THE ANSWER
Certainly Napoleon was most courteous.
He was at the carriage door to open it for Queen Louisa. He led her to
the table and placed her by his side, the King of Prussia sitting on his
left, and the Czar by Queen Louisa.
The table was long, it was well set, and there were many guests arrayed
in court splendour, but one person did the talking, and that person was
Napoleon.
The Queen, alone, was expected to answer.
Why, he began, had she been so foolish as to go to the seat of war? Did
she know that Napoleon's hussars had almost captured her?
The Queen with a smile shook her head.
"No, no, sire," she said with forced gaiety, "that I cannot believe. I
never saw a Frenchman while I was on that journey."
"But why did you expose yourself to danger?" persisted the Emperor,
though he knew quite well that it was an old Prussian custom for Queens
to accompany their husbands to the battle.
"Why did you not await my arrival at Weimar?" he asked.
"Really, sire," said the poor Queen, trying to be merry, "I felt no
inclination to do so."
At that Napoleon laughed and changed the subject, without a thought for
all the Queen had endured on her journey.
"How is it that the Queen of Prussia wears a turban? That," he added,
"is not complimentary to the Emperor of Russia, who is at war with the
Turk."
Now, the Queen of Prussia knew how to make a pretty answer. It was one
of her charms.
"I think," and she smiled, "it is rather to compliment Rustan," and she
glanced at Napoleon's favourite Eastern servant, who, wearing a superb
turban, stood behind the chair of his imperial master.
Napoleon was delighted, and the two began to discuss the province of
Silesia and the old ones of Prussia, which now were perhaps to be ceded
to France.
Frederick William, who had been silent, at once expressed his opinion,
and, as usual, got into trouble with Napoleon.
"Your Majesty," he said, and his brow darkened, while he twisted his
handkerchief and knotted it in a way he had, "does not know how grievous
it is to lose territories which have descended through a long line of
ancestors, territories which are, in fact, the cradle of one's race," he
added gloomily.
Now, Napoleon was a man who had made his own fortunes, his name had not
been royal, and his race had no such cradle.
A sarcastic smile played on his lips and a laugh of derision rang
through the room.
"Cradle!" he said, and his lips curled in amusement. "When the child has
grown to be a man he has not much time to think about his cradle!"
The guests gazed down at their plates.
Why on earth had the King spoken?
But the Queen saved the day.
"The mother's heart," she said, "is the most lasting cradle."
Then she enquired about Madame Bonaparte, whom above all living people
Napoleon honoured, and the Empress Josephine, and Napoleon's good humour
came back and he talked steadily through the whole dinner, everybody
being forced to listen and eat in silence.
"That odious man," whispered the Countess Tauentzein, when at last they
arose from dinner; "he has the manners of a peasant."
"And how ugly," answered Countess von Voss. "Did you notice how fat he
is, and how bloated his face, and how brown his complexion?"
"He is altogether without figure, the wretch!" answered the other. "See
how he rolls his great eyes, and how severe is his expression!"
"But his mouth is beautiful," admitted the old Countess, "and his teeth
perfect. But see how he looks the very picture of success!" She lowered
her voice cautiously. "But what a happy day it will be for the world
when God takes him!"
As for Napoleon, his eyes never left the Queen. He followed her
everywhere.
For a moment she stood alone in the room, in whose window-seat stood a
pot in which grew a rosebush with one lovely flower.
Napoleon broke off its stem, and bearing it in his hand he approached
the Queen and offered it to her, smiling.
"Sire," she said, her blue eyes pleading, "with Magdeburg?"
[Illustration: "_Sire, with Magdeburg?_"]
Napoleon still offered the rose, his face flushing.
"I must point out to your Majesty," he said, "that it is for me to beg,
for you to accept, or decline."
It was the Queen's turn to flush.
"There is no rose without a thorn," she said, "but these thorns," she
gazed at the rose, "are too sharp for me."
And turning, she left Napoleon with a rose in his hand, his lips
pressing themselves together.
He had given the Queen her answer. Prussia was to lose Magdeburg. The
Queen had appealed in vain.
The banquet ended in a dance, and at a late hour the King and Queen
returned to their lodgings in Piktupoehnen.
The next day the King and Napoleon had a talk, and those listening heard
hot words and angry voices.
Frederick William was entreating for Magdeburg. Napoleon answering with
scowling insolence.
"You forget," said the Emperor, his eyes narrowing, "that you are not in
a position to negotiate. Understand that I wish to keep Prussia down and
to hold Magdeburg that I may enter Berlin when I wish to. I believe in
the stability of but two sentiments--vengeance and hatred. For the
future, the Prussians must hate the French; but I will put it out of
their power to injure them."
Again, that day, the Queen was forced to dine with Napoleon. She prayed
to be excused, but all begged her to go. It would appear better, for the
treaty now was signed.
"I have given Prussia a few concessions because of its Queen," announced
Napoleon, but what they were it was hard to guess.
The King of Prussia must give up half of his dominions; he must reduce
his army to 42,000 men; he must pay 140,000,000 francs as the cost of
the war, and he must acknowledge the Confederation of the Rhine and all
the kingdoms Napoleon might set up anywhere. Jerome Bonaparte, as King
of Westphalia, was to receive half of the Kingdom of Prussia.
Knowing this, the Queen sat in her ermine and jewels; she talked with
Napoleon, she smiled, she thanked him for his hospitality.
When she left he led her to the carriage.
"I regret, your Majesty," he said, "that I must not do what you asked
me."
"And I regret," said the Queen, "that, having had the honour of knowing
the hero of the age, whom I can never forget, the impression left on my
mind must always be painful. Had you been generous, sire, I would be
bound to you by an everlasting gratitude."
"Indeed, your Majesty," returned Napoleon, "I lament that so it must be;
it is my evil destiny."
"And I have been cruelly deceived," were the Queen's last words, and off
drove her carriage.
The two Royal Foes parted, never again to meet.
That day Louisa thought herself the vanquished, and before the world
Napoleon wore the laurels of victory. Seventy years later the President
of France wrote that it was his belief that, at Tilsit, Napoleon was
conquered; that had he then been generous and bound the King and Queen
of Prussia to him by a tie of gratitude his last days need not, perhaps,
have been spent on the island of St. Helena, for in his troubles they
would have been his ally.
When the Queen reached her room she turned to her ladies in tears.
"When I am dead," she said, "it will be as with Queen Mary of England;
not Calais, but Magdeburg will be graven on my poor heart in letters of
blood."
Peace was signed on the seventh, and on June 24 Napoleon, in triumph,
entered Frankfort-on-Main, and three days later he arrived at his palace
at Saint Cloud and immediately was off again, marching armies into
Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Austria.
"Peace is made," wrote Queen Louisa to her father, "but at a dreadful
price. Our boundary will only go as far as the Elbe. Yet is the King
greater than his adversary. After Eylau he could have made a more
advantageous peace, but then he must have followed wicked principles,
and now he has acted through necessity and not forsworn himself. That
must bring a blessing on Prussia. After Eylau he would not desert a
faithful ally. Once more, I repeat, it is my firm belief that this
conduct of the King will bring good fortune to Prussia."
Napoleon had insisted upon the dismissal of Hardenburg as Prime
Minister, and in September the King called Stein to his assistance. From
the Queen this great man received a letter.
"I conjure you," she wrote, for he had made some objections to
remaining in office with a certain fellow minister, "have but
patience in the first few months. For Heaven's sake, do not let
the good cause be lost for want of three months' patience. I
conjure, for the sake of the King, of the country, of my
children, for my own sake, patience!
"LOUISA."
As for Baron von Stein, he had at heart only the good of Prussia, and
waited.
The war was ended. Prussia was in the dust; its King and Queen exiled
from the capital. Crops were ruined, villages were burned, and this
poor, unhappy country must pay its war debt.
"Now, God be everlastingly praised," wrote the poor Queen, "that my
daughter, who would now be almost fifteen years old, came dead into the
world."
"I must play my life days in this unlucky time," she said. "Perhaps God
gave me my living children that one of them might bring good to
mankind."
And there was one who did the great things the Queen dreamed of.
It was not the handsome Crown Prince, though he was a clever monarch; it
was not Princess Charlotte, though she became Empress of Russia; it was
not Alexandrina, who, a lovely old lady, died only a year or two ago as
Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg; nor jolly Carl, nor Louisa, nor
Albert, who came later.
It was simple, honourable, sensible little William. Every pain his
mother felt sank deeply into his heart, and at last the day came when he
led the Prussian army to the great battle of Sedan, where he conquered
the nephew of Napoleon and created the German Empire.
But no one dreamed of this that dreary summer in Memel, and though the
Queen did her best to be cheerful, all who loved her saw that the
canker-worm of sorrow was drawing nearer and nearer the heart of the
beautiful "Rose of the King," the flower whose stem had been so roughly
handled by its enemy.