affection. I bore solitude and the constant

separation from my daughter because I thought I was working for her,

but I forgot that at the same time she was solitary and alone, that

she missed a father's tenderness as I did my child's love. I wished to

make her rich, and I have only made her poor and wretched."

He kissed her burning, feverish forehead, he bedewed it with tears,

and forgave her, from the bottom of his heart, her misplaced love, her

errors and transgressions. She was with him; she had returned to his

heart. In her despair she had fled to the bosom of her father, and

sought support and assistance from him.

The dark clouds had all rolled over, and the heavens were again bright

and clear. Berlin was freed from the enemy. Elise was convalescent,

and the town of Berlin, was preparing for her noblest citizen a

banquet of gratitude.

The appointed hour had arrived for Gotzkowsky to receive the

deputations, and he betook himself to the hall next the garden. A

thundering hurrah received him. It proceeded from his workmen, who had

come in procession through the garden, and were waving their hats and

caps. They were followed by a multitude of women in black. This day

they had laid aside the tears and griefs for their husbands and sons

fallen in battle, in order to thank Gotzkowsky with a smile for the

magnanimous kindness with which he had taken their part and secured

their future.

Following these women came the poor orphans, with mourning-crape on

their arms. They rushed forward joyously toward Gotzkowsky, stretching

out their little hands to him, and, at a word from the head operative,

Balthazar, they stretched open their small mouths, and gave out such a

shrill and crashing hurrah that the windows rattled, and many a stout

workman stopped his ears and felt a ringing in his head.

"One more hurrah!" cried the enthusiastic Balthazar; and "hurrah!"

screamed and squeaked the children.

"And now for a third--"

But Gotzkowsky seized hold of Balthazar's arm which he was about to

move again, and with a look of comical terror, exclaimed: "But, man,

don't you know that I have further use for my ears to-day? You deafen

me with your screaming. That's enough."

Balthazar struggled himself free from the strong grasp of his master,

and placed himself in a theatrical position opposite to him. He was

able this day to indulge in his passion for eloquence, for the workmen

had chosen him for their orator, and he had a right to speak. As

he spoke, it could be seen by his sparkling eyes, and by his fiery

enthusiasm, that his words had not been learned by rote, but proceeded

from his heart.

"Sir, allow me to speak and express my joy, for it is a joy to have a

noble master. Look at these children, dear master. Three days ago they

had fathers who could work and care for them. But the cannon-balls

deprived them of their fathers, and God sent them a father, and you

are he. You adopted these children when they were forsaken by all

else. You said: 'God forbid that the children of these brave men, who

had fallen in defence of the liberty of Berlin, should be orphans! I

will be their father.' Yes, sir, that is what you said, and all the

weeping mothers and all your workmen heard it and wrote it down in

their hearts. Ask these widows for whom they pray to God. Ask the poor

who were without bread and whom you fed. Ask the whole town who it is

whom they bless and praise. They will all name the name of Gotzkowsky;

with one voice they will all cry out: "Long live our friend and

father! Long live Gotzkowsky!"

Unanimously did all join in this cry, shouting out, "Long live

Gotzkowsky!"

Deeply moved, Gotzkowsky stretched out his hands to the workmen,

and accepted, with cordial gratification, the flowers offered by

the children. "Thank you, thank you," cried he, in a voice of deep

emotion. "You have richly recompensed me, for I perceive that you love

me, and nothing can be more beautiful than love."

"Diamonds!" cried out Ephraim, as he made his way through the crowd

with Itzig and a deputation of the Jews, toward the hero of the

day--"diamonds are more valuable than love, Gotzkowsky. Look at this

brilliant, which sparkles and shines more brightly than ever did a

look of love from any human eye."

He presented to Gotzkowsky a costly _solitaire_ diamond, and

continued: "Be so kind and grant us the favor of accepting this

present. It is a diamond of the first water."

"It is a petrified tear of joy," interrupted Itzig, "shed by us on our

delivery by you from taxation. You are our greatest benefactor, our

best friend. You have proved yourself the savior of the Jews, for you

freed us from the tax, and saved us what is more precious than honor,

and rank, and happiness--our money; for, without money, the Jew is

nobody. Accept, therefore, the ring, and wear it for our sakes."

"Accept it, we pray you," cried Ephraim, and the Jews took up the cry.

Gotzkowsky took the ring, and placed it on his finger, thanking the

givers for the costly present, and assuring them he would wear it with

pleasure in honor of them.

Itzig's brow was clouded with a slight frown, and stepping back to

Ephraim and his friends, he muttered, "He accepts it. I was in hopes

he would refuse it, for it cost much money, and we could have made

very good use of it."

The solemn advance of the honorable gentlemen of the Berlin Town

Council interrupted Itzig's private soliloquy, and drew his attention

toward the chief burgomaster, Herr von Kircheisen, who, in all

the splendor and dignity of his golden chain and of his office,

accompanied by the senators and town officers, strode pompously

through the crowd, and presented his hand to Gotzkowsky, who was

respectfully advancing to meet him.

"The Council of Berlin has come to thank you. For it is an

unparalleled example for a man to undertake and go through what you

have done for us, without any interest, without any ulterior object."

"You make me out better than I am," replied Gotzkowsky, smiling at

Herr von Kircheisen's pompous words. "I had an ulterior object. I

wished to gain the love of my fellow-citizens. If I have succeeded, I

am more than rewarded, and I pray you say no more on the subject."

The chief burgomaster shook his head majestically. "You have exercised

toward us the virtue of philanthropy. Allow us to exercise toward

you in return the virtue of gratitude." He took from the hands of the

assistant burgomaster a dark-red _étui_, from which he a wreath of

oak-leaves, worked in silver, which he presented to Gotzkowsky. "John

Gotzkowsky," said he, solemnly, "the Council and citizens of Berlin

request you, through me, to accept this memorial of their love and

gratitude. It is the civic crown of your magnanimity. Receive it from

our hands, and accept also our vow that we will never forget what you

have done for the town of Berlin."

Tears of delight, of heart-felt joy stood in Gotzkowsky's eyes as he

took the oaken crown from his hands, and glowing words of gratitude

poured from his lips.

Not far off, in a niche of a window of the hall, stood Messrs. Krause

and Kretschmer, with sullen looks, witnessing the homage paid to

Gotzkowsky, their souls filled with envy and rage. They, too, had come

to thank him, but with unwilling hearts, because they could not be

well absent from the festivities which the whole town offered him. But

they were vexed to see this man, whom they hated from the bottom of

their hearts, because of their obligations to him, so universally

honored and beloved. It annoyed them to see the pleasant and affable

smile with which the otherwise proud burgomaster conversed with

him; to see with what cordial friendship the senators and councilmen

surrounded him.

"I came hither," said Mr. Krause, softly, "to thank Gotzkowsky for

saving us, but I must confess it worries me to see him so glorified."

Mr. Kretschmer shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Let them praise

him," said he; "the _Vossian Gazette_ will not notice it, and I will

not write the smallest article on this occasion. As for the service

he rendered us--well, certainly, it would have been unpleasant to

have been flogged, but then we would have been martyrs to our liberal

opinions; the whole world would have admired and pitied us, and the

king would not have refused us a pension."

"Certainly," whispered Mr. Krause, "he would have granted us a

pension, and the whipping would have made us famous. It has never been

forgotten of the English poet, Payne, that King Charles the First had

his ears cut off, because he wrote against him. He is not celebrated

for his writings, but for his chopped ears. We, too, might have

become famous if this Gotzkowsky had not, in the most uncalled-for

manner, interfered, and--but look!" cried he, interrupting himself,

"the interview with the Council is finished, and it is now our turn to

thank him."

The two editors hastened toward him in order, in well-arranged speech,

and with assurances of eternal gratitude, to offer their thanks.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVIII.

A ROYAL LETTER.

Mr. Krause had not yet finished the declamation of the poem which his

inspiration had produced in honor of Gotzkowsky, when a loud noise was

heard at the door of the hall, and Gotzkowsky's body-servant rushed

in. A messenger of the Council was without, he announced; a letter

had just arrived from the king, and, as he was to deliver it to the

burgomaster in person, the messenger had brought him here. He handed

Herr von Kircheisen a letter, and the latter broke the seal with

majestic composure.

A pause of anxious expectation ensued. Each one inquired of himself

with trembling heart what could be the meaning of this royal letter.

The countenance of the chief magistrate grew more and more cheerful,

and suddenly he called aloud: "This is indeed a message of gladness

for our poor town. The king, our gracious lord, releases us from our

obligation to pay the promised war-tax of a million and a half. He

wishes to retaliate for the Wurzburg and Bamberg bonds captured from

the Aulic Council. For which reason his majesty's order is that we do

not pay."

A single cry of joy sounded from the lips of all present. Gotzkowsky

alone was silent, with downcast eyes, and his earnest, pensive

expression contrasted strongly with the bright, joyous countenances

which were illuminated by the order of the king to keep their money.

Among the happiest and most radiant, however, were the rich mint

farmers Ephraim and Itzig, and the chief burgomaster.

"The royal decree relieves our town of a horrible burden," said Herr

von Kircheisen, with a happy smile.

"The whole mercantile community must be grateful to the king," cried

Ephraim. "Berlin saves a million and a half, and the Russian is sold."

Suddenly Gotzkowsky drew himself up erect, and his eagle eye ran over

the whole assembly with a bold, beaming glance. "The Russian is not

sold," cried he, "for Berlin will pay him the balance of a million and

a half. Berlin has pledged her word, and she will redeem it."

The countenances of those around grew dark again, and here and there

were heard words of anger and wild resentment.

"How!" cried Itzig, "do you require of the merchants to pay what they

can keep for themselves? The king has said, 'You shall not pay!'"

"And I say, we will pay," cried Gotzkowsky. "What is written is

written, and what is promised must be performed, for this our honor

requires. The king possesses not the power of annulling a promise or

revoking an oath! He who does not fulfil his word of honor is not a

man of honor, were he even a king."

"But," said Herr von Kircheisen, pathetically, "there are nevertheless

circumstances which render impossible the fulfilment of an

obligation."

Gotzkowsky answered ardently: "If such do occur, the man of honor dies

when he cannot fulfil his word. But you--you do not wish to die. Oh

no! You wish to break your word in order to live pleasantly. You wish

to profit by your breach of promise. You wish to declare yourselves

insolvent and cheat your creditors of their money, and thereby amass

wealth."

A general storm of indignation interrupted Gotzkowsky, and the very

men who had come for the purpose of making a formal demonstration of

their gratitude now approached him with angry gestures and threatening

words.

"A million and a half is no child's play," screamed Ephraim. "Money is

more precious than honor."

"I say money is honor," cried Itzig. "As long as we keep our millions,

we keep our honor."

"You are very generous," sneered Kretschmer. "Like a gentleman, you

pay your debts out of other people's pockets, and the citizens will

have to pay millions to enable you to keep your word."

Gotzkowsky cast one look of contemptuous pity on him, and replied:

"You forget, sir, that I did not act in my own name, but in that of

the magistracy and merchants of Berlin. Not I alone would be faithless

to my word, but the whole town of Berlin."

"But I repeat," said the chief burgomaster, "that the king has

released us from the obligation of keeping our word."

"No king can do that," interrupted Gotzkowsky. "A man of honor must

keep his word, and no one, not even a king, can absolve him from it."

"Let us not quarrel about matters of opinion," said Kircheisen,

shrugging his shoulders. "My opinion is, that we do not pay this sum."

"No, we will not pay it!" cried all in tumultuous excitement, as they

surrounded the burgomaster, discussing in cheerful conversation the

advantages of non-payment.

Gotzkowsky stood listening to them alone, unobserved, and forgotten.

His heart was heavy with sadness, and painfully did he reflect: "This

is the unholy influence of money, hardening the heart and silencing

the voice of honor. For a few millions of dollars do they sell their

good name. One final attempt let me make. I will see what their

cowardice will do."

Again did he enter their midst, and with convincing words and ardent

eloquence portray the danger which would ensue from the non-payment of

the bonds.

The Russian was not very far from Berlin: if he had retired in forced

marches he could return thither with equal rapidity in order, in the

wantonness of his wrath, to take vengeance on the faithless town.

"In an unlucky moment," said he, "the Russians might gain a victory

over our king. He would then return and rend us like a tiger. I

would then no longer have the power of protecting you, for General

Tottleben's anger would be turned principally against me, who

guaranteed the payment of the contribution. God himself does not

protect him who breaks his word. He is an outlaw."

A deep silence followed Gotzkowsky's speech. All the faces were again

overcast, and in the contracted brow and anxious countenances could be

read the fact that his words had painfully convinced them that it was

necessary to pay.

Even Herr von Kircheisen in his fear of the return of the Russians,

forgot the enormous amount of the sums to be paid, and said, with a

melancholy sigh: "Gotzkowsky is, I am afraid, right. It is very hard

to pay the money, but it is very dangerous not to do it."

"It might cost us our heads," confirmed the first councilman.

Ephraim stood with his head cast down, and muttered to himself, "Money

is very dear, but life is still dearer."

Itzig cried out in despair: "Let us keep our money. Without money the

Jew is nobody."

But the chief burgomaster, who had consulted the councilmen, now

approached Gotzkowsky, and, with a smile, offered him his hand. "We

thank you," said he, "for you have spoken wisely, and your advice

shall be followed. We will pay, for we cannot help ourselves. But we

must beg you to do us another important service. Go to the king and

beg him not to be angry with us if we do not obey his order."

"Yes, do so, do so, Gotzkowsky!" cried all the others. "Go to the

king, he is friendly toward you--beg for us."

Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with generous satisfaction. "Very

well," said he; "I will go to the king and beg him to allow the town

of Berlin to preserve its honor immaculate, and pay the promised sum."

"Use all your eloquence, that the king may remain favorably inclined

toward us, and not become angry with us for acting this once against

his orders," admonished the chief burgomaster.

"The king is a high-minded and noble man," said Gotzkowsky,

enthusiastically. "He looks upon a man's word as sacred, and will

understand us and honor us for not wishing to break ours."

An hour later the chief citizens and merchants of Berlin repaired to

the spacious town-hall, where an elegant banquet had been prepared,

and merriment prevailed, and glasses sounded; and Berlin, rescued,

celebrated the first day of joy and happiness.

But John Gotzkowsky, to whom this feast was given, whom Berlin called

her deliverer and benefactor, was not present at this banquet. Deeply

buried in furs he had just entered his carriage, and braving danger

and toil, in the cold and darkness he drove away toward Meissen, where

the king had established his headquarters.

* * * * *

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEN.

The great battle of Torgau had been fought, and the Prussian army,

after so many combats and such a bloody victory, was contemplating

with lively satisfaction the going into winter quarters, which, it

hoped, this time would be in Saxony. The Prussian headquarters were,

for the time being, in Meissen, and in the palace there, for a short

resting-spell, dwelt the king, who for many years had only experienced

the troubles and dangers of his position; the king who had often

struggled with hunger and care, daily privation and mortal danger,

and who one day, wearied out by sleeping night after night on the cold

ground, commissioned his adjutant to provide a bundle of straw for

the comfort of his royal person. The king had for a long time spared

Saxony. He was sorry for this beautiful, afflicted land. But Saxony

was finally to be treated as an enemy's country, as she would not

appreciate Frederick's noble forbearance and clemency, and had allied

herself to his enemies with fanatical zeal. And now her devastated

fields, her paralyzed factories, her impoverished towns and deserted

villages, testified to her distress and the calamities of war. But at

this time quiet and tranquillity reigned in the hostile camps. On both

sides they were too tired to be able to carry on a fresh conflict,

and the strength of both parties being exhausted, they were obliged to

allow each other time for rest. Besides, the winter had set in early

with unusual severity, and, to all appearances, put an end to the

campaign of 1760.

The only contest now was for winter quarters; and it had been,

therefore, after the victory of Torgau, the king's first endeavor to

cut off the retreat of the Austrians to Dresden, or at least to drive

them out of this town. But, as the king wrote to Countess Camas, "They

laughed at us from the top of the hills--I withdrew immediately, and,

like a little boy, have stuck myself down in pure disgust in one of

the accursed Saxon villages. I assure you I lead a perfect dog's life,

such as no one else, except Don Quixote, has ever led."

In the mean while Frederick had left this "accursed Saxon village"

(Neustadt) and had gone to Meissen, and his "dog's life" had given

place to ease and comfort. He had, therefore, for some quiet weeks

laid aside the sword, and the gentleman had become again the royal

poet and _savant_, who divided his time between music and poetry,

between serious studies and writing to his friends, to whom he sent

letters, in which his great and elevated manner of thinking, his soul

above prejudice, were displayed in all their beauty and power.

The king was alone in his study. He had just finished a letter to the

Marquis d'Argens, calling upon him to give some news of his gallery at

Sans-Souci, and to inform him of its progress. The king laid down his

pen, and leaned back in his chair for a moment. His usually sharp,

bright eye had now a soft, gentle expression, and a light smile played

around his thin, nobly-formed lips. He has forgotten for the time the

care and bustle of war, and fancied himself in his beloved paradise,

his Sans-Souci, where it was allowed the hero to be a poet, and where

he could for some genial hours put aside his dignity, and, instead

of the enthroned ruler, be the cheerful sage, the smiling son of the

Muses.

The king, pleased by these memories of happy days, rose and seized his

flute, which, by his express orders, always lay on his writing-table.

He put it to his lips, and began an _adagio_, in the execution of

which he was acknowledged to be one of the first _virtuosos_ of his

day, and the sounds, as they poured forth, rose plaintively, and

floated around him in bewitching melody. No one could listen to

this beautifully-executed, deeply-felt music of the royal performer,

without being impressed in his inmost soul, and feeling his heart

swell with powerful emotions. Outside, in the antechamber, were

standing the stern generals, the heroic warriors, Zeithen, and the

brave Schwerin, and General von Saldern, and their scarred, austere

features assumed a soft, touching expression, as they leaned against

the wall and listened in breathless silence to the performance of the

king. But suddenly the playing ceased.

To these brave warriors, unaccustomed to music, the execution had

seemed superb; but the king was not satisfied with it. He, who had

in his memory the royal _artiste_ of Sans-Souci, exacted of the king,

driven about by the hardships and necessities of war, that he should

have lost nothing of the fulness of tone or the power and energy of

execution. It worried him that the notes no longer flowed so clearly;

it vexed him to hear a sharp, whistling sound, that seemed to

accompany the melody as with a painful sigh. He threw the flute

aside, and stepped to a looking-glass, which he took up with evident

unwillingness.

It was very seldom that the king held it worth his while to consult

the mirror about his personal appearance, and when he did so, it

was usually to inquire for some failing or evidence of frailty which

restricted him in the freedom of his being. And while he thus looked

at himself, his features assumed a sad expression, and his eyebrows

became contracted.

What was it, which thus put out of humor the brave hero, the

victory-crowned king?

He became aware that his second front tooth had broken off. The gap

thus caused was the natural explanation of the want of clearness in

his playing. He threw the mirror angrily aside, and with a frown on

his brow paced rapidly up and down the room two or three times.

But gradually another expression succeeded, and a sarcastic smile

played around his mouth. Again he stepped to the writing-table, on

which lay several unfinished letters. Looking for the one he had

commenced to the Countess Camas, he said to himself: "The good

countess inquires after my personal appearance. Well, now that I am in

the humor, I will draw my portrait for her."

Again he took up the hand-glass and regarded himself long and

attentively; but this time not with vexation or ill-humor, but with

the cheerful smile and dignified calm of a philosopher. He then

applied himself to his writing: "You ask how I look, dear mother. The

disorder of war has made me so old, that you would hardly recognize

me. My hair is quite gray on the right side of my head; my teeth break

off and fall out; my face is as full of wrinkles as the furbelow of a

woman's frock; my back as bent as that of a monk of La Trappe. Only

my heart is unchanged; and, as long as I have breath, will preserve

feelings of esteem and the most tender friendship toward you, good

mamma."[1]

As the king read over this description of his appearance once more, he

broke into a loud, merry laugh. He then pushed the letter aside, and

took up another piece of paper, and a drawing-pencil.

Silence prevailed now in the cabinet of the king. Outside was heard

the monotonous tread of the sentinel, sometimes the sound of a

trumpet, the neighing of a horse, or the order of some officer. The

king paid no attention to all this. His ear was so accustomed to these

noises, that it seemed like perfect silence to him. He was so buried

in his work, that even the unwonted tumult which now arose was

unperceived by him; nor did he notice that a carriage drove into the

palace-yard, its post-horn sounding loud and merrily. The generals

and courtiers, who were in the antechamber, noticed it all the

more, because any thing was welcome to them which broke in upon the

prevailing quiet; for so accustomed were they to the varied business

of war, that any thing which departed from it was insupportably

tedious. They drew to the window and looked with pleasure on the

dusty, dirty travelling carriage, which, with its four panting

post-horses, had drawn up at the entrance to the palace, and out of

which descended a tall, manly figure, who went in at the palace door.

The gentlemen in the antechamber amused themselves guessing who the

stranger who had just arrived could be; and they had all arrived at

the unanimous conclusion that it must be the Marquis d'Argens, as the

door opened, and the stranger entered. He asked for the adjutant on

duty, and, as the latter was pointed out to him, he stepped toward him

with an air of quiet dignity.

"I pray you announce me immediately to his majesty. Have the kindness

to say to him, that I have not come hither on my private affairs,

but as a delegate from the city of Berlin, with full powers from the

Council and citizens, to request the honor of an audience with the

king, and that I am obliged to return as speedily as possible to the

capital."

"Your name, sir?"

"I am the merchant, John Gotzkowsky."

The serious and proud features of the aristocratic adjutant

immediately relaxed, and assumed a more polite and obliging

expression.

"Ah! Gotzkowsky, the rich and magnanimous merchant of Berlin--the

special _protégé_ of the king. I will announce you immediately to his

majesty." And the adjutant hurried through the halls and entered the

boudoir of the king.

In the mean while, the generals drew near Gotzkowsky, who related

to them all about the siege of Berlin, and the cruel and relentless

conduct of the enemy; pressing him with questions, whether on his

journey thither he had encountered or come into the vicinity of any

portion of the enemy.

"You will find the king very much out of humor," said General von

Saldern; "he has not left his study to-day, and doubtless he is

occupied with very serious plans."

"Perhaps even with the plan of a battle," said another of the

gentlemen, "for it is said that Lacy has advanced his army, and even

that Landon has left Dresden. A battle is therefore imminent, and the

king is evidently drawing up his plan."

At this moment the door of the study was opened, and the adjutant

motioned to Gotzkowsky to enter. As the latter was traversing the

hall, the generals cast an eager glance through the open door, anxious

to see the countenance of the king, and find out from its expression

whether this intolerable armistice was to be interrupted by the

violent clash of arms.

In the mean time, Gotzkowsky entered the chamber of the king, and

the door closed after him. He was now alone in the presence of the

monarch, who was still sitting at his writing-table, making rapid

strokes with his drawing-pencil on the paper before him.

"He is writing," said Gotzkowsky to himself, "and is perhaps in the

act of drawing out the plan of the battle which the generals out there

are awaiting with such joyous impatience. Yes, he is writing, and

perhaps each stroke of the pen may cost the lives of hundreds of human

beings." And he did not venture by a single word or a loud breath to

draw attention to his presence. On his entrance, the king had cast

on him one of his sharp, penetrating glances, before whose commanding

power many a general and many a brave man had quailed, and had then

bent his head again over the paper.

Absolute silence prevailed for a while. Suddenly the king interrupted

it, and motioned to Gotzkowsky with his hand to draw near. "Just look

and see whether that pleases you," said he, in a friendly tone. "You

are known as a connoisseur in art, and you have proved to me that you

understand painting. Look at that, and tell me whether you like it."

What was it that the king had drawn on the paper? Was it really, as

his brave generals wished, the plan of a battle soon to be fought,

was it a philosophical treatise, or one of those witty and piquant

epistles to which the king treated his friends? None of all these.

"A nosegay!" cried Gotzkowsky, as with unconcealed astonishment he

looked now on the paper, now on the king. "Your majesty is drawing a

bouquet of flowers, and out there the gentlemen have just told me in

confidence that you were busied with a plan of battle, and that the

Austrians were approaching."

"Nonsense!" said the king, shrugging his shoulders, "that rough set

out there are always anxious for war, and to be cutting and slashing

at each other. Don't you listen to them, but rather tell me how you

like this drawing. Don't you think these roses mixed with lilies look

well? But I see you wish to know what it is intended for. Well, it is

for a set of porcelain which I wish to have painted for the Marquis

d'Argens." And, as he met Gotzkowsky's looks, he continued with a

friendly smile: "Yes, you see, you are rich; you can make others

presents. But the king of Prussia is a poor man; he has only his coat,

his sword, and his porcelain. And this last even," continued he, with

a slight frown, "I am obliged to get from Meissen."

"That your majesty need not do in future. Please God, your majesty

shall make your porcelain in your own dominions!"

"Will you guarantee that? Will you undertake it?" asked the king,

kindly.

"I will."

"And look ye, you are just the man to carry out what you wish. I am

well satisfied with you. You have justified the confidence I placed

in you when I was crown prince. You have redeemed the vow you made me

then."

"I swore to your majesty that I would be faithful to the fatherland

with life and property," cried Gotzkowsky, with noble ardor.

"And you have kept your word. It is not difficult in easy and

prosperous times to find people to serve the state. Those are good

citizens who serve her when she is in difficulty and danger.[2] You

are a good citizen." And handing Gotzkowsky an open letter which lay

on the writing-table, he said: "Read, it is a letter from the Marquis

d'Argens. Read it aloud, I would like to hear it again."

And Gotzkowsky read with a trembling voice, and cheeks reddened with

noble modesty, the following passage from a letter of the marquis,

which the king pointed out to him with his finger: "Gotzkowsky is,

indeed, an excellent man and a worthy citizen. I wish you had many

such as he. The greatest gift which fortune can make a state is a

citizen full of zeal for the welfare of his country and his prince.

And in this respect I must say, to the credit of Berlin, that in these

trying times I have met many of her citizens, Gotzkowsky the foremost

among them, whose virtues, the old historians of Rome, had they lived

at the present day, would have immortalized!"[3]

"Are you satisfied?" asked the king, as Gotzkowsky, having finished,

handed him the paper. "Oh, I see you are a modest man, and blush like

a young girl. But tell me, now, what brings you here? What does the

city of Berlin wish?"

"Her rights, your majesty," said Gotzkowsky, seriously.

"And who is troubling her rights?"

"Your majesty."

The king frowned, and cast an angry glance on the bold jester.

Gotzkowsky continued, calmly: "Your majesty is depriving us of our

good rights, in so far as you wish to prevent us from being honest

people, and keeping our word sacred."

"Oh, now I understand you," said the king, laughing. "You are speaking

of the Russian war-tax. Berlin shall not pay it."

"Berlin will pay it, in order that your majesty may retain her in

your gracious favor; in order that the great Frederick may not have

to blush for his faithless and dishonest town, which would not then

deserve to be the residence of a king. How! would your majesty trust

the men who refused to redeem their openly-pledged word? who look upon

sworn contracts as a mouse-trap, to be escaped from as soon as the

opportunity offers, and when the dangerous cat is no longer sitting

at the door? Berlin will pay--that our sons may not have to blush

for their fathers; that posterity may not say that Berlin had stamped

herself with the brand of dishonor. We have pledged our word, and we

must keep it."

"You must not, for I do not wish you to do so," cried Frederick, with

anger-flashing eyes. "I will institute reprisals. The imperial court

has refused the payment of the Bamberg and Wurzburg bonds."

"And your majesty considers that proceeding highly dishonest and

unjust," interrupted Gotzkowsky; "and while you wish to punish the

empire for its breach of faith, you punish doubly the town of Berlin

by depriving her of the last thing that remained to her in her day

of need and misfortune--her honorable name. You cannot be in earnest,

sire? Punish, if you choose, the imperial judge, but do not make

Berlin the dishonored Jack Ketch to carry out your sentence."

"But are you so anxious to get rid of your money? What is the amount

that you still owe?"

"A million and a half, sire."

The king stepped back and looked at Gotzkowsky with astonishment. "And

the people of Berlin insist upon paying it?"

"Yes, because their word is pledged."

The king shook his head thoughtfully. "Hark ye," said he, "you seem to

me to be a dangerous agitator, who wishes to turn my peaceful citizens

of Berlin into true children of Haman. Some weeks ago, after the

unfortunate fight of Kunnersdorf, when I sent an express courier to

Berlin and ordered the Town Council to advise the rich and

well-to-do to retire from the city with their portable property, my

recommendation was not followed: you yourself excited the Council

to disobedience. In your self-willed obstinacy you had the impudent

assurance to make your way through a country infested by the enemy;

and if my colonel, Von Prittwitz, had not found you in those woods,

and brought you to me in the village, your obstinate head would have

adorned the lance of some Cossack or other. And what did you come for

but to assure me that the well-to-do citizens of Berlin would prefer

staying at home, and did not wish to run away? Yes, truly you are a

queer diplomatist, and rush headlong into danger and trouble only to

assure your king that his citizens will not obey him!"

The king had spoken with apparent displeasure, but around his lips

there played a slight smile, and his large blue eyes were directed

toward Gotzkowsky with an expression of indescribable kindness.

"In this case they do not wish to obey your majesty, because they wish

to remain worthy of the name of your majesty's citizens and subjects."

The king paced up and down several times, with folded arms, and then

stopped before Gotzkowsky, looking steadily in his eyes. "Now tell me,

how did you manage to make the Berliners so obstinate and so lavish of

their means?"

Gotzkowsky smiled. "Please your majesty, the Berliners prize their

honor above their life."

The king shook his head impatiently. "You may tell that to some one

else. Tell _me_, how did you bring my Berliners up to that? But the

truth--mind, you tell me the truth."

"Well, then, your majesty shall know the truth," said Gotzkowsky,

after a pause.

"Yes, yes, the truth," cried the king, nodding his head violently. "I

wish to know how you inspired the citizens of Berlin with such bold

assurance."

"The truth is, sire, that this was only the courage of cowardice, and

that the prudent magistracy and merchants were perfectly delighted

with your majesty's orders not to pay these bonds, and that I gave

myself an immense amount of trouble in vain to remind them of their

pledged word and their compromised honor."

"Oh! I know it," said the king. "My good Berliners love money as well

as any other of the good-for-nothing children of men. Proceed!"

"Well, when I found them deaf to the voice of honor, I let them hear

the words of cowardly prudence. I painted to them the horrors awaiting

them if the enemy perchance should return as conquerors, and what a

fearful revenge they would take on the perjured city. I reminded them

that the enemy would immediately attack all our property in Courland,

Dantzic, and Livonia, and that at the Russian headquarters they had

threatened me that they would publish, us in all the open commercial

marts as issuers of false bonds."

"You were then in the Russian camp?"

"A fortnight ago, sire. The Council of Berlin requested me to

undertake this journey to complete the transactions left unfinished by

the rapid retreat of General von Tottleben."

"And did you finish them?"

"I was obliged to give General Tottleben a written agreement that

I would return in four weeks to the Russian camp to carry out the

transactions in the name of these merchants."

"I have been told that the Russian general would not accept the bonds

for the war-tax unless you indorsed them. Is that true, too?"

"It is true."

"And what did you do?"

"I indorsed them."

The king's eye lighted up with friendship and kindness. "D'Argens is

right," said he. "Cornelius Nepos and Livy would have mentioned you in

their writings." And he paced up and down the room in deep thought.

A long pause ensued. Finally, Gotzkowsky was bold enough to break it.

"And the tax, your majesty, may we pay it?"

The king stopped in front of him. "The tax shall be paid," said he

curtly; but, as Gotzkowsky was about to break out in loud expressions

of gratitude, the king waved him off with his hand. "That is," said

he, "I myself will pay it, if it cannot be otherwise. Go back into the

Russian camp, as you have promised. Endeavor to get some abatement of

the amount, or some other profitable terms; but if you do not succeed,

well, I will have to pay this million and a half for Berlin. But in

return you must grant me a favor."

"What, sire? Whatever it may be," cried Gotzkowsky, ardently, "I am

ready to perform any service for your majesty, even to the sacrifice

of my life."

The king smiled. "Oh, no! not quite so bad as that, although the

service I ask of you is more difficult to most men than dying--I

mean _keeping silence_." And as he laid his hand affectionately on

Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he continued: "Betray to no one what I have

said to you, and only at the very last moment, if it is absolutely

necessary, take the Council into your confidence."

"How, sire?" said Gotzkowsky, painfully. "You wish to deprive your

Berlin citizens of the gratification of expressing to you their

gratitude, their infinite affection. Berlin may not even know how

kind, how gracious your majesty has been to her!"

"I don't like the jingling of words, nor the throwing of wreaths. The

very people who throw laurel-wreaths would be only too glad if the

laurels were hard enough to break our heads. You pay the contribution,

that is to say, you advance it, and I'll return it to you.[4] That's

all, and now don't say another word about it." At the same time, as

if fearful that Gotzkowsky might yet venture to act contrary to his

wishes, he continued more rapidly: "Now tell me a little about Berlin,

and above all things about our gallery at Sans-Souci. How does it

fare?"

"It is finished, sire, and the people flock to see it."

"I only, like a fugitive or a Don Quixote, am driven about," said the

king to himself, "and cannot even enter my own house, and they call

that royal happiness!" Turning to Gotzkowsky, he remarked aloud: "Have

you seen the gallery since the enemy took up his quarters in it?"

"Yes, sire! Prince Esterhazy was this noble enemy. He protected

Sans-Souci like something sacred. When he left he only took one single

small picture with him, as a souvenir."

The king gave a friendly nod. "I know it," said he, "and that is the

only pleasure I have had for a long time. Once more I will see my

Titians and Correggios, my Rubenses and Vandycks, which you bought for

me. Now tell me about Charlottenburg. But mind, give me the truth. I

have noticed that no one will speak out about it, nobody will tell the

truth. They are afraid of my anger. But you are a brave man, you are

not even afraid of the Cossacks. You will have the courage to let your

king know the facts. How is it with Charlottenburg? The Saxons have

quartered there--what did they do?"

And now Gotzkowsky, often interrupted by the violent and angry

exclamations of the king, told of the barbarous and cruel vandalism

committed by the Saxons at Charlottenburg, their unbridled

destructiveness and unsparing barbarity.

"And the Polignac collection?" asked the king, breathlessly.

"Almost entirely destroyed."

The king started up from his easy-chair, his eyes flashing with rage.

He was no longer the philosopher of Sans-Souci, no longer the poet; he

was now the warrior panting for battle and bloody vengeance. "Tell me,

tell me! I wish to know all," said the king, laboring out each word,

and taking long strides up and down.

But as Gotzkowsky gave him a more detailed account, and related

the sacrilegious barbarity which did not spare even the sacred

art-treasures, the king's brow became more darkened, and for a moment

a burning flush of anger shot across his pale cheek. At one time

he raised his arm threateningly, as if he would bring down the

thunderbolts of heaven upon such wickedness and ruthlessness.

As Gotzkowsky finished, the king said, curtly and vehemently, "Good,

very good!" and traversing the room with hasty steps, he threw open

the door which led into the antechamber, and called out, "Saldern!"

Immediately General von Saldern appeared at the open door. The king

commanded him to enter and shut the door; then, addressing him in a

short, decisive tone: "Go to-morrow, quietly, with a detachment of

infantry and cavalry, to Hubertsburg, take possession of the castle,

and have all the valuable furniture carefully inventoried and packed

up. I will have none of it. The money obtained from its ransom will be

turned over to the Lazaretto, and I will not forget you."

There was a pause. General von Saldern remained at the door

motionless, in stiff military attitude.

The king looked at him with astonishment. "Well! did you hear?"

"Yes, your majesty, I heard. But, may it please your majesty, this is

against my honor and my oath."

The king compelled himself to be composed, for he loved General

Saldern as a brave and noble officer. "You would be right," said he,

"if I did not use this desperate means to a good object. But let me

tell you, the head of the great lord does not feel it if you tear out

the hair of his subjects. You must hit, then, where it hurts him; and

that I intend to do. The Elector of Saxony shall find out how it feels

when one's most cherished possession is destroyed. We will teach him

to be humane, and behave himself. Go, therefore, to Hubertsburg, and

do as I told you."

General von Saldern turned pale, and his countenance was expressive of

deep suffering, as he answered gravely and firmly: "Your majesty may

send me right off to attack the enemy and his batteries, and I will

obey with my whole heart; but against my honor, my oath, and my duty,

I cannot, dare not act."

The king stamped with his foot, and his eye flashed with threatening

anger.

"You must obey, as is your duty; you are bound to obey no other voice

than that of your king who commands you," said he with a voice of

thunder.

General Saldern answered, calmly: "But, sire, I must obey the voice

of my honor! Your majesty can easily transfer this commission to

another."

The king turned from him with an involuntary frown, and, walking up

and down hastily, he stopped near Saldern, and laid his hand gently on

his shoulder. "Look ye, Saldern, obey--go to Hubertsburg."

"I cannot, sire!"

"You do not desire to enrich yourself?" said the king, as he turned

away. "Do you wish your discharge? I have no use for soldiers who do

not consider obedience their first duty."

"I herewith ask for my discharge, sire!"

"You have it--go!"[5]

Without saying a word, General von Saldern made a military obeisance,

and left the room.

"You go too!" said the king to Gotzkowsky, who had been a silent,

involuntary spectator of this scene--"go and tell my adjutant to send

Quintus Icilius to me."

In a few minutes Major Quintus Icilius entered. "Go to Hubertsburg

with a detachment of infantry and cavalry, and clear out the castle."

Major Quintus Icilius took good heed not to contradict the king. He

had already, in the antechamber, heard of General von Saldern's fate,

and he was not indisposed to execute the king's commission.

"Only a hundred thousand dollars you hand over to the Lazaretto, the

rest you can keep for yourself."

"As you command, sire! Shall I proceed at once?"

The king cast a look of disgust on him. "Are you in such a hurry to

be rich?" said he. "Go--I will appoint the time and the hour more

particularly."[6]

When the king was alone again, he paced up and down the room in deep

thought. At one time he stopped at the window, and his bright blue

eyes were turned mournfully toward heaven. "Poor fools that we are!"

said he, with a sigh. "We have only a moment to live, and we make

this moment as bitter as possible to each other. We take pleasure in

destroying the master-pieces of industry and art, at the same time

we are erecting an accursed monument to our own devastation and our

cruelty."[7]

[Footnote 1: "Lettres inédites, ou Correspondance de Frédéric II.,"

&c., p. 120.]

[Footnote 2: The king's own words.]

[Footnote 3: "Correspondance entre Fred. et M. d'Argens," vi., p.

228.]

[Footnote 4: "Life of a Patriotic Merchant," pp. 85-254. "The king

paid the contribution in fact so quietly, one hardly knew when, where,

or how."--_Preuss's History of Frederick_.]

[Footnote 5: This interview is historical and literal. General von

Saldern left the army, but after the peace entered it again, with high

honor and distinction.--KUSTRE, "Traits of Saldern," p. 39.]

[Footnote 6: Not till May, 1761, was the king's order carried into

execution by Major Q. Icilius, in a most barbarous manner. The king

was apparently satisfied; but when Q. Icilius in 1764 applied for

repayment of moneys spent in executing the royal command, the king

indorsed on the application--"My officers steal like crows. They get

nothing."]

[Footnote 7: His own words.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

THE WINTER-QUARTERS IN LEIPSIC.

The king of Prussia had left Meissen, and taken up his winter-quarters

in Leipsic. The choice of this town arose from a particular need of

the king. He wished to pass the winter in a university town, and,

instead of the rough companions of war, to surround himself with

learned men and artists, poets and musicians. He had his band brought

from Berlin, and invited the professors of the Leipsic University to

his table. Thus Leipsic, the rich and luxurious commercial town, found

itself, for a few months, converted into a royal residence. But not

willingly did she undergo this transformation; and it was against her

wish that she received the Prussian king, in lieu of the troops of the

allies, within her walls. Frederick knew this, and therefore exercised

no mercy on this city, so rich in money and professions, whose

unwelcome guest he was.

Had Leipsic welcomed the Prussian army in a ready and friendly manner,

she would certainly have met with indulgence; but her defiant and

sullen behavior, her warm partisanship of Austria, whose ally Saxony

was, naturally only tended to increase the animosity of the king,

and aggravate his ill-humor. If Leipsic insisted upon regarding the

Prussians as enemies, his duty was to consider her as an enemy, and

treat her as such.

Enormous contributions were laid upon the town, and in spite of the

previous written promise of the king that her assessment should not,

at the utmost, exceed five hundred thousand dollars, new demands were

now constantly being made, and new contributions levied. In vain

did the Council beg and plead for mercy and justice; in vain did the

merchants protest that their means were exhausted, and that they were

not able to meet any further payments. The enormous demands determined

on were firmly and with iron obstinacy insisted upon; and as the

refractory town did not cease to oppose them, recourse was had to

threats to intimidate her. Tarred rings were hung against the

houses, and it was sworn to lay the town in ashes if Leipsic did not

immediately pay the million of dollars demanded. But the unfortunate

inhabitants had already reached that pitch of desperation at which

people are prepared for any thing, and fear nothing further because

there is nothing more to lose. They declared that they could pay no

more, and offered to seal their word with their death.

The tarred rings were indeed taken down from the houses, but the

richest and most respectable inhabitants were seized and incarcerated.

Even the authorities were not spared, and the officers of the Council

were thrown into the prisons of the towns. In the most degrading

manner, like a flock of sheep, they were shut up in spaces hardly able

to contain them; damp straw was their bed, bread and water their only

nourishment, and this was brought to them with words of cruel insult

by their Prussian jailers. But to these latter the burden soon became

too heavy; they were weary of their cruel service, and sought to

lighten it.

At first they had one hundred and twenty prisoners, but, after a

fortnight of useless torment, the greater number had been set free,

and only seventeen retained. To be sure, these consisted of

the richest and most respectable citizens of Leipsic. And these

unfortunate hostages, these spoilt sons of wealth and luxury, were now

forced to bear the whole weight of misfortune, the entire anger of the

victorious enemy. They, whose whole life had been one of indulgence

and effeminacy, had now to undergo the greatest privations, the

hardest sufferings. The cold earth was their bed, a piece of bread

thrown to them their nourishment; and it was a feast to them when one

of the gentlewomen of Leipsic succeeded in obtaining permission to

visit a brother or husband, and was able to smuggle in under her silk

dress a piece of meat or a little bowl of soup for the martyrs. These

cruelties would doubtless have been lessened or abolished if the king

had had positive knowledge of them, or if he had believed that the

city's inability to pay was real, and not a mere pretext. But the

king, vexed by the continually repeated complaints, out of humor at

the obstinate conduct of Leipsic, and mindful of the vandal conduct of

the Saxons at Charlottenburg, had issued strict orders not to trouble

him with this business, and not to report to him about them until they

could at the same time show that the sum demanded had been paid. And

therewith sentence had been passed upon the unfortunate citizens of

Leipsic. No one dared to mention to the king the torments and tortures

to which the hostages of the pitiable town were subjected. No one

had the courage to beg for mercy for those whose only crime was, that

their riches were exhausted, their coffers empty, and that they did

not possess the means to pay the inordinate sums demanded of them.

But while the population of Leipsic was undergoing this grief,

this hard time of trial, an uninterrupted quiet and precious peace

prevailed in the house inhabited by the King of Prussia. Music was

performed, readings were held, and in the midst of these gentle

diversions and this pleasant rest Frederick drew up the plans of

fresh, battles and new and great undertakings. Fasch and Quanz had

been brought from Berlin to play music for him, the Marquis d'Argens

to philosophize for him, his dogs to amuse him. The king, who knew

enough of men to despise the wavering, erring, sinful creatures, was

also a sufficient connoisseur of dogs to love the faithful, obedient,

submissive animals with his whole heart, and devoted a great part of

his time to them. He who was deaf to the wailing and lamentations of

a whole city, had his ears open to the least whine of Biche, or his

favorite Psyche, and never would have forgiven him who had dared

to treat one of his dogs as so many of the noble and distinguished

citizens of Leipsic were being treated in his name.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

THE FRIEND IN NEED.

No one would have dared to speak a word for the refractory

citizens and authorities of Leipsic to the king, nor act in direct

contravention to his express orders. Even the Marquis d'Argens, his

intimate friend and confidant, had refused to be the advocate of the

unfortunate town. It seemed to be lost, without hope of redemption,

and already it had been threatened with the extreme of severity. It

had been announced to the chief men, the fathers and heads of families

who were pining in the prisons, that they would be transported on foot

to Magdeburg as recruits, with knapsacks on their backs. But at

this moment the rescuer in need, of the afflicted city, made his

appearance.

A tall, proud, manly form crossed the antechamber of the king. Power

and energy were visible in his countenance, and his eyes sparkled

with noble excitement. He was going to perform that duty from which

courtiers and flatterers shrank with trembling; and what the bravest

generals did not dare, he was going to undertake. John Gotzkowsky was

going to tell the king the truth. John Gotzkowsky was not afraid to

rouse the anger of a king, when it came to helping the unfortunate or

protecting the oppressed. He had a more noble mission to perform than

to sue for the smiles of a king, or the favor of the great. It was

the higher mission of humanity which impelled him, and, as usual, his

resolution was firm and unwavering. With bold decision he reached

the door which led into the king's chamber. He had the privilege of

entering unannounced, for the king expected him.

He had summoned Gotzkowsky from Berlin, to obtain information as to

the progress of the Berlin industrial works, and the faithful patriot

had, in obedience to the call of his king, come to Leipsic. He had

seen the misery and suffering on this poor, down-trodden town, and,

as he traversed the antechamber, he said to himself, with an

imperceptible smile, "I brought the Russian general to clemency, and

the king will not be harder than he was."

But before he threw off his cloak, he drew out of it a small package,

which he examined carefully. Being satisfied with its appearance, he

took it with him to the cabinet of the king. Frederick did not look at

him at first. He was reclining on the floor, and around him, on silken

cushions, lay his dogs, their bright eyes fixed on a dish which

was placed in the midst of them. The king, with an ivory stick, was

carefully dividing the portion for each dog, ordering the growling,

discontented ones to be quiet, and comforting the patiently waiting

ones with a light jest concerning the next piece. Suddenly he raised

his eyes, and his quick glance rested on Gotzkowsky's smiling, placid

face. "Ah, you laugh," said he, "and in your human conceit you find it

quite beneath one's dignity to occupy one's self with dogs, when there

are so many human beings. Let me tell you, you don't understand any

thing about it! You don't know dogs at all, and perhaps you don't know

men.--Quiet, Biche! leave that piece for Apollo. I gave it to him, and

therefore it belongs to him. One would suppose you had been learning

from men, and in the true spirit of Christian and brotherly love,

grudged each other a piece of bread. Quiet, Biche, and don't be vexed

that I compared you to human beings. I did not mean you were quite as

bad as that."

And gently stroking and caressing the offended Biche, he rose and

seated himself in his velvet-covered _fauteuil_. His bright eye turned

toward Gotzkowsky, and rested on the package the latter had in his

hand. "What have you there?"

"A plate and a cup," said Gotzkowsky, seriously--"the first two pieces

from my porcelain factory in Berlin."

The king now rose from his seat and strode hastily toward Gotzkowsky.

"Give them here. I want to see what sort of potters'-ware you are

going to impose upon me for porcelain." With impatient hands he tore

off the paper coverings, and so eagerly was he engaged with them, that

he did not perceive that Biche and Apollo were already fighting for a

scrap of paper which he had thrown directly on Biche's nose, and which

she consequently mistook for a delicate morsel, a prize worth a fight

with Apollo. "Forsooth, it is porcelain!" cried the king, as he drew

out the gold-rimmed plate and the beautifully painted cup from their

wrappings, and looked at them attentively; and as his eye rested

on the painting of the cup, his features assumed a soft and

sad expression. "My house in Rheinsberg," muttered he softly to

himself--"a greeting from my happy days."

"In the castle Rheinsberg, I first enjoyed the favor of being

presented to your majesty," said Gotzkowsky. "Castle Rheinsberg is,

therefore, to me a happy recollection, and it was for that reason

selected to adorn the proof pieces of my porcelain factory."

The king fastened a penetrating look upon him. "You are playing me

a trick--I don't like tricks, you must know. Therefore tell me the

truth. Where did you get this porcelain? It is not from Meissen. The

mark is wanting, and it is whiter and stronger. Where did you get it?"

"From Berlin, sire. I promised you, when you were in Meissen, that in

future you should procure your porcelain from your own dominions, and

I dare not forfeit my word."

"And so you imitated the Almighty, and created a porcelain factory

with the breath of your mouth?"

"Not with the breath of my mouth, but the breath of my money."

"Tell me about it, and all the particulars," said the king, still

holding the cup in his hand, and looking at it attentively.

And Gotzkowsky related how, on his return from Meissen, he had

accidentally made the acquaintance of a young man, who was passing

through Berlin on his way to Gotha, the duke having offered to

advance him the capital necessary to found a factory for the making of

porcelain according to a process of his own invention. The specimens

exhibited convinced Gotzkowsky that this young man was fully

acquainted with the secret of porcelain-making, and he had therefore

immediately determined to forestall the Duke of Gotha.

Money had in this instance, as usual, exercised its charm, and nothing

more was necessary than to outbid the terms agreed on with the duke.

A few thousand dollars more offered, and double purchase-money, had

secured the secret of porcelain-making to Gotzkowsky, and bound the

inventor down in Berlin for life.[1]

The arrangements necessary for the first attempts were made in one of

the out-buildings of his house, and the articles offered to the king

were the first-fruits of his factory. The king listened to him with

intense interest, and when Gotzkowsky had finished, he nodded to him

with a smile.

"The Marquis d'Argens is right. I wish myself I had many such citizens

as you are. It would be a fine thing to be a king if all one's

subjects were true men, and made it worth one's while to be to them a

kind father and lord. You have fulfilled a favorite wish of mine; and

let me tell you, I do not think you will call the porcelain factory

yours long. I think it will soon be a royal factory."

"I founded it for your majesty."

"Good, good! you have given me a pleasure, I will give you one in

return. Ask some favor for yourself. You are silent. Do you know of

nothing to ask for?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Gotzkowsky, ardently, "I have a great favor to

ask--have pity on the poor inhabitants of this town!"

The king frowned and pressed his lips angrily together. "Do you know

that I have generally forbidden any one to trouble me with these

Leipsic jeremiades?"

"I know it, sire."

The king looked at him with astonishment. "And yet you do it?"

"Yes, sire, I do it because I relied on the kind, noble heart of my

king, and because humanity bade me not to fear your majesty's anger,

when it became a question of mercy to the oppressed."

"And for this reason you wanted to bribe me with your bits of

porcelain. Oh, you are a reckoner, but this time you have reckoned

without your host. No pity for these obstinate Leipsigers. They must

pay the eleven hundred thousand dollars, or--"

"Or what?" asked Gotzkowsky, as he hesitated.

The king looked angrily at him. "You are very bold," said he, "to

interrupt me. The Leipsigers must pay, for I need the money for my

soldiers, and they are rich; they are able to pay!"

"They are not able to pay, sire! They are as little able to pay as

Berlin is if Russia insists upon her demands, and her magnanimous king

does not come to her assistance. But your majesty certainly does not

wish that the world and history shall say that Russia acted with

more forbearance and clemency toward Berlin than Prussia did toward

Leipsic? To be sure, the Russians carried off the Jewish elders into

captivity because they could not pay, but then they treated these poor

victims of their avarice like human beings. They did not make them

sleep on rotten straw; they did not let them starve, and die of misery

and filth; they did not have them scourged and tortured until they wet

with their tears the bit of bread thrown to them."

"Who does that?" cried the king, with thundering voice and flashing

eye.

Gotzkowsky bowed low. "Your majesty, the King of Prussia does that!"

Frederick uttered a cry of anger, and advanced with his arm raised on

Gotzkowsky, who looked at him quietly and firmly. "You lie! retract!"

thundered the king.

"I have, as long as I have lived, spoken the truth, sire--the truth,

without fear or dread of man. Your majesty is the first man who has

accused me of a lie. I have seen with my own eyes your majesty's

officials treating the poor captive Leipsic merchants like dogs. What

do I say--like dogs? Oh, how would the poor down-trodden men envy

those dogs the delicacies contained in that dish! It may be right to

compel and humble the refractory, but it is not right to tread out the

human soul, and even in the conquered you should honor God's image."

The king looked at him with ludicrous surprise. "Do you wish to give

me a lesson? Well, I will forgive you this time, and, as you express

it, honor God's image in the owner of the Berlin porcelain factory.

But hush about these hard-headed Leipsigers. They must pay. My

soldiers cannot live on air, and my coffers are empty."

"The Leipsigers are very willing to contribute, but the demand must

not exceed their powers."

"How do you know that?"

"The magistracy and merchant guild of Leipsic sent a deputation to me,

and entreated my mediation."

"You have then already the reputation of one who knows how to use his

tongue well, and goes about tattling with it."

"Sire," said Gotzkowsky, smiling, "we only follow the example of our

hero-king. We all are anxious to fight, and those who have no swords

must fight with the tongue. I have latterly been compelled to fight a

great deal with it, and the Leipsic merchants may have heard something

about that. They knew that I had some exercise with my tongue, and

gained a little victory with it over the Russians in Berlin."

"How much do you think the city of Leipsic can pay?" asked the king

after a pause.

"If your majesty will remit them a few hundred thousand dollars, and

allow the merchants time, they are willing to bind themselves in joint

bonds."

"_Parbleu_! are they willing to do that?" asked the king, derisively.

"The bonds of the Leipsic merchants would be no security to me."

And turning quickly on Gotzkowsky, he asked him, "Are you willing to

guarantee the payment?"

"If your majesty orders it, the bonds shall be drawn out with my

guaranty."

"I look to you, then, for their payment."

"At your orders, sire."

"Well, then, for your sake I will remit the Leipsigers three hundred

thousand dollars; but for the rest of the million you are answerable."

"I will be answerable for it."

"I will let these gentlemen of Leipsic know that it is to your

intercession and your guaranty that they are indebted for the

mitigation of their contributions; and then you can, if it gives you

pleasure, bargain with the rich town for some reward for your services

rendered."

"That would give me no pleasure, sire!" cried Gotzkowsky, with noble

indignation. "Your majesty must not think so meanly of me as to

suppose that I would make a profit out of the misfortunes of others,

and that I have interceded for the poor Leipsigers in order to make a

trade out of them!"

"I think that you are a hard-headed, obstinate fellow, who must be

allowed to have his own way," said the king, with an affable smile.

"But I must bear you witness that, in your own way, you have rendered

me many a good service. For that reason, you will always find me well

affected toward you, and in the Sans-Souci gallery you have created a

beautiful memorial to yourself."

"If your majesty would come there now, you would find the Correggio

about which you wrote to the Marquis d'Argens."

The king's eyes sparkled. "The Correggio is mine!" said he, walking up

and down slowly, with his hands behind his back. "Ah," added he, after

a long pause, in a low tone, as if speaking to himself, "when will

this nomadic life cease, and the world be at peace, to allow this

poor, badgered king a few hours of leisure and recreation, to enjoy

the contemplation of his house and his pictures? The wandering Jew, if

he ever existed, did not lead such a rambling life as I do. We get at

last to be like the roving play-actors, who have neither hearth

nor home, and thus we pass through the world, playing our bloody

tragedies, with the wailings of our subjects for chorus.[2] When will

it end?"

"When your majesty has subdued all your enemies."

The king looked around with surprise--he had quite forgotten

Gotzkowsky. "Ah! are you still there? and you prophesy me victory?

Well, that will be as good to me as the Leipsic money. Go back home,

and tell the Leipsigers to hurry with the money. And hark ye! when you

get to Potsdam, greet the Correggio, and tell him I yearn for him as a

lover does for his mistress Adieu!"

[Footnote 1: Porcelain-making was then a great secret in Germany, only

known in Meissen; the process being conducted with closed doors, and

the foreman bound by oath. Gotzkowsky paid ten thousand dollars

down, a life income of a thousand dollars, and house and firewood

free.--"Life of a Patriotic Merchant," p. 87.]

[Footnote 2: "Correspondance de Frédéric II. avec le Comte

Algarottis."]

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

GRATITUDE AND RECOMPENSE.

Thus did Gotzkowsky save unfortunate Leipsic from the heavy burden

which weighed her down. The prisoners were released, and the merchants

gave a bond, for whose punctual and prompt payment Gotzkowsky

guaranteed with his signature.

He did not do this from a selfish or vain ambition to have the praise

of his name sounded, nor to increase the number of his addresses of

gratitude, or written asseverations of affection. He did it from love

of mankind; because he desired to fulfil the vow he had made to God

and himself on the highway as a shivering, starving lad: that if he

should ever become rich, he would be to every unfortunate and needy

one the hand which had appeared out of the dust-cloud to his relief.

He did it because, as he tells us naively and simply in his Life, "I

knew from my own experience how difficult it was for a community

to collect such a sum, and because the idea of profiting by such

misfortune was abhorrent to me."

And now there was a brilliant banquet, and no end to the words of

gratitude and tears of emotion. This banquet was given by the Leipsic

merchants in honor of him who had so magnanimously taken their part,

saved them three hundred thousand dollars, and guaranteed their bonds.

And they devoured the delicate viands and emptied the beakers to his

honor, and praised him in high-sounding speeches.

When Gotzkowsky, wearied and bored by this festival, returned home, he

found on his table three letters. The one which bore on its seal the

arms of Prussia he opened first. It was a cabinet order from the

king to his private secretary, Leinning, to pay to the merchant, John

Gotzkowsky, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. "Ah," said he,

smiling, "payment on account; I bought a hundred thousand ducats'

worth of paintings for the king, and he does not wish to remain always

in my debt." With a slight shrug of the shoulders he opened

the second letter. Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh, and his

countenance assumed an expression of derisive mirth. "The Elector of

Saxony, in consideration of services rendered to the town of Leipsic,

appoints me his commercial privy councillor!" cried he, waving the

paper in the air; "that is a good joke! The little elector, who has

been my debtor for many long years, is gracious enough to throw me a

bit of rank--a title! Much obliged! My name sounds well enough. It is

not necessary to have a title to be a man of honor. Throw titles to

numskulls, not to me--away with it!"

He then threw the paper aside with scorn, and took up the third

letter. As he read it his noble countenance brightened up with proud

pleasure, and his eyes sparkled. It was a document from the town of

Leipsic, an address of thanks from the magistracy, the concluding

words of which ran thus:

"In our extreme need we had recourse to Herr Gotzkowsky, the respected

merchant and banker of Berlin, imploring the same to intercede for

this town and its merchants with the king of Prussia; affording

them his credit and valuable assistance, to accord to said town

some reasonable respite for payment, with security. To this earnest

pleading Herr Gotzkowsky yielded, and, as a true philanthropist,

without any ulterior views of profit to himself, did in the most

praiseworthy manner assist us, and averted this misfortune from the

town. These services we are compelled to acknowledge. We therefore

offer our services in return on all possible occasions, not doubting

that the mercantile community of this place entertain the same

sentiments, and feel themselves equally bound to all imaginable

reciprocity.

[SIGNED] "The Council of Leipsic.

"Leipsic, _February_ 26, 1761."

"This paper I will carry to my daughter, as a souvenir," said

Gotzkowsky, folding it up carefully, and then added thoughtfully: "Who

knows but what the time may come when it will be necessary to remind

the merchants of Leipsic of this document? The opinions and destinies

of men are very variable."

But Gotzkowsky himself was to have occasion to remind unthankful

Leipsic of her professions of gratitude--not to call on her to

perform reciprocal favors, but to protect himself against calumny

and unfriendly suspicions. For a day came, when Leipsic forgot the

affliction and grief she had suffered, and only remembered that John

Gotzkowsky was her creditor, and that she owed him large sums of

money. So, when at last, weary of long waiting, he pressed for

payment, they accused him of self-interest, and said that he had

unnecessarily mixed himself up in their affairs, and that it would

have been better if he had left them to their captivity; for although

they might have had much to suffer, they would have had but little to

pay.

Gotzkowsky answered these accusations in a manner characteristic of

his noble, proud self--he was silent about them. But hard times and

oppression came again upon the rich town of Leipsic.

The Prussian king exacted fresh contributions--and now they recalled

to mind the services of Gotzkowsky; again they sent him humble

letters, begging him to have pity on them; and now the cunning,

calculating magistracy of Leipsic saw fit to take notice of these

calumnies, which they had shortly before so industriously circulated

through the public newspapers, and solemnly to declare in all the

journals: "We hereby certify, in compliance with truth, through these

writings, that the worshipful Herr Gotzkowsky, as well in past years,

as at the late Leipsic fair, out of unchanged and innate love and

friendly kindness to us, this town, and its inhabitants, has given

just cause for gratitude."

Gotzkowsky forgot the insults, and was again of assistance to them. A

second time he persuaded the king to mitigate their contribution, and

guaranteed the new bonds issued by them. A second time the magistrates

and merchants thanked him in the most touching words for his noble

and disinterested assistance, and a second time were they destined to

forget their vows of gratitude.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

FOUR YEARS' LABOR.

Four years of work, of industry, of productive activity, had passed

away since the stormy year of 1760. They had produced but little

alteration in the life of Gotzkowsky and his daughter.

Gotzkowsky toiled and worked as he always had done; his factories

were enlarged, his wealth increased and his fame as a merchant sounded

through the whole world.

But all this would he have given, if he could have seen the light on

the lips, the rosy glow on the cheek of his daughter, as in bygone

days. But the beautiful and impassioned young girl had altered into

the pale, serious, silent young woman, who had learned to throw

the veil of quiet resignation over the secret of her heart, and to

suppress any manifestation of pain.

Elise had grown old _internally_--old, despite her two-and-twenty

years; she looked upon the life before her as a joyless, desert waste,

which she had to traverse with bleeding feet and broken heart; and in

the desolation of her soul, she sometimes shuddered at the death-like

apathy and quiet of her feelings, broken by no sound, no note, not

even the wail of woe.

She was without a wish, without a hope. Grief had spent itself on her.

She wept no more--she wrestled no longer with her love, for she

had conquered it. But she could not rise again to any new joys of

life--she could only be resigned. She had accepted life, and she bore

it as does the bird shut up in a gilded cage, robbed of freedom and

fresh air, and given in return a brilliant prison. She, too, was an

imprisoned bird; and her wounded heart lay in the cage of her breast,

sorrowful and infinitely wretched. She prayed to God for peace,

for resignation, no longer for happiness, for she did not believe

happiness any more possible. She had sunk into that apathy which

desires nothing more than a quiet, dreamy fading away. Her grief was

deficient in the animating consolation of the thought that "it came

from God." Real and sacred suffering, which does come from God, and

is imposed upon us by fate, always carries with it the divine power

of healing; and at the same time that it casts us down and humbles us,

raises us again, steels our courage, and makes us strong and proud

to suffer and to bear. Quite different is that misfortune which comes

from man--which is laid upon us by the envy, hatred, and malice of

mankind. This carries with it no consolation, no comfort--a misfortune

full of bitterness and murmuring--a misfortune which abases us without

elevating us again, which casts us down in the mire, from the soil of

which not all the hot streams of our tears can purify and cleanse us.

Had she lost her lover, had he been snatched away from her by death,

Elise, while she gave him back to God, would have regarded this heavy

and sacred affliction as her great and holy happiness; she would have

accepted it as a precious promise which elevated her, and inspired her

with a blissful hope.

But she had lost him by his own treachery, by worldly sin, and she

had given him up, not to God, but to his own unrighteousness and

disloyalty. She had therefore lost him irretrievably, and for

always--not for a short space of time, but for all eternity; and she

dared not even weep for him, for her misfortune was at the same time

her disgrace, and even her tears filled her with humiliation and

shame. For that reason she never spoke, either with her father or

with Bertram, about the sad and painful past, about the errors and

disappointments of her youth; and neither of them in their pure and

indulgent love ever trespassed on the silence which Elise had spread

over her sorrow. Toward her father she was a careful, attentive, and

submissive daughter; toward Bertram a confiding and loving sister; but

to both she felt as if she were only giving what was saved from the

shipwreck of her affections. They both knew that Elise could no longer

offer them an entire, unbroken heart. But they were both content to

rest on the embers of this ruined edifice, to gather the leaves of

this rose, broken by the tempest, and to remember how beautiful it was

in its bloom.

Gotzkowsky only asked of his daughter that she should live, that she

should become again healthy and strong for new happiness.

Bertram, in the strength and fidelity of his affections, had no other

wish than that he should some day see her cheerful and content again,

and once more brightened by the beams which only love and

happiness can spread over a human countenance; and in his great and

self-sacrificing love he said to himself: "If I only knew that her

happiness lay in the remotest corner of the world, thither would I go

to fetch it for her, even if she thereby were lost to me forever!"

And thus did four years pass away--externally, bright and clear,

surrounded by all the brilliancy of wealth and happiness--inwardly,

silent and desolate, full of privation and deep-rooted sorrow.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

DAYS OF MISFORTUNE.

Gotzkowsky was alone in his room. It was an elegant, brilliantly

ornamented apartment, which the greatest prince might have envied.

The most select pictures by celebrated old masters hung around on the

walls; the most costly Chinese vases stood on gilt tables; and between

the windows, instead of mirrors, were placed the most exquisite Greek

marble statues. The furniture of the room was simple. Gotzkowsky had

but one passion, on which he spent yearly many thousands, and that

was for art-treasures, paintings, and antiques. His house resembled

a temple of art; it contained the rarest and choicest treasures; and

when Gotzkowsky passed through the rooms on the arm of his daughter,

and contemplated the pictures, or dwelt with her on one of the sublime

statues of the gods, his eye beamed with blissful satisfaction, and

his whole being breathed cheerfulness and calm. But at this moment

his countenance was care-worn and anxious, and however pleasantly and

cheerfully the pictures looked down upon him from the walls, his

eye remained sad and clouded, and deep grief was expressed in his

features.

He sat at his writing-table, and turned over the papers which lay

piled up high before him. At times he looked deeply shocked and

anxious, and his whole frame trembled, as with hasty hand he

transcribed some notes from another sheet. Suddenly he let the pen

drop, and sank his head on his breast.

"It is in vain," he muttered in a low voice--"yes, it is in vain. If

I were to exert all my power, if I were to collect all my means

together, they would not be sufficient to pay these enormous sums."

Again he turned over the papers, and pointing with his finger to

one of them, he continued: "Yes, there it stands. I am a rich man

on paper. Leipsic owes me more than a million. If she pays, and De

Neufville comes, I am saved. But if not--if Leipsic once more, as she

has already done three times, protests her inability to pay--if De

Neufville does not come, what shall I do? How can I save myself from

ruin and shame?"

Deeper and deeper did he bury himself silently in the papers. A

terrible anxiety oppressed him, and sent his blood rushing to his

heart and head. He arose and paced up and down the room, muttering

occasionally a few words, betraying the anguish and terror which

possessed him. Then standing still, he pressed his hands to his

temples, as if to crowd back the pain which throbbed and ached there.

"Oh, it is terrible!" he uttered in a subdued voice; "with my eyes

open I stand on the brink of a precipice. I see it, and cannot draw

back. If no helping hand is stretched out to save me, I must fall in,

and my good name must perish with me. And to be obliged to confess

that not my own want of judgment, no rashness nor presumption on my

part, but only love of mankind, love of my brethren, has brought me

to this! To each one who held out his hand to me, I gave the hand of a

friend, every one in need I helped. And for that reason, for the good

I have done, I stand on the verge of an abyss."

He cast his looks toward heaven, and tears shone in his eyes. "Was it,

then, wrong? O my God! was it, then, culpable to trust men, and must I

atone with my honor for what I did from love?"

But this compunction, this depression, did not last long. Gotzkowsky

soon arose above his grief, and bearing his head aloft as if to shake

off the cares which lowered around it, he said in a determined tone:

"I must not lose my courage. This day requires all my presence

of mind, and the decisive moment shall not find me cowed and

pusillanimous."

He was about to set himself to work again, when a repeated knocking

at the door interrupted him. At his reluctant bidding it opened,

and Bertram appeared on the threshold. "Pardon me," he said, almost

timidly; "I knew that you wished to be alone, but I could not bear

it any longer. I must see you. Only think, Father Gotzkowsky, it is a

fortnight since I arrived, and I have scarcely seen you in this time;

therefore do not be angry with me if I disobey your orders, and come

to you, although I know that you are busy."

Gotzkowsky nodded to him with a sad smile. "I thank you for it," said

he. "I had ordered Peter not to admit any one. You are an exception,

as you know, my son."

A pause ensued, during which Bertram examined Gotzkowsky with

a searching look. The latter had seated himself again at his

writing-table, and with troubled looks was examining his papers.

Bertram had been absent for nearly a year. The silent grief which day

and night gnawed at his heart had undermined his health and exhausted

his physical strength. The physicians had deemed a prolonged residence

in Nice necessary. If Bertram yielded to their judgment and repaired

to Nice, it was because he thought, "Perhaps Elise will think of me

when I am no longer near her. Perchance absence may warm her heart,

and she may forget the brother, some day to welcome the husband."

Returning after a year's absence, strengthened and restored to health,

he found Elise as he had left her. She received him with the same

quiet, calm look with which she had bid him farewell. She placed

her hand as coolly and as friendly in his, and although she inquired

cordially and sympathizingly after his welfare, Bertram still felt

that her heart and her inmost soul had not part in her questioning.

Elise had not altered--but how little was Gotzkowsky like himself!

Where was the ardent man, powerful of will, whom Bertram had embraced

at his departure? where was his clear, ringing voice, his proud

bearing, his energy, his burning eloquence--what had become of all

these? What diabolical, dismal influence had succeeded in breaking

this iron will, in subduing this vital power?

Bertram felt that a deep grief was corroding Gotzkowsky's life--a

grief whose destructive influence was greater because he avoided

the expression of it, and sought no relief nor consolation by

communicating it to others. "He shall, at least, speak to me," said

Bertram. "I will compel him to make me the confidant of his grief, and

to lighten his heart by imparting a portion of his burden to mine."

With this determination he had entered Gotzkowsky's room; he now

stood opposite to him, and with gentle sympathy looked into his pale,

sorrow-worn countenance.

But Gotzkowsky avoided his eye. He seemed entirely occupied with his

papers, and turned them over again and again. Bertram could bear it

no longer; he hastened to him, and taking his hand pressed it

affectionately to his lips. "My father," said he, "forgive me; but

when I look at you, I am possessed by a vague fear which I cannot

explain to myself. You know that I love you as my father, and for that

reason can read your thoughts. Gotzkowsky, since my return I have read

much care and sorrow in your face."

"Have you?" said Gotzkowsky, painfully; "yes, yes, sorrow does not

write in hieroglyphics. It is a writing which he who runs can read."

"You confess, then, that you have sorrow, and yet you hide it from

me. You do not let me share your cares. Have I deserved that of you,

father?"

Gotzkowsky arose and paced the room, thoughtful and excited. For

the first time he felt that the sympathy of a loving heart did good.

Involuntarily the crust which surrounded his heart gave way, and he

became gentle and eager for sympathy. He held out his hand to Bertram

and nodded to him. "You are right, my son," said he, gently, "I

should not have kept my sorrows from you. It is a comfort, perhaps, to

unbosom one's self. Listen, then--but no! first tell me what is said

of me in the city, and, above all, what is said of me at the Bourse?

Ah? you cast your eyes down--Bertram, I must and will know all. Speak

out freely. I have courage to hear the utmost." But yet his voice

trembled as he spoke, and his lips twitched convulsively.

Bertram answered sadly: "What do you care about the street gossip of

envious people? You know that you have enemies, because you are rich

and high-minded. You have long been envied because your house is the

most extensive and solid in all Europe, and because your drafts stand

at par in all the markets. They are jealous of the fame of your firm,

and for that very reason they whisper all sorts of things that they do

not dare to say aloud. But why should you let such miserable scandal

worry you?"

Bertram tried to smile, but it was a sorrowful, anxious one, which

did not escape Gotzkowsky. "Ah!" said he, "these light whisperings of

calumny are like the single snow-flakes which finally collect together

and roll on and on, and at last become an avalanche which buries up

our honor and our good name. Tell me, then, Bertram, what do they

whisper?"

Bertram answered in a low, timid voice: "They pretend to know that

your house has suffered immense losses; that you were not able to

meet your drafts; that all your wealth is unfounded; and that--but why

should I repeat all the old women's and newspaper stories?"

"Even the newspapers talk about it, then?" muttered Gotzkowsky to

himself.

"Yes, the _Vossian Gazette_," continued Bertram, "has an article

in which it speaks mysteriously and sympathizingly of the impending

failure of one of our most eminent houses. This is said to aim at you,

father."

"And the other paper, _Spener's Journal_?"

"Is sorry to join in the statement, and confirms it to-day."

Gotzkowsky broke out into a mocking laugh, his countenance brightened

with indignation, and his features expressed their former energy and

decision. "O world! O men!" he exclaimed, "how pitiful, how mean you

are! You know, Bertram, how much good I have done these men. I have

protected them as a friend in the time of their need and affliction. I

saved them from punishment and shame. In return they trumpet forth my

misfortunes, and that which might have been altered by the considerate

silence of my friends, they cry aloud to all the world, and thereby

precipitate my fall."

"It is, then, really true?" asked Bertram, turning pale. "You are in

danger?"

"To-day is the last term for the payment of the five hundred thousand

dollars, which I have to pay our king, for the town of Leipsic. Our

largest banking-houses have bought up these claims of the king against

me."

"But that is not your own debt. You only stood good for Leipsic."

"That I did; and as Leipsic cannot pay, I must."

"But Leipsic can assume a portion of the debt least."

"Perhaps so," said Gotzkowsky. "I have sent a courier to Leipsic,

and look for his return every hour. But it is not that alone which

troubles me," continued he, after a pause. "It would be easy to

collect the five hundred thousand dollars. The new and unexpected

ordinance from the mint, which renders uncurrent the light money,

deprives me of another half million. When I foresaw Leipsic's

insolvency, I had negotiated alone with Hamburg for half a million of

light money. But the spies of the Jews of the mint discovered this,

and when my money was in the course of transmission from Hamburg they

managed to obtain a decree from the king forbidding immediately the

circulation of this coin. In this way my five hundred thousand dollars

became good for nothing."

"Horrible!" cried Bertram; "have you, then, not endeavored to save a

portion of this money?"

"Yes, indeed," cried Gotzkowsky, with a bitter laugh, "I have tried.

I wished to send fifty thousand dollars of my money to the army of the

allies, to see if it would be current there; but Ephraim had foreseen

this, too, and obtained a decree forbidding even the transit of this

money through the Prussian dominions. This new and arbitrary law was

only published after my money had left Hamburg, and I had grounds

to hope that I would not be prevented from bringing it through the

Prussian dominions, for it was concealed in the double bottom of a

wagon. But avarice has sharp eyes, and the spies who were set upon all

my actions succeeded in discovering this too. The wagon was stopped at

the gates of Berlin, and the money was discovered where they knew it

was beforehand, under this false bottom. But who do you think it

was, Bertram, who denounced me in this affair? You would never guess

it--the chief burgomaster, President von Kircheisen! He stood himself

at the gate, watched for the wagon, and searched until he found the

money."

"Kircheisen! The same, father, whom you saved from death when the

Russians were here?"

"The same, my son; you shake your head incredulously. Read for

yourself." He took from his writing-table a large paper provided with

the official seal, and handed it to Bertram. "Read for yourself, my

son. It is an order from the minister Von Finkenstein."

It was written thus: "The half of the sum is awarded by the king to

President von Kircheisen, as detective and informer."

"A worthy title, 'detective and informer,'" continued Gotzkowsky. "By

Heaven, I do not envy him it! But now you shall know all. It does me

good to confide to you my sorrows--it lightens my poor heart. And now

I have another fear. You have heard of my speculation in the Russian

magazines?"

"Of the magazines which you, with De Neufville and the bankers Moses

and Samuel, bought?" asked Bertram.

"Yes, that is it. But Russia would not enter into the bargain unless I

made myself responsible for the whole sum."

"And you did so?" asked Bertram, trembling.

"I did. The purchase-money has been due for four months. My

fellow-contractors have not paid. If Russia insists upon the payment

of this debt, I am ruined."

"And why do not Samuel and Moses pay their part?"

Gotzkowsky did not answer immediately, but when he did, his features

expressed scorn and contempt: "Moses and Samuel are no longer obliged

to pay, because yesterday they declared themselves insolvent."

Bertram suppressed with effort a cry of anger, and covered his face

with his hands. "He is lost," he muttered to himself, "lost beyond

redemption, for he founds his hopes on De Neufville, and he knows

nothing of his unfortunate fate."

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

CONFESSIONS.

Bertram raised his head again, Gotzkowsky was standing near him,

looking brightly and lovingly into his sorrowful, twitching face. It

was now Gotzkowsky who had to console Bertram, and, smiling quietly

and gently, he told him of the hopes which still remained to him.

"De Neufville may return," he said. "He has only gone to the opening

of the bank at Amsterdam, and if he succeeds in collecting the

necessary sum there, and returns with it as rapidly as possible to

Berlin, I am saved."

"But if he does not come?" asked Bertram with a trembling voice,

fixing his sad looks penetratingly on Gotzkowsky.

"Then I am irretrievably lost," answered Gotzkowsky, in a loud, firm

voice.

Bertram stepped quickly up to him, and threw himself in his arms,

folding him to his breast as if to protect him against all the danger

which threatened him. "You must be saved!" cried he, eagerly; "it

is not possible that you should fall. You have never deserved such a

misfortune."

"For that very reason I fear that I must suffer it. If I deserved this

disgrace, perhaps it never would have happened to me. The world is so

fashioned, that what we deserve of good or evil never happens to us."

"But you have friends; thousands are indebted to your generosity,

and to your ever-ready, helping hand. There is scarcely a merchant in

Berlin to whom, some time or other, you have not been of assistance in

his need!"

Gotzkowsky laid his hand on his shoulder, and replied with a proud

air: "My friend, it is precisely those who owe me gratitude, who are

now trying to ruin me. The very fact of having obliged them, makes

them my bitter enemies. Gratitude is so disagreeable a virtue, that

men become implacably hostile to those who impose it on them."

"When you speak thus, my father," said Bertram, glowing with noble

indignation, "you condemn me, too. You have bound me to everlasting

gratitude, and yet I love you inexpressibly for it."

"You are a rare exception, my son," replied Gotzkowsky, sadly, "and I

thank God, who has taught me to know you."

"You believe, then, in me?" asked Bertram, looking earnestly in his

eyes.

"I believe in you," said Gotzkowsky, solemnly, offering him his hand.

"Well, then, my father," cried Bertram, quickly and gladly, "in this

important moment let me make an urgent request of you. You call me

your son; give me, then, the rights of a son. Allow me the happiness

of offering you the little that I can call mine. My fortune is not, to

be sure, sufficient to save you, but it can at least be of service to

you. Father, I owe you every thing. It is yours--take it back."

"Never!" interrupted Gotzkowsky.

But Bertram continued more urgently: "At least consider of it. When

you founded the porcelain factory, you made me a partner in this

business, and I accepted it, although I had nothing but what belonged

to you. When the king, a year ago, bought the factory from you, you

paid me a fourth of the purchase-money, and gave me thirty thousand

dollars. I accepted it, although I had not contributed any part of the

capital."

"You are mistaken, my son. You forget that you contributed the capital

of your knowledge and genius."

"One cannot live on genius," cried Bertram, impatiently; "and with

all my knowledge I might have starved, if you had not taken me by the

hand."

Gotzkowsky would have denied this, but Bertram continued still more

pressingly: "Father, if I were, indeed, your son, could you then deny

me the right of falling and being ruined with you? Can you deny your

son the right of dividing with you what is his?"

"No!" cried Gotzkowsky, "from my son I could demand the sacrifice, but

it is not only a question of earthly possessions, it is a question

of my most sacred spiritual good, it is the honor of my name. Had I a

son, I would exact of him that he should follow me unto death, so that

the honor of my name might be saved."

"Well, then, let me be, indeed, your son. Give me your daughter!"

Gotzkowsky stepped back in astonishment and gazed at Bertram's noble,

excited countenance. "Ah!" cried he, "I thank you, Bertram; you are a

noble man! I understand you. You have found out the sorrow which

gnaws most painfully at my heart; that Elise, by my failure, becomes a

beggar. You wish most nobly to assist her and protect her from want."

"No, father, I desire her for her own sake--because I love her! I

would wish to be your son, in order to have the right to give up all

for you, and to work for you. During your whole life you have done

so much for others; now grant me the privilege of doing something for

you. Give me your daughter; let me be your son."

Gotzkowsky was silent for some minutes, then looked at Bertram sadly

and sorrowfully. "You know that this has always been the wish of my

heart. But what I have longed for, for so many years, that I must now

refuse. I dare not drag you down in my misfortune, and even if I were

weak enough to yield to your request, I cannot sacrifice the happiness

of my daughter to my welfare. Do you believe, Bertram, that Elise

loves you?"

"She is kind to me, and is anxious for my welfare--that is enough,"

said Bertram, sadly. "I have learned for many a long year to renounce

all claim to her love."

"But if she loves another? I fear her heart is but too true, and has

not forgotten the trifler who destroyed her happiness. Ah! when I

think of this man, my heart trembles with anger and grief. In the hour

of death I could forgive all my enemies, but the hatred toward this

man, who has so wantonly trifled with the faith and love of my child,

that hatred I will take with me into the grave--and yet, I fear, Elise

has not forgotten him."

"This dead love does not give me any uneasiness," said Bertram. "Four

years have passed since that unlucky day."

"And for four years have I been faithful in my hatred to him. May not

Elise have been as constant in her love?"

Bertram sighed and drooped his head. "It is too true, love does not

die so easily." Then after a pause he added in a determined voice: "I

repeat my request--give me your daughter!"

"You know that she does not love you, and yet you still desire her

hand?"

"I do. I have confidence enough in her and in myself to believe Elise

will not refuse it to me, but will freely make this sacrifice, when

she learns that you will only allow me, as your son, the privilege of

sharing my little fortune with you. For her love to you, she will give

me her hand, and invest me with the rights of a son toward you."

"Never!" cried Gotzkowsky, vehemently. "She must never be informed

of that of which we have been speaking. She does not forebode the

misfortune which threatens her. I have not the courage to tell her,

and why should I? When the terrible event happens, she will learn it

soon enough, and if it can be averted, why then I can spare her this

unhappiness. For my child I wish a clear, unclouded sky; let _me_ bear

the clouds and storms. That has always been the object of my life, and

I will remain faithful to it to the last."

"You refuse me, then?" asked Bertram, pained.

"No, my son. I accept you, and that which you have given me in this

hour, the treasure of your love; that I can never lose. That remains

mine, even if they deprive me of all else."

He opened his arms, and Bertram threw himself weeping on his breast.

Long did they thus remain, heart to heart, in silence; but soul spoke

to soul without words and without expressions of love.

When Gotzkowsky raised himself from Bertram's embrace, his countenance

was calm, and almost cheerful. "I thank you, my son; you have given me

new courage and strength. Now I will preserve all my composure. I

will humble my pride, and apply to those who in former times professed

gratitude toward me. The Council of Berlin have owed me twenty

thousand ducats since the time that the Russians were here, and I had

to travel twice in the service of the town to Petersburg and Warsaw.

These accounts have never been asked for. I will make it my business

to remind the Council of them, as in the days of their need they

swore eternal gratitude to me. Come, Bertram, let us see whether these

worshipful magistrates are any better than other men, and whether they

have any recollection of those sacred promises which they made me in

the days when they needed help, and when misfortune threatened them."

* * * * *

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RUSSIAN PRINCE.

Before the door of the first hotel in Berlin stood a

travelling-carriage covered with dust. The team of six post-horses,

and the two servants on the coach-box, showed that it was a personage

of quality who now honored the hotel with a visit; and it was

therefore very natural that the host should hurry out and open the

carriage door with a most respectful bow.

A very tall, thin man descended from the carriage with slow and solemn

dignity, and as he entered the house gravely and in silence, his

French valet asked the host whether he had rooms elegant enough to

suit the Prince Stratimojeff.

The countenance of the host expanded into a glowing smile; he snatched

the candlestick hastily from the hands of the head butler, and flew up

the steps himself to prepare the room of state for the prince.

The French valet examined the rooms with a critical eye, and declared

that, though they were not worthy of his highness, yet he would

condescend to occupy them.

The prince still remained silent, his travelling-cap drawn deep down

over his face, and his whole figure concealed in the ample robe of

sable fur, which reached to his feet. He motioned to the host with

his hand to leave the room; then, in a few short words, he ordered his

valet to see to supper, and to have it served up in an adjoining

room, and as at that moment a carriage drove up to the house, he

commissioned him to see whether it was his suite. The valet stated

that it was his highness's private secretary, his man of business, and

his chaplain.

"I will not see them to-day--they may seek their own pleasure," said

the prince, authoritatively. "Tell them that our business begins

to-morrow. But for you, Guillaume, I have an important commission. Go

to the host and inquire for the rich banker, John Gotzkowsky; and when

you have found where he lives, enter into further conversation, and

get some information about the circumstances of this gentleman. I wish

to learn, too, about his family; ask about his daughter--if she be

still unmarried, and whether she is now in Berlin. In short, find out

all you can."

The courteous and obedient valet had left the room some time, but

Prince Stratimojeff still stood motionless, his eyes cast on the

ground, and muttering some unintelligible words. Suddenly, with an

impatient movement, he threw his furred robe from his shoulders, and

cast his head-gear far into the room.

"Air! air! I suffocate!" cried he. "I feel as if this town lay on my

chest like a hundred-pound weight, and that I have to conceal myself

like a criminal from the eyes of men."

He threw his cloak open, and took a long and deep breath.

What was it, then, that so strangely excited Prince Stratimojeff,

and shook his very bones as with an ague? It was the memory of

former days; it was the painful and damning voice of Conscience which

tormented him. What reason had he to inquire after Gotzkowsky the

banker, and his daughter? How! Had the heart of Count Feodor von

Brenda become so hardened, that when he returned to Berlin he should

not long to hear of her whom he had once so shamefully betrayed?

It was indeed himself. Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda had become

transformed into the Prince Stratimojeff. Four short years had passed,

but what desolation had they not caused in his inner life!--four years

of dissolute pleasure, of mad, enervating enjoyment; four bacchanalian

years of sensual dissipation and extravagance; four years passed at

the court of two Russian empresses! In these four years Elizabeth

had died; and for a few days the unfortunate Peter III. had worn the

imperial crown. But it had proved too heavy for him; and his great

consort, Catharine, full of compassion and Russian humanity for him,

had sought to lighten his load! Only, in her too great zeal, she had

taken not only his crown, but his head, and changed his prison for a

grave.

The Guards shouted for the new empress as they had done for the old.

In the presence of their beautiful young sovereign they remembered

with delight the graciousness of her predecessor, who, in the fulness

of her kindness and power, had made princes of the subalterns, and

great lords of the privates.

Why should not Catharine resemble Elizabeth in that respect, and show

favor to the splendid soldiers of the Guards? She was merciful. She

was a gracious mistress to all her subjects, but especially so to

the handsome men of her empire. And the Count von Brenda was a very

handsome man. He had been the favorite of Elizabeth, why should he

not also be the favorite of Catharine? The former had treated him with

motherly kindness, for she was old; but Catharine was young, and

in her proud breast there beat an ardent heart--a heart that was so

powerful and large, that it had room for more than one lover.

The young count had been for some short months the declared darling of

the empress, and the whole world did homage to him, and looked upon

it as a matter of course that Catharine should make him Prince

Stratimojeff, and bestow on him not only orders and titles, but lands

and thousands of slaves.

What a mad, intoxicating, joyous life was his! How all the world

envied the handsome, rich prince, surrounded by the halo of imperial

favor! But nevertheless a cloud lay always on his brow, and he plunged

into the sea of pleasure like one ill of fever, who seeks something to

cool the heat which is consuming him. He threw himself into the arms

of dissipation, as the criminal condemned to execution, who in the

intoxication of champagne revels away the last hours of life in order

to banish the thought that Death stands behind him, reaching forth his

hand to seize him.

Thus did the prince strive in the wild excitement of pleasure to kill

thought and deaden his heart. But there would come quiet hours to

remind him of the past, and, at times, in the middle of the night, he

would start up from his couch, as if he had heard a scream, a single

heart-piercing cry, which rang through his very soul.

But this scream existed only in his dreams, those dreams in which

Elise's pale, sad face appeared, and made him tremble before her

indignant and despairing grief. Near this light figure of his beloved

appeared another pallid woman, whose sorrowful looks tortured him,

and struck his soul with anguish. He thought he saw his wife, the late

Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, who, with weeping eyes, demanded of

him her murdered happiness, her youth, her life.

She was dead; she had died of grief, for she had felt that the man

for whom she had sacrificed every thing--her youth, her honor, and her

duty--despised her, and could never forgive her for having cheated him

into taking her for his wife. She died the victim of his contempt and

hatred. Not suddenly, not as with a lightning-stroke, did his contempt

kill, but slowly and steadily did it pierce her heart. She bore

the torture for one desolate, disconsolate year, and then she died

solitary and forsaken. No loving hand dried the death-sweat on her

cold forehead; no pitying lips whispered words of love and hope

to her; yet on her death-bed, her heart was still warm toward her

husband, and even then she blessed him.

A letter written by her trembling hand in her last hours, full of

humble, earnest love, of forgiving gentleness, which her husband the

prince found on his writing-table, as well as another, directed to

Elise Gotzkowsky, and enclosed in the first, bore witness to this

fact.

Lodoiska had loved her husband sufficiently to be aware of the cause

of his wild and extravagant life, to know that in the bottom of his

heart he was suffering from the only true love of his life--his love

for Elise; and that all the rest was only a mad and desperate effort

to deaden his feelings and smother his desire.

Elise's image followed him everywhere; and his love for her, which

might have been the blessing of a good man's life, had been a cruel

curse to that of a guilty one. In the midst of the wild routs, the

private orgies of the imperial court, her image rose before him from

these waves of maddening pleasure as a guardian angel, hushing him

often into silence, and stopping the wanton jest on his quivering

lips.

At times during these feasts and dances, he was seized with

a boundless, unspeakable dread, a torturing anxiety. He felt

inexpressibly desolate, and the consciousness of his lost, his wasted

existence haunted him, while it seemed as if an inner voice was

whispering--"Go, flee to her! with Elise is peace and innocence. If

you are to be saved, Elise will save you."

But he had not the strength to obey the warning voice of his heart; he

was bound in gilded fetters, and, even if love were absent, pride and

vanity prevented him from breaking these bonds. He was the favorite of

the young empress, and the great of the empire bowed down before him,

and felt themselves happy in his smile, and honored by the pressure of

his hand. But every thing is changeable. Even the heart of the Empress

Catharine was fickle.

One day the Prince Stratimojeff received a note from his imperial

mistress, in which she intrusted him with a diplomatic mission to

Germany, and requested him, on account of the urgency of the occasion,

to start immediately.

Feodor understood the hidden meaning of this apparently gracious and

loving letter; he understood that he had fallen into disgrace--not

that he had committed any error or crime. It was only that Count

Orloff was handsomer and more amiable than himself, or at least

that he seemed so to the empress. Therefore Feodor's presence was

inconvenient to her; for at that time in the commencement of her

reign, Catharine had still some modesty left, and the place of

favorite had not yet become an official position at court, but only a

public secret. As yet, she avoided bringing the discharged favorite in

contact with the newly appointed one, and therefore Feodor had to be

removed before Count Alexis Orloff could enter on his duties.

Prince Feodor Stratimojeff crushed the perfumed imperial note in his

hand, and muttered through his set teeth: "She has sacrificed me to

an Orloff! She wishes to send me away, that she may more securely play

this new farce of love. Very well; I will go, but not to return to be

deceived anew by her vows of love and glances of favor. No! let this

breach be eternal. Catharine shall feel that, although an empress, she

is a woman whom I despise. Therefore let there be no word of farewell,

not even the smallest request. She bids me go, and I go. And would it

not seem as if Fate pointed out to me the way I am to go? Is it not

a strange chance that Catharine should choose me for this mission to

Germany?"

It was indeed a singular accident that the empress unintentionally

should have sent back her discharged favorite to the only woman whom

he had ever loved. He was sent as ambassador extraordinary to Berlin,

to press more urgently her claims on a Prussian banker, to bring up

before the Prussian department for foreign affairs the merchant John

Gotzkowsky with regard to her demand for two millions of dollars;

and, in case he refused to pay it, to try in a diplomatic way whether

Prussia could not he induced to support this demand of the empress,

and procure immediate payment.

This was the mission which Catharine had confided to Prince

Stratimojeff, who, when he determined to undertake it, said to

himself: "I will take vengeance on this proud woman who thinks to

cast me off like a toy of which she has tired; I will show her that

my heart is unmoved by her infidelity; I will present to her my young

wife, whose beauty, youth, and innocence will cause her to blush for

shame."

Never had he been so fascinating and lively, so brilliant and

sparkling with wit, as on the evening preceding his departure. His

jests were the boldest and freest; they made even the empress blush,

and sent her blood hot and bounding through her veins. The court,

that would have been delighted to have seen the long-envied and hated

favorite now abashed and humbled before his newly-declared successor,

remarked with astonishment and bitter mortification that the

humiliation was changed into a triumph; for the empress, charmed by

his amiability and wit, seemed to turn her heart again toward him, and

to entreat him with the tenderest looks to forgive her faithlessness.

She had already forgotten the unfortunate embassy which was to remove

Feodor from her court, when he himself came to remind her of it.

While all countenances were still beaming with delight over a precious

_bon mot_ which Feodor had just perpetrated, and at which the empress

herself had laughed aloud, he stepped up to her and requested her

blessing on his voyage to Germany, which he was going to commence that

night.

Catharine felt almost inclined to withdraw her orders and request

him to remain, but she was woman enough to be able to read pride and

defiance in his face. She therefore contented herself with wishing him

a speedy return to his duty. Publicly, in the presence of the whole

court and her new favorite, she afforded Prince Stratimojeff a fresh

triumph: she bade him kneel, and taking a golden chain to which her

portrait was attached, she threw the links around his neck. Kissing

him gently on the forehead, with a gracious smile full of promise, she

said to him only, "_Au revoir_!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER IX.

OLD LOVE--NEW SORROW.

Elise was in her room. Her face expressed a quiet, silent resignation,

and her large dark eyes had a dreamy but bright look. She sat in an

easy-chair, reading, and whoever had seen her with her high, open

forehead and calm looks, would have thought her one of those happy

and fortunate beings whom Heaven had blessed with eternal rest and

cheerful composure, who was unacquainted with the corroding poison of

passionate grief. No trace of the storm which had raged through her

life could be seen on her countenance. Her grief had eaten inwardly,

and only her heart and the spirit of her youth had died; her face had

remained young and handsome. The vigor of her youth had overcome

the grief of her spirit, and her cheeks, although colorless and

transparent in their paleness, were still free from that sallow,

sickly pallor, which is the herald of approaching dissolution. She was

apparently healthy and young, and only sick and cold at heart. Perhaps

she only needed some sunbeams to warm up again her chilled heart, only

some gleam of hope to make her soul young again, and strong and ready

once more to love and to suffer. She had never forgotten, never ceased

to think of the past, nor of him whom she had loved so unspeakably,

whom her soul could not let go.

The memories of the past were the life of the present to her. The tree

in the garden which he had admired, the flowers he had loved and which

since then had four times renewed their bloom, the rustling of the

fir-trees which sounded from the wall, all spoke of him, and caused

her heart to beat, she knew not whether with anger or with pain. Even

now, as she sat in her room, her thoughts and fancies were busy with

him. She had been reading, but the book dropped from her hand. From

the love-scenes which were described in it her thoughts roamed far and

wide, and awakened the dreams and hopes of the past.

But Elise did not like to give herself up to these reveries, and at

times had a silent horror even of her own thoughts. She did not like

to confess to herself that she still hoped in the man who had betrayed

her. She had, as it were, a sympathizing pity with herself; she threw

a veil over her heart, to hide from herself that it still quivered

with pain and love. Only at times, in the quiet and solitude of her

chamber, she ventured to draw aside the veil, to look down into the

depths of her soul, and, in agonizing delight, in one dream blend

together the present and the past. She leaned back in her chair,

her large dark eyes fixed on vacancy. Some passage in the book had

reminded her of her own sad love, had struck on her heart like the

hammer of a bell, and in response it had returned but one single note,

the word "Feodor."

"Ah, Feodor!" she whispered to herself, but with a shudder at the

name, and a blush suffused her otherwise pale cheeks for a moment.

"It is the first time my lips have spoken his name, but my heart is

constantly repeating it in hopeless grief, and in my dreams he still

lives. I have accepted my fate; to the world I have separated from

him; to myself, never! Oh, how mysterious is the heart! I hate and yet

I love him." She covered her face with her hands, and sat long silent

and motionless. A noise at the door aroused her. It was only Marianne,

her maid, who came to announce that a strange gentleman was outside,

who earnestly requested to speak to her. Elise trembled, she knew

not why. A prophetic dread seized her soul, and in a voice scarcely

audible she asked the name of her visitor.

"He will not give his name," answered the maid. "He says the name

is of no consequence. He had a letter to deliver from the Countess

Lodoiska, of St. Petersburg."

Elise uttered a cry, and sprang from her seat--she knew all. Her heart

told her that he was near. It must be himself. She felt as if she must

hasten to her father for protection and safety; but her feet refused

to carry her. She trembled so, that she was obliged to hold on to the

arm of a chair to keep herself from falling. She motioned with her

hand to deny him admittance, but Marianne did not understand her; for,

opening the door, she invited the stranger in, and then left him.

And now they stood in presence of each other, silent and

breathless--Elise trembling with excitement and bitter feeling,

wrestling with her own emotion, and deeply abashed by the meeting.

Both uttered an inward prayer--but how different were their two

aspirations!

"Now, God or devil!" thought Feodor, "give my words power, lend

enchantment to my tongue, that I may win Elise!"

Elise prayed to herself: "Have mercy on me, O God! Take this love from

me, or let me die."

In sad silence these two, so long separated, stood opposite to each

other--both hesitating, he knowing that he was guilty, she ashamed of

the consciousness of her love. But finally he succeeded in breaking

the silence. He whispered her name, and as she, alarmed and

shuddering, looked up at him, he stretched out his arms imploringly

toward her. And then she felt, thought, knew nothing but him. She

uttered a cry, and rushed forward to throw herself in his arms. But

suddenly she stopped. Her dream was at an end, and now awaking from

the first ecstasy of seeing him again, she collected herself, and

stood before him in the whole pride and dignity of her offended

honor. She found courage to sacrifice her own heart, and, with cold,

constrained manner, bowing to him, she asked, "Colonel von Brenda,

whom do you wish to see?"

The prince sighed deeply, and let his arms drop. "It is over," said

he; "she no longer loves me!"