BARON FREDERIC VON BÜLOW
And now we will leave our friend Benedict Turpin in order to follow one
of his adversaries who is destined to become an important character in
our story. We mean Baron Frederic von Bülow, whom we left with Georges
Kleist in the glade of Eilenriede.
Although his wound appeared at first sight the more serious of the two,
it was not in reality so. Moreover, he was the most eager to leave the
field. Entrusted as he was with a mission to Frankfort, he had turned
aside from his road to call Benedict to account, and from the first
moment that he was able to bear the fatigue of the journey he did not
lose a moment in pursuing it.
Although untouched by the ball, the impact of the broken pistol with the
right side of Kleist's face had had deplorable results. The blow was so
violent that it had left a bruise of the exact shape of the muzzle of
the pistol. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheek immoderately swollen.
In short, Herr Kleist would be obliged for at least a fortnight to forgo
the pleasures of society.
When the Baron Frederic von Bülow and Herr Kleist arrived at the Royal
Hotel they found their misadventure and Benedict's triumph were already
public property. The fact of their being Prussians was no
recommendation, and they were received with an amount of derision which
induced Herr Kleist, suffering though he was, to take the train
immediately. As for the major, having already accomplished a third of
his journey, he had only to continue on a branch line running direct
from Hanover to Frankfort.
We have already given some account of the appearance and physique of the
Baron Frederic von Bülow; we will now complete our description, first
relating the romantic manner in which he entered the military career and
the happy chance by which his undoubted merits found their due reward.
Frederic von Bülow came of a family belonging to Breslau. He had been a
student at Jena. One fine day he resolved to make a tour which is
frequently undertaken by German students along the banks of the Rhine.
He set out alone; not that he was in the least misanthropical; but he
was a poet. He loved to travel according to the inclination of the
moment, to stop when it suited him, proceed when he pleased, and have no
companion drawing him to the left when he wanted to follow a charming
woman to the right.
He had reached the most picturesque part of the Rhine; the Seven
Mountains. On the opposite bank, on the summit of a lofty hill there
stood a fine Gothic castle, lately restored. It belonged to the brother
of the King of Prussia, who was then only the Prince Royal. Not only had
he rebuilt the castle on its ancient foundations, but he had furnished
it throughout with appointments of the sixteenth century, collected in
the neighbourhood from the peasantry and convents, and new pieces made
by clever workmen from ancient models. Hangings, tapestries, mirrors,
all were of the same period, and formed a charming miniature museum of
arms, pictures, and valuable curiosities. When the prince was not in
residence he allowed the castle to be shown to visitors of distinction.
How difficult it is to define the phrase "visitors of distinction."
Frederic, whose family was of ancient nobility, considered that he had a
right, though travelling on foot, to see the castle. Knapsack on
shoulder, staff in hand, he climbed the steep path and knocked at the
door of the keep. The sound of a horn was heard, and the door opened. A
porter appeared and an officer in the costume of the sixteenth century,
who asked what could be done for him. Frederic von Bülow explained his
wish as an archæologist to see the Prince Regent's castle. The officer
replied, regretting he was not able to gratify him; the prince's
intendant had arrived the evening before, preceding his master only by
twenty-four hours. Visitors could no longer be admitted. But the
traveller was invited according to custom to inscribe his name, titles,
and qualifications in the visitors' book. He took a pen and wrote
Frederic von Bülow, student of the University of Jena. Then he took up
his iron-shod stick, saluted the officer, and began to descend the path.
But he had not taken a hundred steps when he heard himself called. The
officer beckoned and a page ran after him, saying the intendant begged
him to return and would take upon himself to grant the desired
permission to see the castle.
In the ante-room Frederic met, as if by chance, a man of about
fifty-eight or sixty. It was the prince's intendant. He entered into
conversation with the young man, appeared pleased with him, and offered
to be his guide throughout the castle, an offer that Frederic took good
care to accept. The intendant was very well informed; Frederic was a
young man of ability, and three or four hours had passed without either
being aware how the time was going, when a servant announced, dinner.
Frederic gracefully expressed his concern at leaving his cicerone so
soon; and his regret was evidently shared by his guide.
"See here," he said. "You are travelling as a student; I am here _en
garçon_. Suppose you dine with me. You will not dine so well as you
might with the king, but at any rate it will be better than hotel fare."
Frederic protested as far as he thought good breeding demanded, but as
he was really longing to accept the invitation he ended by acceding with
visible pleasure, and they consequently dined together. Frederic was a
delightful companion, being both poet and philosopher, qualities one
finds only united in Germany. He quite made a conquest of his host, who
after dinner proposed a game of chess. Midnight struck, and each thought
the evening barely begun. It was not possible to return to the village
at such an hour. Frederic, after some modest reluctance, remained at the
castle and slept in the Landgrave Philip's bed; and it was only the next
day after lunch that he obtained his host's permission to resume his
journey.
"I am not without some slight influence at court," said the intendant on
taking leave of him, "and if I can ever be of any service to you, pray
make use of me."
Frederic promised that he would.
"And whatever may happen," added his host, "I shall remember your name.
You may forget me, but I shall not forget you."
Frederic finished his travels on the Rhine, returned to the University
of Jena, concluded his studies there, entered the diplomatic service and
was greatly astonished at being one day summoned to the cabinet of the
grand duke.
"Sir," said the great man, "I have selected you to convey my
congratulations to William the First, King of Prussia, on his recent
accession to the throne."
"But, Highness!" cried Frederic in astonishment, "who am I to be
honoured with such a commission?"
"Really! are you not Baron Frederic von Bülow?"
"Highness! Baron? I? But since when have I become a baron?"
"Since I made you one. You will start at nine o'clock to-morrow; your
letters of credit will be ready at eight."
Frederic could only bow and utter his thanks; he bowed deeply,
gratefully thanked the grand duke and left the room.
The next morning at ten o'clock he was in the train and by the evening
he was in Berlin. His arrival was immediately announced to the new king.
The new king replied that he would receive him the following day at the
castle Of Potsdam.
On the morrow Frederic, in his court suit, started for Potsdam and
arrived at the castle. But to his great astonishment he learnt that the
king had just gone away and had left only his intendant to represent
him.
Frederic's first idea was to return to Berlin; but he remembered that it
was this official who had entertained him so kindly and courteously two
years before at the castle of Rheinstein. He did not want to appear
ungrateful or offended, so had his name sent in accordingly. But while
crossing the ante-room he observed a full-length portrait of the king.
He stopped for an instant stupefied. His Majesty resembled his intendant
as one drop of water resembles another. The truth now dawned on
Frederic. It was the king's brother himself who, to-day reigning as King
William I, had received him at the castle of Rheinstein, who had acted
as his guide, had kept him to dinner, who had won three games of chess
out of five, and had made him sleep in the Landgrave Philip's bed--who
had offered his influence at court, and who on taking leave of him had
promised not to forget him.
He understood now why he had been chosen by the Grand Duke of Weimar to
carry his congratulations to the king; why the Grand Duke of Weimar had
made him a baron, why the king had appointed a meeting at Potsdam, and
why finally His Majesty had returned to Berlin, leaving his intendant
only to represent him.
His Majesty wanted to enjoy another day like that they had passed
together at Rheinstein. Frederic was a good courtier, and was ready to
contribute all in his power to this caprice. He entered as if he had no
suspicion, greeted his host like an old acquaintance, only showing the
respect due to an older man, thus recalling the scene which had left
such a pleasing influence on his mind.
The intendant made excuses for His Majesty, and invited Frederic to pass
the day at the castle of Potsdam, an invitation which was accepted like
the one at Rheinstein. He again offered his services as cicerone, took
him into the mausoleum, and showed him the tomb and the sword of the
Great Frederic.
A court carriage was ready waiting for them, and they went to see the
castle of Sans-Souci, which is only two miles from Potsdam. It was here,
it will be remembered, in the park of this château that the famous mill
was situated which its owner refused to sell to Frederic II, and which
caused the king to exclaim when the miller gained his lawsuit, "So there
are still judges at Berlin!" In the sequel the descendants of the
stubborn miller were softened and sold their mill to William I, who,
wishing to preserve it as a monument of the occurrence, refused to allow
it to be demolished.
But time, which cares nothing for the commands of kings, had in store
for William and his guest an example of its disregard. An hour before
the arrival of Frederic and the so-called agent, the four sails of the
windmill had fallen, bringing down in their fall the balustrade which
surrounded it. So that to day one must conclude that there are no longer
judges in Berlin, as there is no longer a mill at Sans-Souci.
On their return to Potsdam, Frederic and his companion found a table
ready laid for two. They dined alone together, played five games of
chess out of which the agent won three, and it was only at midnight that
they separated, when on the agent wishing Frederic a good night, the
latter replied with a deep bow: "Sire, may God grant Your Majesty a good
night."
The next day the fiction was abandoned. The king breakfasted with
Frederic, gave him the Order of the Red Eagle, and with much pressing
induced him to hand in his resignation and join the army. A week later
he received his commission as lieutenant of the line, and came to pay
his respects in his new character to the king, who undertook that the
king would ever remember him whom the prince had promised not to forget.
Two years later, Frederic received a proof that the king indeed had not
forgotten. His regiment was stationed in garrison at Frankfort, where at
the house of Herr Fellner, the burgomaster, he made the acquaintance of
a family of French descent exiled by the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes, which had since its expatriation become Catholic. The family
consisted of the mother, aged about thirty-eight, the grandmother, who
was sixty-eight, and two girls of twenty and eighteen. Their family name
was Chandroz.
The elder daughter, Emma, had black hair, black eyes, a pale clear skin,
and well-marked eyebrows; her marvellously beautiful teeth showed like
pearls against her vividly red lips. She had, in fact, that stately dark
beauty which suggests the Roman matron, Lucretia and Cornelia in one.
Helen was worthy of her name. Her hair was of that exquisite blonde tint
which can only be compared to the colour of ripe corn. Her complexion
faintly tinted with rose had the freshness and delicacy of the camellia.
And the effect was almost astonishing when under these fair locks, and
upon that countenance of almost transparent pallor, she raised large
dark eyes, eloquent of passion, overarched with dark eyebrows and
fringed with lashes which gave to their sparkling orbs deep reflections
like those of the black diamonds of Tripoli. And as one had only to look
at Emma to see foreshadowed in her the calm and wisdom of those matrons
among whom the Catholic religion finds its saints, so one could divine
in Helen all that tempestuous future which the united passions of two
races hold in store for the hybrids of their sex.
Whether it were that this strange manifestation of divine caprice
dismayed him, or whether he felt himself drawn by irresistible sympathy
to the elder of the two sisters--it was to her that the Baron von Bülow
paid his homage. He was young, handsome, and rich. It was known that the
King of Prussia held him in warm regard. He stated that if he were
granted Emma's hand, his royal protector at the same time would make him
a captain. The two young people were in love, and the family had no
serious opposition to raise to their union. They said: "Obtain your
promotion as captain, and we will see." He asked three days' leave,
started for Berlin, and came back on the third day with his captain's
commission.
All was arranged. But during his absence Emma's mother was slightly
indisposed. Her illness increased, developed into disease of the lungs,
and at the end of six months Emma was doubly orphaned.
It was a further reason for giving the family a protector. The
grandmother, sixty-nine years of age, might die at any moment. They
waited till the strict season of mourning dictated both by their hearts
and by custom had elapsed, and at the end of six months they were
married.
Three days after the birth of his first child, a boy, the Baron Frederic
von Bülow received his commission as major. On this occasion the
protection of the king was so obvious and so kindly intentioned that the
baron resolved to make a second journey to Berlin, not on this occasion
to ask for favours, but to return thanks for them. This journey was all
the more opportune because a word dropped by His Majesty's secretary had
warned him that there were great events on the horizon in which he might
take part, and that he would do wisely to come to Berlin on any suitable
pretext and see the king in person.
And in fact we have already said that Count von Bismarck had worked hard
to bring great events to pass. The king had three times received Baron
Frederic in private, and had freely discussed with him the probability
of a terrible war. To crown all, he attached him to the staff, so that
he might become aide-de-camp to any general whom he sent to any special
place, or even at need to his son or his cousin.
This was how Baron Frederic chanced to find himself at Berlin on June
7th, that is, on the day of the attempted assassination of Bismarck. As
we have seen, he, with two other officers rescued Benedict from the
hands of the mob; but, having promised the crowd that the Frenchman
should shout "Long live Prussia! Long live King William I!" he was
confounded when, instead of adopting this prudent course, Benedict
declaimed Alfred de Musset's verses on the Rhine, almost as well known
in Prussia as the song to which they were an answer. He and his comrades
took this affront, which the public had witnessed, as a deliberate
insult. All three presented themselves at the Black Eagle, which
Benedict as we know had given as his address, intending to demand
immediate satisfaction.
But, as they met each other and learnt that their errands were all the
same, they recognized that three men, who do not wish to gain their end
by intimidation, cannot all demand satisfaction from a single opponent.
For this reason they cast lots as to who should have the honour of
fighting with Benedict, and the lot as we have seen fell upon Frederic.