CHAPTER I.

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BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI

OR,

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS

An Historical Romance

BY

L. MUHLBACH

AUTHOR OF JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS

COURT, MERCHANT OF BERLIN, ETC.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER

I. The Alchemist's Incantation

II. The Old Courtier

III. The Morning Hours of a King

IV. The Pardoned Courtier

V. How the Princess Ulrica became Queen of Sweden

VI. The Tempter

VII. The First Interview

VIII. Signora Barbarina

IX. The King and Barbarina

X. Eckhof

XI. A Life Question

XII. Superstition and Piety

BOOK II.

I. The Two Sisters

II. The Tempter

III. The Wedding-Festival of the Princess Ulrica

IV. Behind the Curtain

V. A Shame-faced King

VI. The First Rendezvous

VII. On The Balcony

VIII. The First Cloud

IX. The Council of War

X. The Cloister of Camens

XI. The King and the Abbot

XII. The Unknown Abbot

XIII. The Levee of a Dancer

XIV. The Studio

XV. The Confession

XVI. The Traitor

XVII. The Silver-Ware

XVIII. The First Flash of Lightning

BOOK III.

I. The Actors in Halle

II. The Student Lupinus

III. The Disturbance in the Theatre

IV. The Friends

V. The Order of the King

VI. The Battle of Sohr

VII. After the Battle

VIII. A Letter Pregnant with Fate

IX. The Return to Berlin

X. Job's Post

XI. The Undeceived

XII. Trenck's First Flight

XIII. The Flight

XIV. "I will"

XV. The Last Struggle for Power

XVI. The Disturbance in the Theatre

XVII. Sans-Souci

BOOK IV.

I. The Promise

II. Voltaire and his Royal Friend

III. The Confidence-Table

IV. The Confidential Dinner

V. Rome Sauvee

VI. A Woman's Heart

VII. Madame von Cocceji

VIII. Voltaire

IX. A Day in the Life of Voltaire

X. The Lovers

XI. Barbarina

XII. Intrigues

XIII. The Last Struggle

BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI

OR,

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

THE ALCHEMIST'S INCANTATION.

It was a lovely May morning! The early rays of the sun had not

withered the blossoms, or paled the fresh green of the garden of

Charlottenburg, but quickened them into new life and beauty. The

birds sang merrily in the groves. The wind, with light whispers,

swept through the long avenues of laurel and orange trees, which

surrounded the superb greenhouses and conservatories, and scattered

far and wide throughout the garden clouds of intoxicating perfume.

The garden was quiet and solitary, and the closed shutters of the

castle proved that not only the king, but the entire household, from

the dignified and important chamberlain to the frisky garden-boy,

still slept. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of hasty

steps. A young man, in simple citizen costume, ran up the great

avenue which led from the garden gate to the conservatory; then

cautiously looking about him, he drew near to a window of the lower

story in a wing of the castle. The window was closed and secured

with inside shutters; a small piece of white paper was seen between

the glass and the shutter. A passer-by might have supposed this was

accidental, but the young burgher knew that this little piece of

paper was a signal. His light stroke upon the window disturbed for a

moment the deathlike silence around, but produced no other effect;

he struck again, more loudly, and listened breathlessly. The

shutters were slowly and cautiously opened from within, and behind

the glass was seen the wan, sick face of Fredersdorf, the private

secretary and favorite of the king. When he saw the young man, his

features assumed a more animated expression, and a hopeful smile

played upon his lip; hastily opening the window, he gave the youth

his hand. "Good-morning, Joseph," said he; "I have not slept during

the whole night, I was so impatient to receive news from you. Has he

shown himself?"

Joseph bowed his head sadly. "He has not yet shown himself," he

replied in a hollow voice; "all our efforts have been in vain; we

have again sacrificed time, money, and strength. He has not yet

appeared."

"Alas!" cried Fredersdorf, "who could believe it so difficult to

move the devil to appear in person, when he makes his presence known

daily and hourly through the deeds of men? I must and will see him!

He MUST and SHALL make known this mystery. He shall teach me HOW and

of WHAT to make gold."

"He will yield at last!" cried Joseph, solemnly.

"What do you say? Will we succeed? Is not all hope lost?"

"All is not lost: the astrologer heard this night, during his

incantations, the voice of the devil, and saw for one moment the

glare of his eye, though he could not see his person."

"He saw the glare of his eye!" repeated Fredersdorf joyfully. "Oh,

we will yet compel him to show himself wholly. He must teach us to

make gold. And what said the voice of the devil to our astrologer?"

"He said these words: 'Would you see my face and hear words of

golden wisdom from my lips? so offer me, when next the moon is full

and shimmers like liquid gold in the heavens, a black ram; and if

you shed his blood for me, and if not one white hair can be

discovered upon him, I will appear and be subject to you.'"

"Another month of waiting, of patience, and of torture," murmured

Fredersdorf. "Four weeks to search for this black ram without a

single white hair; it will be difficult to find!"

"Oh, the world is large; we will send our messengers in every

quarter; we will find it. Those who truly seek, find at last what

they covet. But we will require much gold, and we are suffering now,

unhappily, for the want of it."

"We? whom do you mean by we?" asked Fredersdorf, with a contemptuous

shrug of the shoulders.

"I, in my own person, above all others, need gold. You can well

understand, my brother, that a student as I am has no superfluous

gold, even to pay his tailor's bills, much less to buy black rams.

Captain Kleist, in whose house the assembly meets to-night, has

already offered up far more valuable things than a score of black

rams; he has sacrificed his health, his rest, and his domestic

peace. His beautiful wife finds it strange, indeed, that he should

seek the devil every night everywhere else than in her lovely

presence."

"Yes, I understand that! The bewitching Madame Kleist must ever

remain the vain-glorious and coquettish Louise von Schwerin;

marriage has infused no water in her veins."

"No! but it has poured a river of wine in the blood of her husband,

and in this turbid stream their love and happiness is drowned.

Kleist is but a corpse, whom we must soon bury from our sight. The

king has made separation and divorce easy; yes, easier than

marriage. Is it not so, my brother? Ah, you blush; you find that

your light-hearted brother has more observant eyes than you thought,

and sees that which you intended to conceal. Yes, yes! I have indeed

seen that you have been wounded by Cupid's arrow, and that your

heart bleeds while our noble king refuses his consent to your

marriage."

"Ah, let me once discover this holy mystery--once learn how to make

gold, and I will have no favor to ask of any earthly monarch; I

shall acknowledge no other sovereign than my own will."

"And to become the possessor of this secret, and your own master,

you require nothing but a black ram. Create for us, then, my

powerful and wealthy brother, a black ram, and the work is done!"

"Alas! to think," cried Fredersdorf, "that I cannot absent myself;

that I must fold my hands and wait silently and quietly! What

slavery is this! but you, you are not in bondage as I am. The whole

world is before you; you can seek throughout the universe for this

blood-offering demanded by the devil."

"Give us gold, brother, and we will seek; without gold, no black

ram; without the black ram, no devil!"

Fredersdorf disappeared a moment and returned with a well-filled

purse, which he handed to his brother. "There, take the gold; send

your messengers in every quarter; go yourself and search. You must

either find or create him. I swear to you, if you do not succeed, I

will withdraw my protection from you; you will be only a poor

student, and must maintain yourself by your studies."

"That would be a sad support, indeed," said the young man, smiling.

"I am more than willing to choose another path in life. I would,

indeed, prefer being an artist to being a philosopher."

"An artist!" cried Fredersdorf, contemptuously; "have you discovered

in yourself an artist's vein?"

"Yes; or rather, Eckhof has awakened my sleeping talent."

"Eckhof--who is Eckhof?"

"How? you ask who is Eckhof? You know not, then, this great, this

exalted artist, who arrived here some weeks since, and has entranced

every one who has a German heart in his bosom, by his glorious

acting? I saw him a few days since in Golsched's Cato. Ah! my

brother, on that evening it was clear to me that I also was born for

something greater than to sit in a lonely study, and seek in musty

books for useless scraps of knowledge. No! I will not make the world

still darker and mistier for myself with the dust of ancient books;

I will illuminate my world by the noblest of all arts--I will become

an actor!"

"Fantastic fool!" said his brother. "A GERMAN ACTOR! that is to say,

a beggar and a vagabond! who wanders from city to city, and from

village to village, with his stage finery, who is laughed at

everywhere, even as the monkeys are laughed at when they make their

somersets over the camels' backs; it might answer to be a dancer,

or, at least, a French actor."

"It is true that the German stage is a castaway--a Cinderella--

thrust aside, and clothed with sackcloth and ashes, while the

spoiled and petted step-child is clothed in gold-embroidered robes.

Alas! alas! it is a bitter thing that the French actors are summoned

by the king to perform in the royal castle, while Schonemein, the

director of the German theatre, must rent the Council-house for a

large sum of money, and must pay a heavy tax for the permission to

give to the German public a German stage. Wait patiently, brother,

all this shall be changed, when the mystery of mysteries is

discovered, when we have found the black ram! I bless the accident

which gave me a knowledge of your secret, which forced you to

receive me as a member in order to secure my silence. I shall be

rich, powerful, and influential; I will build a superb theatre, and

fill the German heart with wonder and rapture."

"Well, well, let us first understand the art of making gold, and we

will make the whole world our theatre, and all mankind shall play

before us! Hasten, therefore, brother, hasten! By the next full moon

we will be the almighty rulers of the earth and all that is

therein!"

"Always provided that we have found the black ram."

"We will find him! If necessary, we will give his weight in gold,

and gold can do all things. Honor, love, power, position, and fame,

can all be bought with gold! Let us, then, make haste to be rich. To

be rich is to be independent, free, and gloriously happy. Go, my

brother, go! and may you soon return crowned with success."

"I have still a few weighty questions to ask. In the first place,

where shall I go?"

"To seek the black ram--it makes no difference where."

"Ah! it makes no difference! You do not seem to remember that the

vacation is over, that the professors of the University of Halle

have threatened to dismiss me if my attendance is so irregular. I

must, therefore, return to Halle to-day, or--"

"Return to Halle to-day!" cried Fredersdorf, with horror. "That is

impossible! You cannot return to Halle, unless you have already

found what we need."

"And that not being the case, I shall not return to Halle; I shall

be dismissed, and will cease to be a student. Do you consent, then,

that I shall become an actor, and take the great Eckhof for my only

professor?"

"Yes, I consent, provided the command of the alchemist is complied

with."

"And how if the alchemist, notwithstanding the blood of the black

ram, is unhappily not able to bring up the devil?"

At this question, a feverish crimson spot took possession of the wan

cheek of Fredersdorf, which was instantly chased away by a more

intense pallor. "If that is the result, I will either go mad or

die," he murmured.

"And then will you see the devil face to face!" cried his brother,

with a gay laugh. "But perhaps you might find a Eurydice to unlock

the under world for you. Well, we shall see. Till then, farewell,

brother, farewell." Nodding merrily to Fredersdorf, Joseph hurried

away.

Fredersdorf watched his tall and graceful figure as it disappeared

among the trees with a sad smile.

"He possesses something which is worth more than power or gold; he

is young, healthy, full of hope and confidence. The world belongs to

him, while I--"

The sound of footsteps called his attention again to the allee.

CHAPTER II.

THE OLD COURTIER.

The figure of a man was seen approaching, but with steps less light

and active than young Joseph's. As the stranger drew nearer,

Fredersdorf's features expressed great surprise. When at last he

drew up at the window, the secretary burst into a hearty laugh.

"Von Pollnitz! really and truly I do not deceive myself," cried

Fredersdorf, clapping his hands together, and again and again

uttering peals of laughter, in which Pollnitz heartily joined.

Then suddenly assuming a grave and dignified manner, Fredersdorf

bowed lowly and reverentially. "Pardon, Baron Pollnitz, pardon,"

said he in a tone of mock humility, "that I have dared to welcome

you in such an unseemly manner. I was indeed amazed to see you

again; you had taken an eternal leave of the court, we had shed

rivers of tears over your irreparable loss, and your unexpected

presence completely overpowered me."

"Mock and jeer at me to your heart's content, dear Fredersdorf; I

will joyfully and lustily unite in your laughter and your sport, as

soon as I have recovered from the fearful jolting of the carriage

which brought me here. Be pleased to open the window a little more,

and place a chair on the outside, that I may climb in, like an

ardent, eager lover. I have not patience to go round to the castle

door."

Fredersdorf silently obeyed orders, and in a few moments Von

Pollnitz was lying comfortably stretched out on a silk divan, in the

secretary's room.

"Ask me no questions, Fredersdorf," said he, breathing loudly;

"leave me awhile to enjoy undisturbed the comfort of your sofa, and

do me the favor first to answer me a few questions, before I reply

to yours."

"Demand, baron, and I will answer," said Fredersdorf, seating

himself on a chair near the sofa.

"First of all, who is King of Prussia? You, or Jordan,--or General

Kothenberg,--or Chazot,--or--speak, man, who is King of Prussia?"

"Frederick the Second, and he alone; and he so entirely, that even

his ministers are nothing more than his secretaries, to write at his

dictation; and his generals are only subordinate engineers to draw

the plans of battle which he has already fully determined upon; his

composers are only the copyists of his melodies and his musical

conceptions; the architects are carpenters to build according to the

plan which he has either drawn or chosen from amongst old Grecian

models: in short, all who serve him are literally servants in this

great state machine; they understand his will and obey it, nothing

more."

"Hum! that is bad, very bad," said Pollnitz. "I have found, however,

that there are two sorts of men, and you have mentioned in your

catalogue but one species, who have fallen so completely under the

hand of Frederick. You have said nothing of his cook, of his valet-

de-chambre, and yet these are most important persons. You must know

that in the presence of these powers, a king ceases to be a king,

and indeed becomes an entirely commonplace mortal, who eats and

drinks and clothes himself, and who must either conceal or adorn his

bodily necessities and weaknesses like any other man."

Fredersdorf shook his head sadly. "It seems to me that Frederick the

Second is beyond the pale of temptation; for even with his cook and

his valet he is still a king; his cook may prepare him the most

costly and luxurious viands, but unhappily they do not lead him into

temptation; a bad dish makes him angry, but the richest and choicest

food has no effect upon his humor; he is exactly the same before

dinner as after, fasting or feasting, and the favor he refuses

before the champagne, he never grants afterward."

"The devil! that is worse still," murmured Pollnitz. "And the valet-

-with him also does the king remain king?"

"Yes, so entirely, that he scarcely allows his valet to touch him.

He shaves, coifs, and dresses himself."

"My God! who, then, has any influence over him? To whom can I turn

to obtain a favor for me?"

"To his dogs, dear baron; they are now the only influential

dependants!"

"Do you mean truly the four-footed dogs?--or--"

"The four-footed, dearest baron! Frederick has more confidence in

them than in any two-legged animal. You know the king always trusted

much to the instincts of his dogs; he has now gone so far in this

confidence, as to believe that the hounds have an instinctive

aversion to all false, wicked, and evil-minded men. It is therefore

very important to every new-comer to be well received by the hounds,

as the king's reception is somewhat dependent upon theirs."

"Is Biche yet with the king?"

"Yes, still his greatest favorite."

"I am rejoiced to hear that! I was always in favor with the Signora

Biche; it was her custom to smell my pocket, hoping to find

chocolate. I beseech you, therefore, dearest friend, to give me some

chocolate, with which I may touch and soften the heart of the noble

signora, and thus induce the king to look upon me favorably.

"I will stick a half pound in each of your pockets, and if Biche

still growls at you, it will be a proof that she is far more noble

than men; in short, that she cannot be bribed. Have you finished

with your questions? I think it is now my time to begin."

"Not so, my friend. My head is still entirely filled with questions,

and they are twining and twisting about like the fishing-worms in a

bag, by the help of which men hope to secure fish. Be pitiful and

allow me to fasten a few more of these questions to my fishing-rod,

and thus try to secure my future."

"Well, then, go on--ask further!"

"Does Frederick show no special interest in any prima donna of the

opera, the ballet, or the theatre?"

"No, he cares for none of these things."

"Is his heart, then, entirely turned to stone?"

"Wholly and entirely."

"And the queen-mother, has she no influence?"

"My God! Baron Pollnitz, how long have you been away? You ask me as

many questions as if you had fallen directly from the moon, and knew

not even the outward appearance of the court."

"Dear friend, I have been a whole year away, that is to say, an

eternity. The court is a very slippery place; and if a man does not

accustom himself hourly to walk over this glassy parquet, he will

surely fall.

"Also there is nothing so uncertain as a court life; that which is

true to-day, is to-morrow considered incredible; that which was

beautiful yesterday is thrust aside to-day, as hateful to look upon:

that which we despise to-day is to-morrow sought after as a rare and

precious gem.

"Oh, I have had my experiences. I remember, that while I was

residing at the court of Saxony, I composed a poem in honor of the

Countess Aurora of Konigsmark. This was by special command of the

king; the poem was to be set to music by Hasse, and sung by the

Italian singers on the birthday of Aurora. Well, the Countess Aurora

was cast aside before my poem was finished, and the Countess Kozel

had taken her place. I finished my poem, but Amelia, and not Aurora,

was my heroine. Hasse composed the music, and no one who attended

the concert, given in honor of the birthday of the Countess Kozel,

had an idea that this festal cantata had been originally ordered for

Aurora of Konigsmark!

"Once, while I was in Russia, I had an audience from the Empress

Elizabeth. As I approached the castle, leaning on the arm of the

Captain Ischerbatow, I observed the guard, who stood before the

door, and presented arms. Well, eight weeks later, this common guard

was a general and a prince, and Isoherbatow was compelled to bow

before him!

"I saw in Venice a picture of the day of judgment by Tintoretto. In

this picture both Paradise and Hell were portrayed. I saw in

Paradise a lovely woman glowing with youth, beauty, and grace. She

was reclining in a most enchanting attitude, upon a bed of roses,

and surrounded by angels. Below, on the other half of the picture--

that is to say, in Hell--I saw the same woman; she had no couch of

roses, but was stretched upon a glowing gridiron; no smiling angels

surrounded her, but a hideous, grinning devil tore her flesh with

red-hot pincers.

"Pope Adrian had commanded Tintoretto to paint this picture, to make

it a monument in honor of the lovely Cinnia, and to glorify her by

all the power of art. Cinnia was a very dear friend of Adrian. He

was not only a pope, but a man, and a man who took pleasure in all

beautiful things. Cinnia was enchanting, and it was Tintoretto's

first duty to paint her picture, and make her the principal object

in Paradise. But look you! the Last Judgment by Tintoretto was a

large painting, so large that to count even the heads upon it is

laborious. The heads in each corner are counted separately, and then

added together, It required some years, of course, to paint such a

picture; and by the time Tintoretto had completed Paradise and

commenced the lower regions, many sad changes had occurred. The fond

heart of the seducing Cinnia had withdrawn itself from the pope and

clung tenaciously to Prince Colonna. The Holy Father, as we have

said before, notwithstanding he was pope, had some human weaknesses;

he naturally hated the fair inconstant, and sought revenge. He

recommended Tintoretto to bring the erring one once more before the

public--this time, however, as a guilty and condemned shiner in

hell.

"Dear Fredersdorf, I think always of this picture when I look at the

favorites of princes and kings, and I amuse myself with their pride

and arrogance. When I see them in their sunny paradise of power and

influence, I say to myself, 'All's well for the fleeting present,

I'll wait patiently; soon I shall see you roasting on the glowing

gridiron of royal displeasure, and the envious devils of this world

filled with rapture at your downfall, will tear your flesh to

pieces.' Friend Fredersdorf, that is my answer to your question as

to whether I have in one short year forgotten the quality of court

life."

"And by Heaven, that is a profound answer, which shows at least that

Baron Pollnitz has undergone no change during the last year, but is

still the experienced man of the world and the wise cavalier!"

"But why do you not give me my title, Fredersdorf? Why do you not

call me grand chamberlain?"

"Because you are no longer in the service of the king, but have

received your dismissal."

"Alas! God grant that the Signora Biche is favorable to me; then

will the king, as I hope, forget this dismissal. One question more.

You say that the queen-mother has no influence; how is it with the

wife of the king, Elizabeth Christine? Is she indeed the reigning

sovereign?"

"When did you return to Berlin?"

"Now, to-night; and when I left the carriage, I hastened here."

"Well, that is some excuse for your question. If you have only just

arrived, you could not possibly know of the important event which

will take place at the court to-night. This evening the king will

present his brother, Augustus William, to the court as Prince of

Prussia, and his successor, I think that is a sufficient answer to

your question. As to Queen Elizabeth Christine, she lives at

Schonhausen, and might be called the widow of her husband. The king

never addresses one word to her, not even on grand festal days, when

etiquette compels him to take a seat by her at table."

"Now, one last question, dear friend. How is it with yourself? Are

you influential? Does Frederick love you as warmly as he did a year

ago? Do you hope to reach the goal of your ambition and become all-

powerful?"

"I have ceased to be ambitious," sighed Fredersdorf. "I no longer

thirst to be the king of a king. My only desire is to be independent

of courts and kings--in short, to be my own master. Perhaps I may

succeed in this; if not, be ruined, as many others have been. If I

cannot tear my chains apart, I will perish under them! As for my

influence over the king, it is sufficient to say, that for six

months I have loved a woman to distraction, who returns my passion

with ardor, and I cannot marry her because the king, notwithstanding

my prayers and agony, will not consent."

"He is right," said Pollnitz, earnestly, as he stretched himself out

comfortably on the sofa; "he is a fool who thinks of yielding up his

manly freedom to any woman."

"You say that, baron? you, who gave up king and court, and went to

Nurnberg, in order that you might marry!"

"Aha! how adroitly you have played the knife out of my hands, and

have yourself become the questioner! Well. it is but just that you

also should have your curiosity satisfied. Demand of me now and I

will answer frankly."

"You are not married, baron?"

"Not in the least; and I have sworn that the goddess Fortuna alone

shall be my beloved. I will have no mortal wife."

"The report, then, is untrue that you have again changed your

religion, and become Protestant?"

"No, this time rumor has spoken the truth. The Nurnberger patrician

would accept no hand offered by a Catholic; so I took off the glove

of my Catholicism and drew on my Protestant one. My God! to a man of

the world, his outside faith is nothing more than an article of the

toilet. Do you not know that it is bon ton for princes when they

visit strange courts to wear the orders and uniforms of their

entertainers? So it is my rule of etiquette to adopt the religion

which the circumstances in which I find myself seem to make suitable

and profitable. My situation in Nurnberg demanded that I should

become a Protestant, and I became one."

"And for all that the marriage did not take place?"

"No, it was broken off through the obstinacy of my bride, who

refused to live in good fellowship and equality with me, and gave me

only the use of her income, and no right in her property. Can you

conceive of such folly? She imagined I would give myself in

marriage, and make a baroness of an indifferently pretty burgher

maiden; yes, a baroness of the realm, and expect no other

compensation for it than a wife to bore me! She wished to wed my

rank, and found it offensive that I should marry, not only her fair

self, but her millions! The contest over this point broke off the

contract, and I am glad of it. From my whole soul I regret and am

ashamed of having ever thought of marriage. The king, therefore, has

reason to be pleased with me."

"You are thinking, then, seriously of remaining at court?"

"Do you not find that natural, Fredersdorf? I have lived fifty years

at this court, and accustomed myself to its stupidity, its

nothingness, and its ceremony, as a man may accustom himself to a

hard tent-bed, and find it at last more luxurious than a couch of

eider-down. Besides, I have just lost a million in Nurnberg, and I

must find a compensation; the means at least to close my life

worthily as a cavalier. I must, therefore, again bow my free neck,

and enter service. You must aid me, and this day obtain for me an

audience of the king. I hope your influence will reach that far. The

rest must be my own affair."

"We will see what can be done. I have joyful news for the king to-

day. Perhaps it will make him gay and complaisant, and he will grant

you an audience."

"And this news which you have for him?"

"The Barbarina has arrived!"

"What! the celebrated dancer?"

"The same. We have seized and forcibly carried her off from the

republic of Venice and from Lord McKenzie; and Baron Swartz has

brought her as prisoner to Berlin!"

Pollnitz half raised himself from the sofa, and, seizing the arm of

the private secretary, he looked him joyfully in the face. "I have

conceived a plan," said he, "a heavenly plan! My friend, the sun of

power and splendor is rising for us, and your ambition, which has

been weary and ready to die, will now revive, and raise its head

proudly on high! That which I have long sought for is at last found.

The king is too young, too ardent, too much the genius and poet, to

be completely unimpassioned. Even Achilles was not impenetrable in

the heel, and Frederick has also his mortal part. Do you know,

Fredersdorf, who will discover the weak point, and send an arrow

there?"

"No."

"Well, I will tell you: the Signora Barbarina. Ah, you smile! you

shake your unbelieving head. You are no good psychologist. Do you

not know that we desire most earnestly that which seems difficult,

if not impossible to attain, and prize most highly that which we

have won with danger and difficulty? Judge, also, how precious a

treasure the Barbarina must be to Frederick. For her sake he has for

months carried on a diplomatic contest with Venice, and at last he

has literally torn her away from my Lord Stuart McKenzie."

"That is true," said Fredersdorf, thoughtfully; "for ten days the

king has waited with a rare impatience for the arrival of this

beautiful dancer, and he commanded that, as soon as she reached

Berlin, it should be announced to him."

"I tell you the king will adore the Signora Barbarina," said

Pollnitz, as he once more stretched himself upon the sofa pillows.

"I shall visit her to-day, and make the necessary arrangements. Now

I am content. I see land, a small island of glorious promise, which

will receive me, the poor shipwrecked mariner, and give me shelter

and protection. I will make myself the indispensable counsellor of

Barbarina; I will teach her how she can melt the stony heart of

Frederick, and make him her willing slave."

"Dreams, dreams!" said Fredersdorf, shrugging his shoulders.

"Dreams which I will make realities as soon as you obtain me an

audience with the king."

"Well, we will see what can be done, and whether--but listen, the

king is awake, and has opened his window. He is playing upon the

flute, which is his morning custom. His morning music is always the

barometer of his mood, and I can generally judge what kind of royal

weather we will have, whether bright or stormy. Come with me to the

window and listen awhile."

"Agreed," said Pollnitz, and he sprang with youthful elasticity from

the divan and joined Fredersdorf at the window. They listened almost

breathlessly to the sweet tones which seemed to whisper to them from

the upper windows; then mingling and melting with the perfume of the

orange-blossoms and the glorious and life-giving morning air, they

forced their sweet and subtle essence into the room with the cunning

and hardened old courtiers.

Fredersdorf and Pollnitz listened as a sly bat listens to the merry

whistling of an innocent bird, and watches the propitious moment to

spring upon her prey. It was an adagio which the king played upon

his flute, and he was indeed a master in the art. Slightly

trembling, as if in eternal melancholy, sobbing and pleading, soon

bursting out in rapturous and joyful strains of harmony, again

sighing and weeping, these melting tones fell like costly pearls

upon the summer air. The birds in the odorous bushes, the wind which

rustled in the trees, the light waves of the river, which with soft

murmurs prattled upon the shore, all Nature seemed for the moment to

hold her breath and listen to this enchanting melody. Even

Fredersdorf felt the power and influence of this music as he had

done in earlier days. The old love for his king filled his heart,

and his eyes were misty with tears.

As the music ceased, Fredersdorf exclaimed involuntarily: "He is,

after all, the noblest and greatest of men. It is useless to be

angry with him. I am forced against my will to worship him."

"Now," said Pollnitz, whose face had not for one moment lost its

expression of cold attention and sly cunning, "how says the

barometer? May we promise ourselves a clear and sunny day?"

"Yes, Frederick is in one of his soft and yielding moods. It is

probable he has been some hours awake and has written to some of his

friends--perhaps to Voltaire, or Algarotti; this makes him always

bright and clear."

"You think I shall obtain my audience?"

"I think you will."

"Then, dear friend, I have only to say that I hope you will give me

the chocolate for that noble and soul-searching hound, the Signora

Biche."

CHAPTER III.

THE MORNING HOURS OF A KING.

King Frederick had finished the adagio, and stood leaning against

the window gazing into the garden; his eyes, usually so fierce and

commanding, were softened by melancholy, and a sad smile played upon

his lips. The touching air which he had played found its echo

within, and held his soul a prisoner to troubled thoughts. Suddenly

he seemed to rouse himself by a great effort to the realities of

life, and, hastily ringing the bell, he commanded Jordan, the

director of the poor and the almshouse, to be summoned to him.

A few moments later, Jordan, who had been for some days a guest at

the castle of Charlottenburg, entered the king's room. Frederick

advanced to meet him, and extended both hands affectionately. "Good-

morning, Jordan," said he, gazing into the wan, thin face of his

friend, with the most earnest sympathy. "I hope you had a refreshing

night."

"I have had a charming night, for I was dreaming of your majesty,"

he replied, with a soft smile.

Frederick sighed, released his hands, and stepped back a few paces.

"Your majesty?" repeated he. "Why do you lay so cold a hand upon

that heart which beats so warmly for you? To what purpose is this

etiquette? Are we not alone? and can we not accord to our souls a

sweet interchange of thought and feeling without ceremony? Do we not

understand and love each other? Forget, then, for awhile, dear

Jordan, all these worldly distinctions. You see I am still in my

morning-dress. I do not, like the poor kings upon the stage, wear my

crown and sceptre in bed, or with my night-dress."

Jordan gazed lovingly and admiringly upon his great friend. "You

need no crown upon your brow to show to the world that you are a

king by the grace of God. The majesty of greatness is written upon

your face, my king."

"That," said Frederick with light irony, "is because we princes and

kings are acknowledged to be the exact image of the Creator, the

everlasting Father. As for you, and all the rest of the race, you

dare not presume to compare yourselves with us. Probably you are

made in the image of the second and third persons of the Trinity,

while we carry upon our withered and wearisome faces the

quintessence of the Godhead."

"Alas! alas, sire, if our pious priest heard you, what a stumbling-

block would he consider you!"

The king smiled. "Do you know, Jordan," said he gravely, "I believe

God raised me up for this special mission, to be a rock of offence

to these proud and worldly priests, and to trample under foot their

fooleries and their arrogance? I look upon that as the most

important part of my mission upon earth, and I am convinced that I

am appointed to humble this proud church, the vain and arrogant work

of hypocritical priests, and to establish in its place the pure

worship of God."

"Yes, yes," said Jordan, shrugging his shoulders; "if the mass of

men had the clear intellect of a Frederick! if their eyes were like

those of my royal eagle, to whom it is given to gaze steadfastly at

the sun without being dazzled. Alas! sire, the most of our race

resemble you so little! They are all like the solemn night-owls, who

draw a double curtain over their eyes, lest the light should blind

them. The church serves as this double eyelid for the night-owls

among men, or, rather, the churches, for the cunning and

covetousness of those priests has not been satisfied with one

church, but has established many."

"Yes," said the king angrily; "they have sown dragons' teeth, from

which bloodthirsty warriors have sprung, who wander up and down, and

in mad ambition tear all mankind, and themselves included, to

pieces. Listen, Jordan, we have fallen upon a subject which, as you

know, has interested and occupied me much of late, and it is

precisely upon these points that I have sought your counsel to-day.

Be seated, then, and hear what I have to say to you. You know that

the pietists and priests charge me with being a heretic, because I

do not think as they think, and believe as they believe. Which of

them, think you, Jordan, has the true faith? What is truth, and what

is wisdom? Each sect believes itself--and itself alone--the

possessor of both. That is reason enough, it appears to me, for

doubting them all."

"In the same land?"

"Yes, in various places in the same city, we are taught entirely

different and opposing doctrines in the name of religion. On one

hand, we are threatened with everlasting fire in the company of the

devil and his angels, if we believe that the Almighty is bodily

present in the elements offered at the sacrament of the Lord's

supper. On the other hand, we are taught, with equal assurance, that

the same terrible punishment will be awarded us unless we believe

that God is literally, and not symbolically, present in the bread

and wine. The simple statement of the doctrines of the different

churches in the world would fill an endless number of folios. Each

religion condemns all others, as leading to perdition; they cannot

therefore all be true, for truth does not contradict itself. If any

one of these were the true faith, would not God have made it clear,

and without question, to our eyes? God, who is truth, cannot be dark

or doubtful! If these differences in religion related only to

outward forms and ceremonies, we would let them pass as agreeable

and innocent changes, even as we adopt contentedly the changes in

style and fashion of our clothing. The doctrines of faith, as taught

in England, cannot be made to harmonize with those fulminated at

Rome. He to whom it would be given to reconcile all opposing

doctrines, and to unite all hearts in one pure and simple faith

would indeed give peace to the world, and be a Messiah and a

Saviour."

"Yes, he would accomplish what God himself, as it appears, has not

thought proper to do; his first great act must be to institute and

carry out a terrible massacre, in which every priest of every

existing religion must be pursued to the death."

"And that is precisely my mission," said the king. "I will institute

a massacre, not bodily and bloodily, but soul-piercing and

purifying. I say to you, Jordan, God dwells not in the churches of

these imperious priests, who choose to call themselves the servants

of God. God was with Moses on Mount Sinai, and with Zoroaster in the

wilderness; he was by Dante's side as he wrote his 'Divina

Commedia,' and he piloted the ships of Columbus as he went out

bravely to seek a new world! God is everywhere, and that mankind

should reverence and believe in and worship him, is proved by their

bearing his image and their high calling."

Jordan seized the hand of the king and pressed it enthusiastically

to his lips. "And the world says that you do not believe in God," he

exclaimed; "they class you with the unbelievers, and dare to preach

against you, and slander you from the pulpit."

"Yes, as I do not adopt their dogmas, I am, to them, a heretic,"

said the king laughing; "and when they preach against me, it proves

that they fear me, and look upon me as a powerful enemy. The enemy

of the priests I will be as long as I live, that is to say, of those

arrogant and imperious men who are wise in their own eyes, and

despise all who do not agree with them! I will destroy the

foundations of all these different churches, with their different

dogmas. I will utterly extinguish them by a universal church, in

which every man shall worship God after his own fashion. The worship

of God should be the only object of every church! All these

different doctrines, which they cast in each other's teeth, and for

love of which they close their doors against each other, shall be

given up. I will open all their churches, and the fresh, pure air of

God shall purify the musty buildings. I will build a temple, a great

illimitable temple, a second Pantheon, a church which shall unite

all churches within itself, in which it shall be granted to every

man to have his own altar, and adopt his own religious exercises.

All desire to worship God; every man shall do so according to his

conscience! Look you, Jordan, how pathetically they discourse of

brotherly love, and they tear each other to pieces! Let me only

build my Pantheon, and then will all men, in truth, become brothers.

The Jew and the so-called heathen, the Mohammedan and the Persian,

the Calvinist and the Catholic, the Lutheran and the Reformer--they

will all gather into my Pantheon, to worship God; all their forms

and dogmas will simultaneously fall to the ground. They will believe

simply in one God, and the churches of all these different sects

will soon stand empty and in ruins." [Footnote: Thiebault, in his

"Souvenirs de Vingt Ans," tells of Frederick's plan for a Pantheon.]

While the king spoke, his countenance was illumined; a noble

enthusiasm fired his large clear eyes, and his cheeks glowed as if

from the awakening breath of some new internal light.

Jordan's glance expressed unspeakable love, but at the same time he

looked so sad, so pained, that Frederick felt chilled and

restrained.

"How, Jordan! you are not of my opinion?" said he, with surprise.

"Our souls, which have been always heretofore in union, are now

apart. You do not approve of my Pantheon?"

"It is too exalted, sire, to be realized. Mankind require a form of

religion, in order not to lose all personal control."

"No, you mistake. They require only God, only love for this exalted

and lofty Being, whom we call God. The only proof by which we can

know that we can sincerely love God, lies in a steadfast and strong

purpose to obey Him. According to this, we need no other religion

than our reason, the good gift of God. So soon as we know that He

has spoken, we should be silent and submissive. Our inward worship

of God should consist in this, that we acknowledge Him and confess

our sins; our outward worship in the performance of all our duties,

according to our reason, the exalted nature of God, and our entire

dependence upon Him."

"It is to be regretted, sire, that this world is not sufficiently

enlightened to comprehend you. I am afraid that your majesty will

bring about exactly the opposite of that which you design. All these

religious sects which, as you say, are so entirely antagonistic,

would by this forced union feel themselves humiliated and trampled

upon; their hatred toward each other would be daily augmented; their

antipathies would find new food; and their religious zeal, which is

always exclusive, would burn with fiercer fury. Not only the

priests, but kings and princes, would look upon the carrying out of

your plan with horror. And shall not this daring step bring terror

into the cabinets of kings? A monarch, who has just drawn the eyes

of all politicians upon himself, now proposes to take charge of the

consciences of his subjects, and bow them to his will! Alas, how

would envy, with all her poisonous serpents, fasten upon the

triumphal car of a king who, by the great things he has already

achieved, had given assurance of yet greater results, and now stoops

to tyrannize over and oppress the weak and good, and cast them among

the ruins of their temples of worship to weep and lament in despair!

No, my king, this idea of a Pantheon, a universal house of worship,

can never be realized. It was a great and sublime thought, but not a

wise one; too great, too enlarged and liberal to be appreciated by

this pitiable world. Your majesty will forgive me for having spoken

the honest truth. I was forced to speak. Like my king, I love the

one only and true God, and God is truth."

"You have done well, Jordan," said the king, after a long pause,

during which he raised his eyes thoughtfully toward heaven. "Yes,

you have done well, and I believe you are right in your objections

to my Pantheon. I offer up to you, therefore, my favorite idea. For

your dear sake, my Pantheon shall become a ruin. Let this be a proof

of the strong love I bear you, Jordan. I will not contend with the

priests in my church, but I will pursue them without faltering into

their own; and I say to you, this will be a long and stiff-necked

war, which will last while my life endures. I will not have my

people blinded and stupefied by priests. I will suffer no other king

in Prussia. I alone will be king. These proud priests may decide, in

silence and humility, to teach their churches and intercede for

them; but let them once attempt to play the role of small popes, and

to exalt themselves as the only possessors of the key to heaven,

then they shall find in me an adversary who will prove to them that

the key is false with which they shut up the Holiest of Holies, and

is but used by them as a means to rob the people of their worldly

goods. Light and truth shall be the device of my whole land. This

will I seek after, and by this will I govern Prussia. I will have no

blinded subjects, no superstitious, conscience-stricken, trembling,

priest-ridden slaves. My people shall learn to think; thought shall

be free as the wanton air in Prussia; no censor or police shall

limit her boundary. The thoughts of men should be like the life-

giving and beautifying sun, all-nourishing and all-enlightening;

calling into existence and fructifying, not only the rich, and rare,

and lovely, but also the noxious and poisonous plant and the

creeping worm. These have also the right of life: if left to

themselves, they soon die of their own insignificance or

nothingness--die under the contempt of all the good and great."

"I fear," said Jordan, "that Frederick the Great is the only man

whose mind is so liberal and so unprejudiced. Believe me, my king,

there is no living sovereign in Europe who dares guarantee to his

subjects free thought and free speech."

"I will try so to act as to leave nothing to fear from the largest

liberty of thought or speech," said the king, quietly. "Men may

think and say of me what they will--that troubles me not; I will

amuse myself with their slanders and accusations of heresy; as for

their applause--well, that is a cheap merchandise, which I must

share with every expert magician and every popular comedian. The

applause of my own conscience, and of my friends--thy applause, my

Jordan--is alone of value for me. Then," said he, earnestly, almost

solemnly, "above all things, I covet fame. My name shall not pass

away like a soft tone or a sweet melody. I will write it in golden

letters on the tablet of history; it shall glitter like a star in

the firmament; when centuries have passed away, my people shall

remember me, and shall say, 'Frederick the Second made Prussia

great, and enlarged her borders; he was a father who loved his

people more than he did himself, and cheerfully sacrificed his own

rest and comfort in their service, he was a teacher who spoke to

them by word of mouth, and gave liberty to their souls.' Oh, Jordan,

you must stand by me and help me to reach this great goal for which

I thirst. Remain with me, dear friend, remain ever by my side, and

with thy love, thy constancy, thy truth, and thy sincerity, help me

to establish what is good, and to punish the evil; to acknowledge

and promote what is noble and expose the unworthy to shame and

confusion. Oh, Jordan! God has perhaps called me to be a great king;

remain by me, and help me to be a good and simple-minded man."

He threw himself with impetuosity on Jordan's breast, and clasped

him passionately in his arms. Jordan returned the king's embrace,

and silently raised his moist eyes to heaven. A prayer to "Our

Father" spoke in that eloquent eye, a heart-felt, glowing prayer for

this man now resting upon his bosom, and who for him was not the

all-powerful and commanding sovereign, but the noble, loving, and

beloved friend, this poet and philosopher, before whose mighty

genius his whole soul bowed in wonder and admiration; but suddenly,

in this moment of deep and pious emotion, a cold, an icy chill,

seemed to shiver and play like the breath of death over his

features, and the hot blood, like liquid metal, rushed madly through

his veins; he gave a light, short cough; with a quick, abrupt

movement, he released himself from the arms of the king. Withdrawing

a few steps, he turned away, and pressed his handkerchief to his

lips.

"Jordan, you suffer, you are sick," said the king, anxiously.

Jordan turned again to him; his face was calm, and even gay; his

eyes beamed with that strange, mysterious, and touching fire of

consumption which hides the shadow of death under the rosy lip and

glowing cheek; and, less cruel than all other maladies, leaves to

the soul its freshness, and to the heart its power to love and hope.

"Not so, sire," said Jordan, "I do not suffer. How can I be

otherwise than well and happy in your presence?" As he said this he

tried to thrust his handkerchief in his pocket.

The king looked earnestly at this handkerchief. "Jordan, why did you

press that handkerchief so hastily to your lips?"

Jordan forced a smile. "Well," said he, "I was obliged, as your

majesty no doubt saw, to cough, and I wished to make this

disagreeable music as soft as possible."

"That was not the reason," said Frederick; and, stepping hastily

forward, he seized the handkerchief. "Blood! it is drenched in

blood," said he, in a tone so full of anguish, that it was evident

he recognized and feared this fatal signal.

"Well, yes, it is blood; your majesty sees I am blood-thirsty!

Unhappily, I do not shed the blood of your enemies, but my own,

which I would gladly give, drop by drop, if I could thereby save my

king one hour's suffering or care."

"And yet you, Jordan, are now the cause of my bitterest grief. You

are ill, and you conceal it from me. You suffer, and force yourself

to seem gay, and hide your danger from me, in place of turning to my

physicians and demanding their counsel and aid."

"Frederick the Wise once said to me, 'Physicians are but quacks and

charlatans, and a man gives himself up to a tedious suicide who

swallows their prescriptions.'"

"No, it was not 'Frederick the Wise,' but 'Frederick the Fool,' who

uttered that folly. When the sun is shining, Frederick has no fear

of ghosts; but at the turn of midnight, he will breathe a silent

'Father in heaven,' to be protected from them. We have no use for

confidence in physicians when we are healthy; when we are ill we

need them, and then we begin to hold them in consideration. You are

ill, your breast suffers. I entreat you, Jordan, to call upon my

physician, and to follow his advice promptly and systematically. I

demand this as a proof of your friendship."

"I will obey your majesty, immediately," said Jordan, who now found

himself completely overcome by the weakness which follows loss of

blood; trembling, and almost sinking, he leaned upon the table.

Frederick perceived this, and rolling forward his own arm-chair,

with loving and tender care, he placed Jordan within it. He called

his servant, and ordered him to roll the chair to Jordan's room, and

go instantly for the physician Ellertt.

"It will be all in vain, and I shall lose him," murmured the king.

"Yes, I will lose him, as I have lost Suhm, and as I shall soon lose

my Caesarius, the good Kaiserling. Alas! why did God give me so warm

a heart for friendship, and then deprive me of my friends?"

Folding his arms, he stepped to the window and gazed thoughtfully

and sadly into the garden below, but he saw not its bloom and

beauty; his eyes were turned inward, and he saw only the grave of

his friend. Suddenly rousing and conquering himself, he shook off

the weary spirit of melancholy, and sought comfort in his flute, the

faithful companion of all his sufferings and struggles.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PARDONED COURTIER.

Frederick commenced again to play, but this time it was not an

adagio, but a joyous and triumphant allegro, with which he sought to

dispel the melancholy and quench the tears flowing in his troubled

heart. He walked backward and forward in his room, and from time to

time stood before the sofa upon which his graceful greyhound, Biche,

was quietly resting. Every minute the king passed her sofa, Biche

raised her beautiful head and greeted her royal friend with an

intelligent and friendly glance and a gentle wagging of her tail,

and this salutation was returned each time by Frederick before he

passed on. Finally, and still playing the flute, the king pressed

his foot upon a silver button in the floor of his room, and rang a

bell which hung in Fredersdorf's room, immediately under his own.

A few minutes later the secretary entered, but stood quietly at the

door till the king had finished his allegro and laid aside his

flute.

"Good-morning," said the king, and he looked up at his favorite with

so sharp and piercing a glance that Fredersdorf involuntarily

trembled, and cast his eyes to the ground. "You must have been long

wide awake, you answer the bell so quickly."

"Yes, your majesty, I have been long awake. I am happy, for I have

good news to bring you."

"Well, what is it?" said the king smiling. "Has my god-mother, the

Empress Maria Theresa, voluntarily surrendered to the Emperor

Charles VII.? Have France and England become reconciled? or--and

that seems to me the most probable--has my private secretary

mastered the mystery of gold-making, after which he has so long

striven, and for which he so willingly offers up the most costly and

solemn sacrifices?" The king laid so peculiar an expression upon the

word SACRIFICE that Fredersdorf wondered if he had not listened to

his conversation with Joseph, and learned the strange sacrifice

which they now proposed to offer up to the devil's shrine.

"Well, tell your news quickly," said the king. "You see that I am

torturing myself with the most wild and incredible suppositions."

"Sire, the Barbarina reached Berlin last night."

"Truly," said the king, indifferently, "so we have at last ravished

her from Venice, and Lord Stuart McKenzie."

"Not exactly so, your highness. Lord Stuart McKenzie arrived in

Berlin this morning."

Frederick frowned. "This is also, as it appears, a case of true

love, and may end in a silly marriage. I am not pleased when men or

women in my service entertain serious thoughts of love or marriage;

it occupies their thoughts and interferes with the performance of

their duty."

"Your majesty judges severely," murmured Fredersdorf, who knew full

well that this remark was intended for his special benefit.

"Well, this is not only my opinion, but I act in consonance with it.

I allow myself no relaxation. Have I ever had a love-affair?

Perhaps, Fredersdorf, you believe my blood to be frozen like ice in

my veins; that I have a heart of stone; in short, that I ceased to

be a man when I became a king."

"Not so; but I believe your majesty is too great and too exalted to

find any one worthy of your love."

"Folly, folly, sheer folly, Fredersdorf! When a man loves, he does

not weigh himself in the scales and find out how many pounds of

worth he has; he only loves, and forgets all other earthly things.

Now, for myself, I dare not forget that I am a king, and that my

time and strength belong to my people. My heart is too tender, and

for this reason I fly from love. So should you also flee, you also

dare not forget that your life is consecrated to your king. The

Signora Barbarina shall not forget that she is in my service;

dancing, and not loving, must now occupy her thoughts and actions. I

will allow her flirtations and amours, but a true love I absolutely

forbid. How can she go through with her ballets, her pirouettes, and

entrechats gayly and gracefully if a passionate love sits enthroned

within her heart? I have promised the English ambassador, who is the

cousin of this Lord Stuart McKenzie, that I will separate these

lovers. At this moment the friendship of England is of much

importance to me, and I shall certainly keep my promise. Write

immediately to the director of police that I command him not only to

banish Lord McKenzie from Berlin, but to send him under guard to

Hamburg, and there place him upon an English ship bound for England.

In twelve hours he must leave Berlin. [Footnote: This order was

obeyed. Lord McKenzie, the tender lover of the beautiful Barbarina,

who had followed her from Venice to Berlin, was, immediately on his

arrival, banished from Prussia by the special command of the king,

and taken to Hamburg; from thence he addressed some passionate

letters to his beautiful beloved, which she, of course, never

received, and which are preserved in the royal archives at Berlin.

(See Schneider's "History of Operas.")] Is that your only news,

Fredersdorf?"

"No, sire," said he, stealing a glance toward the door, which at

this moment was lightly opened. "I have another novelty to announce,

but I do not know whether it will be acceptable to your majesty.

Baron von Pollnitz--"

"Has sent us the announcement of his marriage?"

"No, sire, he is not married."

At this moment, the Signora Biche began to bay light notes of

welcome, and raised herself up from her comfortable position on the

sofa. The king did not remark her, however; he was wholly occupied

with Fredersdorf.

"How! do you say he is not married?"

"No, he has not married," said a plaintive voice from behind the

door, "and he prays your majesty, of your great grace, to allow him

to dedicate his whole life to his royal master, forgetting all other

men and women." The king turned and saw his former master of

ceremonies kneeling before the door, and his clasped hands stretched

out imploringly before him.

Frederick gave a hearty peal of laughter, while Biche, raising

herself with a joyful bark, sprang toward the kneeling penitent, and

capered playfully about him; she appeared indeed to be licking the

hand in which the sagacious baron held loosely a large piece of her

favorite chocolate. At first, the king laughed heartily; then, as he

remarked how tenderly Biche licked the hand of the baron, he shook

his head thoughtfully. "I have had a false confidence in the true

instinct of my little Biche; she seems, indeed, to welcome Pollnitz

joyfully; while a sharp bite in his calf is the only reception which

his wicked and faithless heart deserves."

"Happily, sire, my heart is not lodged in my calves," said Pollnitz.

"The wise Biche knows that the heart of Pollnitz is always in the

same place, and that love to my king and master has alone brought me

back to Berlin."

"Nonsense! A Pollnitz can feel no other love than that which he

cherishes for his own worthy person, and the purses of all others.

Let him explain now, quickly and without circumlocution, if he

really wishes my pardon, why, after going to Nurnberg to marry a bag

of gold, containing a few millions, he has now returned to Berlin."

"Sire, without circumlocution, the bag of gold would not open for

me, and would not scatter its treasures according to my necessities

and desires."

"Ah! I comprehend. The beautiful Nurnberger had heard of your rare

talent for scattering gold, and thought it wiser to lose a baron of

the realm than to lose her millions."

"Yes, that's about it, sire."

"I begin to have a great respect for the wisdom of this woman," said

Frederick, laughing. "I think she has a more reliable instinct than

my poor Biche, who, I see, still licks your hands."

"Oh, Biche knows me better than any man," said Pollnitz, tenderly

patting the greyhound. "Biche knows that my heart is filled with but

one love--love to my king and master. She knows that I have returned

to lay myself as she does, in all humility and self-abandonment, at

the feet of my royal Frederick, to receive either kicks or favors,

as he may see fit to bestow them; to be equally grateful for the

bones he may throw to me in his pity, as for the costly viands he

may grant in the magnanimity of his great soul."

"You are an absolute and unqualified fool," said the king, laughing,

"and if it was not against my conscience, and unworthy of human

nature, to engage a man as a perpetual buffoon, I would promote you

to the office of court fool. You might, at least, serve as an

example to my cavaliers, by teaching them what they ought to avoid."

"I have merited this cruel contempt, this painful punishment from my

royal master," said Pollnitz. "I submit silently. I will not, for a

moment, seek to justify myself."

"You do well in that. You can make no defence. You left my service

faithlessly and heartlessly, with the hope of marrying a fortune.

The marriage failed, and you come back with falsehood in your heart

and on your lips, chattering about your love for my royal house. You

are not ashamed to liken yourself to a hound, and to howl even as

they do, in order that I may take you back into favor. Do not

suppose, for one moment, that I am deceived by these professions--if

you could have done better for yourself elsewhere, you would not

have returned to Berlin; that not being the case, you creep back,

and vow that love alone has constrained you. Look you, Pollnitz, I

know you, I know you fully. You can never deceive me; and, most

assuredly, I would not receive you again into my service, if I did

not look upon you as an old inventory of my house, an inheritance

from my grandfather Frederick. I receive you, therefore, out of

consideration for the dead kings in whose service you were, and who

amused themselves with your follies; for their sakes I cannot allow

you to hunger. Think not that I will prepare you a bed of down, and

give you gold to waste in idleness. You must work for your living,

even as we all do. I grant you a pension, but you will perform your

old duty, as grand master of ceremonies. You understand such

nonsense better than I do. You were educated in a good school, and

studied etiquette from the foundation stone, under Prussia's first

king; and that you may not say we have overlooked your great worth,

I will lay yet another burden upon your shoulders, and make you

'master of the wardrobe.' It shall not be said of us, that nonsense

and folly are neglected at our court; even these shall have their

tribute. You shall therefore be called 'Master of the Robes,' but I

counsel you, yes, I warn you, never to interfere with my coats and

shirts. You shall have no opportunity to make a gold-embroidered

monkey of me. Etiquette requires that I must have a master of the

robes, but I warn you to interest yourself in all other things

rather than in my toilet."

"All that your majesty condescends to say, is written in letters of

flame upon my heart."

"I would rather suppose upon your knees; they must indeed burn from

this long penance. I have read you a lecture, a la facon of a

village schoolmaster. You can rise, the lecture is over."

Pollnitz rose from his knees, and, straightening himself, advanced

before the king, and made one of those low, artistic bows, which he

understood to perfection. "When does your majesty wish that I should

enter upon my duties?"

"To-day--at this moment. Count Tessin, a special ambassador from

Sweden, has just arrived. I wish to give him a courtly reception.

You will make the necessary arrangements. Enter at once upon the

discharge of your functions."

"I suppose, sire, that my salary also commences so soon as I begin

the discharge of my duties?"

"I said nothing about a salary. I promised you a pension; and, not

wishing to maintain you in absolute idleness, I lay upon you these

absurd and trifling duties."

"Shall I not, then, receive two pensions, if I discharge the two

functions?" said Pollnitz, in a low voice.

"You are an out-and-out scoundrel," said Frederick, "but I know all

your tricks. I shall not follow my father's example, who once asked

you how much it required to maintain worthily a cavalier of rank,

and you assured him that a hundred thousand thalers was not

sufficient. I grant you a pension of two thousand thalers, and I

tell you it must suffice to support you creditably. Woe to you, when

you commence again your former most contemptible and miserable life!

woe to you, when you again forget to distinguish between your own

money and the money of others! I assure you that I will never again

pay one of your debts. And in order that credulous men may not be so

silly as to lend you money, I will make my wishes known by a printed

order, and impose a tax of fifty thalers upon every man silly and

bold enough to lend you money. Are you content with this, and will

you enter my service upon these terms?"

"Yes, on any conditions which your majesty shall please to lay upon

me. But when, in spite of this open declaration of your majesty,

crazy people will still insist upon lending me money, you will

admit, sire, in short, that it is not my debt, and I cannot be

called upon for payment."

"I will take such precautions that no one will be foolish enough to

lend you money. I will have it publicly announced that he who lends

you money shall have no claim upon you, so that to lend you gold is

to give you gold, and truly in such a way as to spare you even the

trouble of thanks. I will have this trumpted through every street.

Are you still content?"

"Oh, sire, you show me in this the greatest earthly kindness; you

make me completely irresponsible. Woe to the fools and lunatics who

are mad enough to lend me money! From this time onward, I shall

never know a weary or listless moment. I shall have always the

cheering and inspiring occupation of winning the hearts of trusting

and weak-minded dunces, and, by adroit sleight-of-hand, transferring

the gold from their pockets to my own."

"You are incorrigible," said the king. "I doubt if all mankind are

made after the image of God. I think many of the race resemble the

devil, and I look upon you, Pollnitz, as a tolerably successful

portrait of his satanic majesty. I don't suppose you will be much

discomposed by this opinion. I imagine you look upon God and the

devil in very much the same light."

"Oh, not so, your majesty; I am far too religious to fall into such

errors."

"Yes, you are too religious; or, rather you have to many religions.

To which, for example, do you now profess to belong?"

"Sire, I have become a Protestant."

"From conviction?"

"So long as I believed in the possibility of marrying several

millions--yes, from conviction. These millions would have made me

happy, and surely I might allow myself to become a Protestant in

order to be happy."

"Once for all, how many times have you changed your religion?" said

the king, thoughtfully.

"Oh, not very often, sire! I am forever zealously seeking after the

true faith, and so long as I do not find that religion which makes

me content with such things as I have, I am forced to change in

justice to myself. In my childhood I was baptized and brought up a

Lutheran, and I had nothing against it, and remained in that

communion till I went to Rome; there I saw the Holy Father, the

Pope, perform mass, and the solemn ceremony roused my devotional

feelings to such a height that I became a Catholic immediately. This

was, however, no change of religion. Up to this time I had not acted

for myself; so the Catholic may be justly called my first faith."

"Yes, yes! that was about the time you stole your dying bride's

diamonds and fled from France."

"Oh, your majesty, that is a wicked invention of my enemies, and

utterly unfounded. If I had really stolen and sold those magnificent

brilliants--worth half a million--from my dying love, it would have

been sufficient to assure me a luxurious life, and I should not have

found it imperative to become a Catholic."

"Ah, you confess, then, that you did not become a Catholic from

conviction, but in order to obtain the favor of the cardinals and

the Pope?"

"Nothing escapes the quick eye of your majesty, so I will not dare

to defend myself. I came back to Berlin then, a Catholic, and the

ever-blessed king received me graciously. He was a noble and a pious

man, and my soul was seized with a glowing desire to imitate him. I

saw, indeed, how little I had advanced on the path to glory by

becoming a Catholic! I made a bold resolve and entered the Reformed

Church."

"And by this adroit move you obtained your object: you became the

favorite of my father the king. As he, unhappily, can show you no

further favor, it is no longer prudent to be a reformer, so you are

again a Lutheran--from conviction!"

"Oh, all the world knows the great, exalted, and unprejudiced mind

of our young king," said Pollnitz. "It is to him a matter of supreme

indifference what religious sect a man belongs to, so he adopts that

faith which makes him a brave, reliable, and serviceable subject of

his king and his fatherland."

Frederick cast a dark and contemptuous glance at him. "You are a

miserable mocker and despiser of all holy things; you belong to that

large class who, not from convictions of reason, but from worldly-

mindedness and licentiousness, do not believe in the Christian

religion. Such men can never be honest; they have, perhaps, from

their childhood been preached to, not to do evil from fear of hell-

fire; and so soon as they cease to believe in hell-fire, they give

themselves up to vice without remorse. You are one of these most

miserable wretches; and I say to you, that you will at last suffer

the torments of the damned. I know there is a hell-fire, but it can

only be found in a man's conscience! Now go and enter at once upon

your duties; in two hours I will receive Count Tessin in the palace

at Berlin."

Pollnitz made the three customary bows and left the room. The king

gazed after him contemptuously. "He is a finished scoundrel!" Then

turning to Fredersdorf, who at that moment entered the room, he

said, "I believe Pollnitz would sell his mother if he was in want of

money. You have brought me back a charming fellow; I rejoice that

there are no more of the race; Pollnitz has at least the fame of

being alone in his style. Is there any one else who asks an

audience?"

"Yes, sire, the antechamber is full, and every man declares that his

complaint can only be made personally to your majesty. It will

require much time to listen to all these men, and would be, besides,

a bad example. If your majesty receives fifty men to-day, a hundred

will demand audience to-morrow; they must therefore be put aside; I

have advised them all to make their wishes known in writing."

"Well, I think every man knows that is the common mode of

proceeding; as these people have not adopted it, it is evident they

prefer speaking to me. There are many things which can be better

said than written. A king has no right to close his ear to his

subjects. A ruler should not resemble a framed and curtained picture

of a god, only on rare and solemn occasions to be stared and

wondered at; he must be to his people what the domestic altar and

the household god was to the Romans, to which they drew near at all

hours with consecrated hearts and pious memories. Here they made

known all their cares, their sorrows, and their joys; here they

found comfort and peace. I will never withdraw myself from my

subjects; no, I will be the household god of my people, and will

lend a willing ear to all their prayers and complaints. Turn no man

away, Fredersdorf; I will announce it publicly, that every man has

the right to appeal to me personally."

"My king is great and good," said Fredersdorf, sadly; "every man but

myself can offer his petition to your majesty and hope for grace;

the king's ear is closed only to me; to my entreaties he will not

listen."

"Fredersdorf, you complain that I will not give my consent to your

marriage. What would you? I love you too well to give you up; but

when you take a wife you will be forever lost to me. A man cannot

serve two masters, and I will not divide your heart with this

Mademoiselle Daum; you must give it to me entire! Do not call me

cruel, Fredersdorf; believe that I love you and cannot give you up."

"Oh, sire, I shall only truly belong to you in love and gratitude,

when you permit me to be happy and wed the maiden I so fondly love."

"I will have no married private secretary, nor will I have a married

secretary of state," said the king, with a dark frown. "Say not

another word, Fredersdorf; put these thoughts away from you! My God,

there are so many other things on which you could have set your

heart! why must it be ever on a woman?"

"Because I love her passionately, your majesty."

"Ah, bah! do you not love other things with which you can console

yourself? You are a scholar and an alchemist. Well, then, read

Horace; exercise yourself in the art of making gold, and forget this

Mademoiselle Daum, who, be it said, in confidence between us, has no

other fascination than that she is rich. As to her wealth, that can

have but little charm for YOU, who, without doubt, will soon have

control of all the treasures of the world. By God's help, or the

devil's, you will very soon, I suppose, discover the secret of

making gold."

"He has, indeed, heard my conversation with Joseph," said

Fredersdorf to himself, and ashamed and confused, he cast his eyes

down before the laughing glance of the king.

"Read your Horace diligently," said Frederick--"you know he is also

my favorite author; you shall learn one of his beautiful songs by

heart, and repeat it to me."

The king walked up and down the room, and cast, from time to time, a

piercing glance at Fredersdorf. He then repeated from Horace these

two lines:

"'Torment not your heart

With the rich offering of a bleeding lamb.'"

"I see well," said Fredersdorf, completely confused, "I see well

that your majesty knows--"

"That it is high time," said the king, interrupting him, "to go to

Berlin; you do well to remind me of it. Order my carriage--I will be

off at once."

CHAPTER V.

HOW THE PRINCESS ULRICA BECAME QUEEN OF SWEDEN.

Princess Ulrica, the eldest of the two unmarried sisters of the

king, paced her room with passionate steps. The king had just made

the queen-mother a visit, and had commanded that his two sisters

should be present at the interview.

Frederick was gay and talkative. He told them that the Signora

Barbarina had arrived, and would appear that evening at the castle

theatre. He invited his mother and the two princesses to be present.

He requested them to make tasteful and becoming toilets, and to be

bright and amiable at the ball and supper after the theatre. The

king implored them both to be gay: the one, in order to show that

she was neither angry nor jealous; the other, that she was proud and

happy.

The curiosity of the two young girls was much excited, and they

urged the king to explain his mysterious words. He informed them

that Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassador, would be present at the

ball; that he was sent to Berlin to select a wife for the prince

royal of Sweden, or, rather, to receive one; the choice, it

appeared, had been already made, as the count had asked the king if

he might make proposals for the hand of the Princess Amelia, or if

she were already promised in marriage. The king replied that Amelia

was bound by no contract, and that proposals from Sweden would be

graciously received.

"Be, therefore, lovely and attractive," said the king, placing his

hand caressingly upon the rosy cheek of his little sister; "prove to

the count that the intellectual brow of my sweet sister is fitted to

wear a crown worthily."

The queen-mother glanced toward the window into which the Princess

Ulrica had hastily withdrawn.

"And will your majesty really consent that the youngest of my

daughters shall be first married?"

The king followed the glance of his mother, and saw the frowning

brow and trembling lip of his sister. Frederick feared to increase

the mortification of Ulrica, and seemed, therefore, not to observe

her withdrawal.

"I think," said he, "your majesty was not older than Amelia when you

married my father; and if the crown prince of Sweden wishes to marry

Amelia, I see no reason why we should refuse him. Happily, we are

not Jews, and our laws do not forbid the younger sister to marry

first. To refuse the prince the hand of Amelia, or to offer him the

hand of Ulrica, would indicate that we feared the latter might

remain unsought. I think my lovely and talented sister does not

deserve to be placed in such a mortifying position, and that her

hand will be eagerly sought by other royal wooers."

"And, for myself, I am not at all anxious to marry," said Ulrica,

throwing her head back proudly, and casting a half-contemptuous,

half-pitiful look at Amelia. "I have no wish to marry. Truly, I have

not seen many happy examples of wedded life in our family. All my

sisters are unhappy, and I see no reason why I should tread the same

thorny path."

The king smiled. "I see the little Ulrica shares my aversion to

wedded life, but we cannot expect, dearest, that all the world

should be equally wise. We will, therefore, allow our foolish sister

Amelia to wed, and run away from us. This marriage will cost her

anxiety and sorrow; she must not only place her little feet in the

land of reindeers, bears, and eternal snows, but she must also be

baptized and adopt a new religion. Let us thank God, then, that the

prince has had the caprice to pass you by and choose Amelia, who, I

can see, is resolved to be married. We will, therefore, leave the

foolish child to her fate."

It was Frederick's intention, by these light jests, to comfort his

sister Ulrica, and give her time to collect herself. He did not

remark that his words had a most painful effect upon his younger

sister, and that she became deadly pale as he said she must change

her faith in order to become princess royal of Sweden.

The proud queen-mother had also received this announcement angrily.

"I think, sire," said she, "that the daughter of William the Second,

and the sister of the King of Prussia, might be allowed to remain

true to the faith of her fathers."

"Madame," said the king, bowing reverentially, "the question is not,

I am sorry to say, as to Amelia's father or brother; she will be the

mother of sons, who, according to the law of the land, must be

brought up in the religion of their father. You see, then, that if

this marriage takes place, one of the two contracting parties must

yield; and, it appears to me, that is the calling and the duty of

the woman."

"Oh, yes," said the queen bitterly, "you have been educated in too

good a school, and are too thoroughly a Hohenzollern, not to believe

in the complete self-renunciation of women. At this court, women

have only to obey."

"Nevertheless, the women do rule over us; and even when we appear to

command, we are submissive and obedient," said the king, as he

kissed his mother's hand and withdrew.

The three ladies also retired to their own rooms immediately. Each

one was too much occupied with her own thoughts to bear the presence

of another.

And now, being alone, the Princess Ulrica found it no longer

necessary to retain the smiles which she had so long and with such

mighty effort forced to play upon her lips; every pulse was beating

with glowing rage, and she gave free course to her scorn.

Her younger sister, this little maiden of eighteen years, was to be

married, to wed a future king; while she, the eldest, now two-and-

twenty, remained unchosen! And it was not her own disinclination nor

the will of the king which led to this shameful result; no! the

Swedish ambassador came not to seek her hand, but that of her

sister! She, the elder, was scorned--set aside. The king might

truthfully say there was no law of the land which forbade the

marriage of the younger sister before the elder; but there was a law

of custom and of propriety, and this law was trampled upon.

As Ulrica thought over these things, she rose from her seat with one

wild spring. On entering the room she had completely overcome, and,

with trembling knees, she had fallen upon the divan. She stood now,

however, like a tigress prepared for attack, and looking for the

enemy she was resolved to slay. The raging, stormy blood of the

Hohenzollerns was aroused. The energy and pride of her mother glowed

with feverish pulses in her bosom. She would have been happy to find

an enemy opposed to her, the waves of passion rushing through her

veins might have been assuaged; but she was alone, entirely alone,

and had no other enemy to overcome than herself. She must, then,

declare war against her own evil heart. With wild steps she rushed

to the glass, and scrutinizingly and fiercely examined her own

image. Her eye was cold, searching, and stern. Yes, she would prove

herself; she would know if it were any thing in her own outward

appearance which led the Swedish ambassador to choose her sister

rather than herself.

"It is true, Amelia is more beautiful, in the common acceptation of

the word; her eyes are larger, her cheek rosier, her smile more

fresh and youthful, and her small but graceful figure is at the same

time childlike and voluptuous. She would make an enchanting

shepherdess, but is not fitted to be a queen. She has no majesty, no

presence. She has not by nature that imposing gravity, which is the

gift of Providence, and cannot be acquired, and without which the

queen is sometimes forgotten in the woman. Amelia can never attain

that eternal calm, that exalted composure, which checks all approach

to familiarity, and which, by an almost imperceptible pressure of

the hand and a light smile, bestows more happiness and a more

liberal reward than the most impassioned tenderness and the warmest

caresses of a commonplace woman. No, Amelia could never make a

complete queen, she can only be a beautiful woman; while I--I know

that I am less lovely, but I feel that I am born to rule. I have the

grace and figure of a queen--yes, I have the soul of a queen! I

would understand how to be imposing, and, at the same time, to

obtain the love of my people, not from any weak thirst for love, but

from a queenly ambition. But I am set aside, and Amelia will be a

queen; my fate will be that of my elder sisters, I shall wed a poor

margrave, or paltry duke, and may indeed thank God if I am not an

old maiden princess, with a small pension."

She stamped wildly upon the floor, and paced the room with hasty

steps. Suddenly she grew calmer, her brow, which had been

overshadowed by dark clouds, cleared, and a faint smile played upon

those lips which a moment before had been compressed by passion.

"After all," she said, "the formal demand for the hand of Amelia has

not yet been made; perhaps the ambassador has mistaken my name for

that of Amelia, and as he has made no direct proposition, I am

convinced he wishes to make some observations before deciding. Now,

if the result of this examination should prove to him that Amelia is

not fitted to be the wife of his prince, and if Amelia herself--I

thought I saw that she turned pale as the king spoke of abandoning

her faith; and when she left the room, despair and misery were

written upon that face which should have glowed with pride and

triumph. Ah, I see land!" said Ulrica, breathing freely and sinking

comfortably upon the divan, "I am no longer hopelessly shipwrecked;

I have found a plank, which may perhaps save me. Let me consider

calmly,"--and, as if Fate itself were playing into her hand, the

door opened and Amelia entered.

One glance was sufficient to show Ulrica that she was not deceived,

and that this important event had brought no joy to poor Amelia. The

lovely eyes of the princess were red with weeping; and the soft

lips, so generally and gladly given to gay chat and merry laughter,

were now expressive of silent anguish. Ulrica saw all this, and laid

her plans accordingly. In place of receiving Amelia coldly and

repulsively, which but a few moments before she would have done, she

sprang to meet her with every sign of heart-felt love; the little

maiden threw herself weeping convulsively into her sister's arms,

and was pressed closely and tenderly to her bosom.

"Tears!" said Ulrica lovingly, as she drew her sister to the sofa

and pressed her down upon the soft pillows; "you weep, and yet a

splendid future is this day secured to you!"

Amelia sobbed yet more loudly and pressed her tear-stained face more

closely to the bosom of her sister. Ulrica looked down with a

mixture of curiosity and triumph; she could not understand these

tears; but she had a secret satisfaction in seeing the person she

most envied weeping so bitterly.

"How is this? are you not happy to be a queen?"

Amelia raised her face hastily and sobbed out: "No! I am not pleased

to be an apostate, to perjure myself! I am not content to deny my

faith in order to buy a miserable earthly crown! I have sworn to be

true to my God and my faith, and now I am commanded to lay it aside

like a perishable robe, and take another in exchange."

"Ah, is it that?" said Ulrica, with a tone of contempt she could

scarcely control; "you fear this bold step by which your poor

innocent soul may be compromised."

"I will remain true to the belief in which I have been educated, and

to which I have dedicated myself at the altar!" cried Amelia,

bursting again into tears.

"It is easy to see that but a short time only has elapsed since you

took these vows upon you. You have all the fanaticism of a new

convert. How would our blessed father rejoice if he could see you

now!"

"He would not force me to deny my religion; he would not, for the

sake of outward splendor, endanger my soul's salvation. Oh! it is

harsh and cruel of my brother to treat me as a piece of merchandise;

he asks not whether my heart or principles can conscientiously take

part in his ambitious plans."

Ulrica cast a long and piercing glance upon her sister. She would

gladly have searched to the bottom of her soul; she wished to know

if this fierce opposition to the marriage was the result of love to

the faith of her fathers.

"And you are not ambitious? you are not excited by the thought of

being a queen, of marrying a man who will fill a place in the

world's history?"

The young girl raised her eyes in amazement, and her tears ceased to

flow.

"What has a woman to do with the world's history?" she said; "think

you I care to be named as the wife of a king of Sweden? It is a sad,

unhappy fate to be a princess. We are sold to him who makes the

largest offer and the most favorable conditions. Well, let it be so;

it is the fate of all princesses; it is for this we are educated,

and must bow humbly to the yoke; but liberty of conscience should be

at least allowed us, freedom of thought, the poor consolation of

worshipping God in the manner we prefer, and of seeking help and

protection in the arms of that religion we believe in and love."

"One can be faithful to God even when unfaithful to their first

faith," said Ulrica, who began already to make excuses to herself

for the change of religion she contemplated.

"That is not in my power!" cried Amelia passionately. "I cling to

the religion of my house, and I should tremble before the wrath of

God if I gave it up."

"After all, it is but a small and unimportant difference between the

Reformed and Lutheran Churches," said Ulrica, much excited, and

entirely forgetting that the question had as yet no relation to

herself. "One can be as pious a Christian in the Reformed Church as

in the Lutheran."

"Not I; it is not in my power," said Amelia, with the wilfulness of

a spoiled child not accustomed to opposition. "I will not become a

Lutheran. A Pollnitz may change his faith, but not the daughter of

Frederick William. Did not the king with indignation and contempt

relate to us how Pollnitz had again changed his religion and become

a Protestant? Did we not laugh heartily, and in our hearts despise

the dishonorable man? I will not place myself in such a position."

"Then, my sister, there will be stormy times and stern strife in our

household: the bitter scenes of earlier days will be renewed. Our

royal brother is not less resolute than our stern father. I fear

that his brothers and sisters are nothing more to him than useful

instruments in this great state machine, and they must bow

themselves unquestioningly to his commands."

"Yes, I feel this; I see it clearly," said Amelia, trembling; "and

for this reason, dear sister, you must stand by me and help me. I

swear to you that I will not become a Lutheran."

"Is that your unchangeable resolution?"

"Yes, unchangeable."

"Well, if that is so, I will give you my counsel."

"Speak, speak quickly," said Amelia, breathlessly, and throwing her

arms around the slender waist of her sister, she laid her head

trustingly upon her shoulder.

"Firstly, the Swedish ambassador has not made a formal demand for

your hand; that probably proves that he will first examine and

observe you closely, to see if you are suited to be the wife of the

prince royal. We have still, therefore, a short delay, which, if

wisely used, may conduct you to the desired goal. But, Amelia, prove

yourself once more; ask counsel again of your heart and conscience,

before you make a final resolve. I will not have you complain of me

in future, and say that my foolish and guilty counsel lost you the

throne of Sweden."

"Oh, fear not, my beloved sister. I will not be queen of Sweden at

the cost of my immortal soul."

"You will not, then, reproach me, Amelia?"

"Never."

"Listen, then. From this moment lay a mask upon your face; that is

to say, assume a proud, rude, overbearing tone to all around you--

toward your friends, your servants, the court circle, yes, even

toward the members of your family. Particularly in the presence of

this Swedish ambassador, show yourself to be a capricious, nervous,

and haughty princess, who scarcely thinks it worth the trouble to

speak a word, or give a friendly glance, to a man in his position.

When you speak to him and he attempts to answer, cut short his

replies, and command him to be silent; if he strives to win your

favor by the most respectful civility, let an unmistakable

expression of contempt be written upon your face, and let that be

your only answer. Regulate your conduct for a few days by these

rules, and I am convinced you will attain your object."

"Yes, yes! I understand, I understand!" said the young girl,

clapping her little white hands, and looking up joyously. "I shall,

by my pride and passion, freeze the words in the mouth of my lord

ambassador, so that the decisive word cannot find utterance. Oh!

this will be a precious comedy, my sweet sister, and I promise you

to carry out my role of heroine to perfection. Oh, I thank you! I

thank you! I am indeed happy to have found so wise a sister, so

brave a comrade in arms, while surrounded with such perils!"

"She would not have it otherwise," said Ulrica, laconically, as she

found herself again alone. "If she is without ambition, so much the

worse for her--so much the better for me! And now, it is high time

to think of my toilet--that is the most important consideration. To-

day I must be not only amiable, but lovely. To-day I will appear an

innocent and unpretending maiden."

With a mocking smile she entered her boudoir, and called her

attendants.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TEMPTER.

Princess Ulrica was earnestly occupied with considerations of her

toilet. Amelia had returned to her room, musing and thoughtful.

There were difficulties in the way of the new role she had resolved

to play, and by which she expected to deceive the world. She stood

for a moment before the door of her dressing-room, and listened to

the voices of her attendants, who were gayly laughing and talking.

It was her custom to join them, and take a ready part in their merry

sports and jests. She must now, however, deny herself, and put a

guard over her heart and lips. Accordingly, with a dark frown on her

brow and tightly-compressed lips, she entered the room in which her

maids were at that moment arranging her ball toilet for the evening.

"It seems to me that your loud talking is most unseemly," said

Amelia, in a tone so haughty, so passionate, that the smiles of the

two young girls vanished in clouds. "I will be obliged to you if you

will complete your work noiselessly, and reserve your folly till you

have left my room! And what is that, Mademoiselle Felicien? for what

purpose have you prepared these flowers, which I see lying upon your

table?"

"Your royal highness, these flowers are for your coiffure, and these

bouquets are intended to festoon your dress."

"How dare you allow yourself to decide upon my toilet,

mademoiselle?"

"I have not dared," said Felicien, tremblingly; "your royal highness

ordered moss roses for your hair, and bouquets of the same for your

bosom and your robe."

"It appears to me," said Amelia, imperiously, "that to contradict

me, and at the same time assert that which is false, is, to say the

least, unbecoming your position. I am not inclined to appear in the

toilet of a gardener's daughter. To prove this, I will throw these

flowers, which you dare to assert I ordered, from the window; with

their strong odor they poison the air."

With a cruel hand, she gathered up the lovely roses, and hastened to

the window. "Look, mademoiselle, these are the flowers which you

undertook to prepare for my hair," said Amelia, with well-assumed

scorn, as she threw the bouquet into the garden which surrounded the

castle of Monbijou; "look, mademoiselle."

Suddenly the princess uttered a low cry, and looked, blushing

painfully, into the garden. In her haste, she had not remarked that

two gentlemen, at that moment, crossed the great court which led to

the principal door of the castle; and the flowers which she had so

scornfully rejected, had struck the younger and taller of the

gentlemen exactly in the face. He stood completely amazed, and

looked questioningly at the window from which this curious bomb had

fallen. His companion, however, laughed aloud, and made a profound

bow to the princess, who still stood, blushing and embarrassed, at

the window.

"From this hour I believe in the legend of the Fairy of the Roses,"

said the elder of the two gentlemen, who was indeed no other than

Baron Pollnitz. "Yes, princess, I believe fully, and I would not be

at all astonished if your highness should at this moment flutter

from the window in a chariot drawn by doves, and cast another shower

of blossoms in the face of my friend."

The princess had found time to recover herself, and to remember the

haughty part she was determined to play.

"I hope, baron," she said, sternly, "you will not allow yourself to

suppose it was my purpose to throw those roses either to your

companion or yourself? I wished only to get rid of them."

She shut the window rudely and noisily, and commanded her attendants

to complete her toilet at once. She seated herself sternly before

the glass, and ordered her French maid to cover her head with jewels

and ribbons.

The two gentlemen still stood in the garden, in earnest

conversation.

"This is assuredly an auspicious omen, my friend," said Pollnitz to

the young officer, who was gazing musingly at the roses he held in

his hand. He had raised his eyes from the flowers to the window at

which the lovely form of the princess had, for a few moments,

appeared.

"Alas!" said he, sighing, and gazing afar off; "she is so

wonderfully beautiful--so lovely; and she is a princess!"

Pollnitz laughed heartily. "One might think that you regretted that

fact! Listen to me, my young friend; stand no longer here, in a

dream. Come, in place of entering the castle immediately, to pay our

respects to the queen-mother, we will take a walk through the

garden, that you may allay your raptures and recover your reason."

He took the arm of the young man, and drew him into a shady, private

pathway.

"Now, my dear friend, listen to me, and lay to heart all that I say

to you. Accident, or, if you prefer it, Fate brought us together.

After all, it seems indeed more than an accident. I had just

returned to Berlin, and was about to pay my respects to the queen-

mother, when I met you, who at the same time seek an audience, in

order to commend yourself to her royal protection. You bear a letter

of commendation from my old friend, Count Lottum. All this, of

course, excites my curiosity. I ask your name, and learn, to my

astonishment, that you are young Von Trenck, the son of the woman

who was my first love, and who made me most unhappy by not returning

my passion. I assure you, it produces a singular sensation to meet

so unexpectedly the son of a first love, whose father, alas! you

have not the happiness to be. I feel already that I am prepared to

love you as foolishly as I once loved your fair mother."

"I will not, like my mother, reject your vows," said the young

officer, smiling, and extending his hand to Pollnitz.

"I hoped as much," said Pollnitz; "you shall find a fond father in

me, and even to-day I will commence my parental duties. In the first

place, what brings you here?"

"To make my fortune--to become a general, or field-marshal, if

possible," said the young man, laughing.

"How old are you?"

"I am nineteen."

"You wear the uniform of an officer of the life-guard; the king has,

therefore, already promoted you?"

"I was a cadet but eight days," said Trenck, proudly. "My step-

father, Count Lottum, came with me from Dantzic, and presented me to

the king. His majesty received me graciously, and remembered well

that I had received, at the examination at Konigsberg, the first

prize from his hand."

"Go on, go on," said Pollnitz; "you see I am all ear, and I must

know your present position in order to be useful to you."

"The king, as I have said, received me graciously, even kindly; he

made me a cadet in his cavalry corps, and three weeks after, I was

summoned before him; he had heard something of my wonderful memory,

and he wished to prove me."

"Well, how did you stand the proof?"

"I stood with the king at the window, and he called over to me

quickly the names of fifty soldiers who were standing in the court

below, pointing to each man as he called his name. I then repeated

to him every name in the same succession, but backward."

"A wonderful memory, indeed," said Pollnitz, taking a pinch of

Spanish snuff; "a terrible memory, which would make me shudder if I

were your sweetheart!"

"And why?" said the young officer.

"Because you would hold ever in remembrance all her caprices and all

her oaths, and one day, when she no longer loved you, she would be

held to a strict account. Well, did the king subject you to further

proof?"

"Yes; he gave me the material for two letters, which I dictated at

the same time to his secretaries, one in French and one in Latin. He

then commanded me to draw the plan of the Hare Meadow, and I did

so."

"Was he pleased?"

"He made me cornet of the guard," said Trenck, modestly avoiding a

more direct answer.

"I see you are in high favor: in three weeks you are promoted from

cadet to lieutenant! quick advancement, which the king, no doubt,

signalized by some other act of grace?"

"He sent me two horses from his stable, and when I came to thank

him, he gave me a purse containing two hundred 'Fredericks.'"

Pollnitz gave a spring backward. "Thunder! you are indeed in favor!

the king gives you presents! Ah, my young friend, I would protect

you, but it seems you can patronize me. The king has never made me a

present. And what do you desire to-day of the queen-mother?"

"As I am now a lieutenant, I belong to the court circle, and must

take part in the court festivals. So the king commanded me to pay my

respects to the queen-mother."

"Ah, the king ordered that?" said Pollnitz; "truly, young man, the

king must destine you for great things--he overloads you with

favors. You will make a glittering career, provided you are wise

enough to escape the shoals and quicksands in your way. I can tell

you, there will be adroit and willing hands ready to cast you down;

those who are in favor at court have always bitter enemies."

"Yes, I am aware that I have enemies," said Trenck; "more than once

I have already been charged with being a drunkard and a rioter; but

the king, happily, only laughed at the accusations."

"He is really in high favor, and I would do well to secure his

friendship," thought Pollnitz; "the king will also be pleased with

me if I am kind to him." He held out his hand to the young officer,

and said, with fatherly tenderness: "From this time onward, when

your enemies shall please to attack you, they shall not find you

alone; they will find me a friend ever at your side. You are the son

of the only woman I ever loved--I will cherish you in my heart as my

first-born!"

"And I receive you as my father with my whole heart," said Trenck;

"be my father, my friend, and my counsellor."

"The court is a dangerous and slippery stage, upon which a young and

inexperienced man may lightly slip, unless held up by a strong arm.

Many will hate you because you are in favor, and the hate of many is

like the sting of hornets: one sting is not fatal, but a general

attack sometimes brings death. Make use, therefore, of your

sunshine, and fix yourself strongly in an immovable position."

"The great question is, what shall be my first step to secure it?"

"How! you ask that question, and you are nineteen years old, six

feet high, have a handsome face, a splendid figure, an old, renowned

name, and are graciously received at court! Ah! youngster, I have

seen many arrive at the highest honors and distinctions, who did not

possess half your glittering qualities. If you use the right means

at the right time, you cannot fail of success."

"What do you consider the best means?"

"The admiration and favor of women! You must gain the love of

powerful and influential women. Oh, you are terrified, and your brow

is clouded! perhaps, unhappily, you are already in love?"

"No!" said Frederick von Trenck, violently. "I have never been in

love. I dare say more than that: I have never kissed the lips of a

woman."

Pollnitz gazed at him with an expression of indescribable amazement.

"How!" said he; "you are nineteen, and assert that you have never

embraced a woman?" He gave a mocking and cynical laugh.

"Ordinary women have always excited my disgust," said the young

officer, simply; "and until this day I have never seen a woman who

resembled my ideal."

"So, then, the woman with whom you will now become enamored will

receive your first tender vows?"

"Yes, even so."

"And you wear the uniform of the life-guard--you are a lieutenant!"

cried Pollnitz with tragical pathos, and extending his arms toward

heaven. "But how?--what did you say?--that until to-day you had seen

no woman who approached your ideal?"

"I said that."

"And to-day--?"

"Well, it seems to me, we have both seen an angel to-day!--an angel,

whom you have wronged, in giving her the common name of fairy."

"Aha! the Princess Amelia," said Pollnitz. "You will love this young

maiden, my friend."

"Then, indeed, shall I be most unhappy! She is a royal princess, and

my love must ever be unrequited."

"Who told you that? who told you that this little Amelia was only a

princess? I tell you she is a young girl with a heart of fire. Try

to awake her--she only sleeps! A happy event has already greeted

you. The princess has fixed your enraptured gaze upon her lovely

form, by throwing or rather shooting roses at you. Perhaps the god

of Love has hidden his arrow in a rose. You thought Amelia had only

pelted your cheek with roses, but the arrow has entered your soul.

Try your luck, young man; gain the love of the king's favorite

sister, and you will be all-powerful."

The young officer looked at him with confused and misty eyes.

"You do not dare to suggest," murmured he, "that--"

"I dare to say," cried Pollnitz, interrupting him, "that you are in

favor with the brother; why may you not also gain the sister's good

graces? I say further, that I will assist you, and I will ever be at

your side, as a loving friend and a sagacious counsellor."

"Do you know, baron, that your wild words open a future to my view

before which my brain and heart are reeling? How shall I dare to

love a princess, and seek her love in return?"

"As to the first point, I think you have already dared. As to the

second, I think your rare beauty and wondrous accomplishments might

justify such pretensions."

"You know I never can become the husband of a princess."

"You are right," said Pollnitz, laughing aloud; "you are as innocent

as a girl of sixteen! you have this moment fallen headlong in love,

and begin at once to think of the possibility of marriage, as if

love had no other refuge than marriage, and yet I think I have read

that the god of Love and the god of Hymen are rarely seen together,

though brothers; in point of fact, they despise and flee from each

other. But after all, young man, if your love is virtuous and

requires the priest's blessing, I think that is possible. Only a few

years since the widowed margravine, the aunt of the king, married

the Count Hoditz. What the king's aunt accomplished, might be

possible to the king's sister."

"Silence, silence!" murmured Frederick von Trenck; "your wild words

cloud my understanding like the breath of opium; they make me mad,

drunk. You stand near me like the tempter, showing to my bewildered

eyes more than all the treasures of this world, and saying, 'All

these things will I give thee'; but alas! I am not the Messiah. I

have not the courage to cast down and trample under foot your

devilish temptations. My whole soul springs out to meet them, and

shouts for joy. Oh, sir, what have you done? You have aroused my

youth, my ambition, my passion; you have filled my veins with fire,

and I am drunk with the sweet but deadly poison you have poured into

my ears."

"I have assured you that I will be your father. I will lead you, and

at the right moment I will point out the obstacles against which

your inexperienced feet might stumble," said Pollnitz.

The stony-hearted and egotistical old courtier felt not the least

pity for this poor young man into whose ear, as Trenck had well

said, he was pouring this fatal poison. Frederick von Trenck, the

favorite of the king, was nothing more to him than a ladder by which

he hoped to mount. He took the arm of the young officer and

endeavored to soothe him with cool and moderate words, exhorting him

to be quiet and reasonable. They turned their steps toward the

castle, in order to pay their respects to the queen-mother. The hour

of audience was over, and the two gentlemen lounged arm in arm down

the street.

"Let us go toward the palace," said Pollnitz. "I think we will

behold a rare spectacle, a crowd of old wigs who have disguised

themselves as savans. To-day, the first sitting of the Academy of

Arts and Sciences takes place, and the celebrated President

Maupertius will open the meeting in the name of the king. This is

exactly the time for the renowned worthies to leave the castle. Let

us go and witness this comical show."

The two gentlemen found it impossible to carry out their plans. A

mighty crowd of men advanced upon them at this moment, and compelled

them to stand still. Every face in the vast assemblage was

expectant. Certainly some rare exhibition was to be seen in the

circle which the crowd had left open in their midst. There were

merry laughing and jesting and questioning amongst each other, as to

what all this could mean, and what proclamation that could be which

the drummer had just read in the palace garden.

"It will be repeated here in a moment," said a voice from the crowd,

which increased every moment, and in whose fierce waves Pollnitz and

Trenck were forcibly swallowed up. Pressed, pushed onward by

powerful arms, resistance utterly in vain, the two companions found

themselves at the same moment in the open space just as the drummer

broke into the circle, and, playing his drumsticks with powerful and

zealous hands, he called the crowd to order.

The drum overpowered the wild outcries and rude laughter of the vast

assemblage, and soon silenced them completely. Every man held his

breath to hear what the public crier, who had spoken so much to the

purpose by his drum, had now to declare by word of mouth. He drew

from his pocket a large document sealed with the state seal, and

took advantage of the general quiet to read the formal introductory

to all such proclamations: "We, Frederick, King of Prussia," etc.,

etc.

On coming to the throne, Frederick had abolished all that long and

absurd list of titles and dignities which had heretofore adorned the

royal declarations. Even that highest of all titles, "King by the

grace of God," had Frederick the Second set aside. He declared that,

in saying King of Prussia, all was said. His father had called

himself King of Prussia, by the grace of God; he, therefore, would

call himself simply the King of Prussia, and if he did not boast of

God's grace, it was because he would prove by deeds, not words, that

he possessed it.

After this little digression we will return to our drummer, who now

began to read, or rather to cry out the command of the king.

"We, Frederick, King of Prussia, order and command that no one of

our subjects shall, under any circumstances, lend gold to our master

of ceremonies, whom we have again taken into our service, or assist

him in any way to borrow money. Whoever, therefore, shall, in

despite of this proclamation, lend money to said Baron Pollnitz,

must bear the consequences; they shall make no demand for repayment,

and the case shall not be considered in court. Whosoever shall

disobey this command, shall pay a fine of fifty thalers, or suffer

fifteen days' imprisonment."

A wild shout of laughter from the entire assembly was the reply to

this proclamation, in which the worldly-wise Pollnitz joined

heartily, while his young companion had not the courage to raise his

eyes from the ground.

"The old courtier will burst with rage," said a gay voice from the

crowd.

"He is a desperate borrower," cried another.

"He has richly deserved this public shame and humiliation from the

king," said another.

"And you call this a humiliation, a merited punishment!" cried

Pollnitz. "Why, my good friends, can you not see that this is an

honor which the king shows to his old and faithful servant? Do you

not know that by this proclamation he places Baron Pollnitz exactly

on the same footing with the princes of the blood, with the prince

royal?"

"How is that? explain that to us," cried a hundred voices in a

breath.

"Well, it is very simple. Has not the king recently renewed the law

which forbids, under pain of heavy punishment, the princes of the

blood to borrow money? Is not this law printed in our journals, and

made public in our collections of laws?"

"Yes, yes! so it is," said many voices simultaneously.

"Well, certainly, our exalted sovereign, who loves his royal

brothers so warmly, would not have cast shame upon their honor.

Certainly he would not have wished to humiliate them, and has not

done so. The king, as you must now plainly perceive, has acted

toward Baron Pollnitz precisely as he has done to his brothers."

"And that is, without doubt, a great honor for him," cried many

voices. No one guessed the name of the speaker who was so

fortunately at hand to defend the honor of the master of ceremonies.

A general murmur of applause was heard, and even the public crier

stood still and listened to the eloquent unknown speaker, and forgot

for a while to hurry off to the next street-corner and proclaim the

royal mandate.

"Besides, this law is 'sans consequence,' as we are accustomed to

say," said Pollnitz. "Who would not, in spite of the law, lend our

princes gold if they had need of it? And who has right to take

offence if the state refuses to pay the debts which the princes make

as private persons? The baron occupies precisely the same position.

The king, who has honored the newly returned baron with two highly

important trusts, master of ceremonies and master of the robes, will

frighten his rather lavish old friend from making debts. He chooses,

therefore, the same means by which he seeks to restrain his royal

brothers, and forbids all persons to lend gold to Pollnitz: as he

cannot well place this edict in the laws of the land, he is obliged

to make it known by the drummer. And now," said the speaker, who saw

plainly the favorable impression which his little oration had made--

"and now, best of friends, I pray you to make way and allow me to

pass through the crowd; I must go at once to the palace to thank his

majesty for the special grace and distinction which he has showered

upon me to-day. I, myself, am Baron Pollnitz!"

An outcry of amazement burst from the lips of hundreds, and all who

stood near Pollnitz stepped aside reverentially, in order to give

place to the distinguished gentleman who was treated by the king

exactly as if he were a prince of the blood. Pollnitz stepped with a

friendly smile through the narrow way thus opened for him, and

greeted, with his cool, impertinent manner those who respectfully

stood back.

"I think I have given the king a Roland for his Oliver," he said to

himself. "I have broken the point from the arrow which was aimed at

me, and it glanced from my bosom without wounding me. Public opinion

will be on my side from this time, and that which was intended for

my shame has crowned me with honor. It was, nevertheless, a harsh

and cruel act, for which I will one day hold a reckoning with

Frederick. Ah, King Frederick! King Frederick! I shall not forget,

and I will have my revenge; my cards are also well arranged, and I

hold important trumps. I will wait yet a little while upon our

lovelorn shepherd, this innocent and tender Trenck, who is in a

dangerous way about the little princess."

Pollnitz waited for Trenck, who had with difficulty forced his way

through the crowd and hastened after him.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW.

The ball at the palace was opened. The two queens and the princesses

had just entered the great saloon, in order to receive the

respectful greetings of the ladies of the court; while the king, in

an adjoining room, was surrounded by the gentlemen. A glittering

circle of lovely women, adorned with diamonds and other rich gems,

stood on each side of the room, each one patiently awaiting the

moment when the queens should pass before her, and she might have

the honor of bowing almost to the earth under the glance of the

royal eye.

According to etiquette, Queen Elizabeth Christine, who,

notwithstanding her modest and retired existence, was the reigning

sovereign, should have made the grand tour alone, and received the

first congratulations of the court; but this unhappy, shrinking

woman, had never found the courage to assume the rights or

privileges which belonged to her as wife of the king. She who was

denied the highest and holiest of all distinctions, the first place

in the heart of her husband, cared nothing for these pitiful and

outward advantages. Elizabeth had to-day, as usual, with a soft

smile, given precedence to the queen-mother, Sophia Dorothea, who

was ever thirsting to show that she held the first place at her

son's court, and who, delighted to surround herself with all the

accessories of pomp and power, was ever ready to use her

prerogative. With a proud and erect head, and an almost contemptuous

smile, she walked slowly around the circle of high-born dames, who

bowed humbly before this representative of royalty. Behind her came

the reigning queen, between the two princesses, who now and then

gave special and cordial greetings to their personal friends as they

passed, Elizabeth Christine saw this and sighed bitterly. She had no

personal friend to grace with a loving greeting. No man saw any

thing else in her than a sovereign by sufferance, a woman sans

consequence, a, powerless queen and unbeloved wife. She had never

had a friend into whose sympathetic and silent bosom she could pour

out her griefs. She was alone, so entirely alone and lonely, that

the heavy sighs and complaints dwelling in her heart were ever

reverberating in her cars because of the surrounding silence. And

now, as she made the grand tour with the two princesses, no one

seemed to see her; she was regarded as the statue of a queen, richly

dressed and decked with costly lace and jewels, but only a picture:

yet this picture had a soul and a heart of fire--it was a woman, a

wife, who loved and who endured.

Suddenly she trembled; a light, like the glory of sunshine, flashed

in her eyes, and a soft rosy blush spread over her fair cheek. The

king had entered the room; yes, he was there in all his beauty, his

majesty, his power; Elizabeth felt that the world was bright, her

blood was rushing madly through her veins, her heart was beating as

stormily as that of an impassioned young girl. Oh, it might be that

the eye of the king--that glowing, wondrous eye--might even by

accident rest upon her; it might be that Frederick would be touched

by her patient endurance, her silent resignation, and give her one

friendly word. She had been four years a queen, for four years this

title had been a crown of thorns; during all this weary time her

husband had not vouchsafed to her poor heart, sick unto death, one

single sympathetic word, one affectionate glance; he sat by her side

at the table during the court festivals; he had from time to time,

at the balls and masquerades, opened the dance with her; never,

however, since that day on which he had printed the first kiss upon

her lips, never had he spoken to her; since that moment she was to

him the picture of a queen, the empty form of a woman. [Footnote:

The king never spoke to his wife, but his manner toward her was

considerate and respectful; no one dared to fail in the slightest

mark of courtly observance toward Elizabeth--this the king sternly

exacted. Only once did the king address her. During the seventh year

of their marriage, the queen, by an unhappy accident, had seriously

injured her foot: this was a short time before her birthday, which

event was always celebrated with great pomp and ceremony, the king

honoring the fete with his presence. On this occasion he came as

usual, but in place of the distant and silent bow with which he

usually greeted her, he drew near, gave her his hand, and said with

kindly sympathy, "I sincerely hope that your majesty has recovered

from your accident." A general surprise was pictured in the faces of

all present--but the poor queen was so overcome by this unexpected

happiness, she had no power to reply, she bowed silently. The king

frowned and turned from her. Since that day, the happiness of which

she had bought with an injured foot, the king had not spoken to

her.] But Queen Elizabeth would not despair. Hope was her motto. A

day might come when he would speak to her, when he would forget that

she had been forced upon him as his wife, a day when his heart might

be touched by her grief, her silent and tearless love. Every meeting

with Frederick was to this poor queen a time of hope, of joyful

expectation; this alone sustained her, this gave her strength

silently, even smilingly, to draw her royal robe over her bleeding

heart.

And now the king drew near, surrounded by the princesses and the

queen-mother, to whom he gave his hand with an expression of

reverence and filial love. He then bowed silently and indifferently

to his wife, and gave a merry greeting to his two sisters.

"Ladies," said he, in a full, rich voice, "allow me to present to

you and my court my brother, the Prince Augustus William; he is now

placed before you in a new and more distinguished light." He took

the hand of his brother and led him to the queen-mother. "I

introduce your son to you; he will be from this day onward, if it so

please you, also your grandson."

"How is that, your majesty? I confess you have brought about many

seemingly impossible things; but I think it is beyond your power to

make Augustus at the same time both my son and my grandson."

"Ah, mother, if I make him my son, will he not be of necessity, your

grandson? I appoint him my successor; in so doing, I declare him my

son. Embrace him, therefore, your majesty, and be the first to greet

him by his new title. Embrace the Prince of Prussia, my successor."

"I obey," said the queen, "I obey," and she cast her arms

affectionately around her son. "I pray God that this title of

'Prince of Prussia,' which it has pleased your majesty to lend him,

may be long and honorably worn."

The prince bowed low before his mother, who tenderly kissed his

brow, then whispered, "Oh, mother, pray rather that God may soon

release me from this burden."

"How!" cried the queen threateningly, "you have then a strong desire

to be king? Has your vaulting ambition made you forget that to wish

to be king is, at the same time, to wish the death of your brother?"

The prince smiled sadly.

"Mother, I would lay aside this rank of Prince of Prussia, not

because I wish to mount the throne, but I would fain lie down in the

cold and quiet grave."

"Are you always so sad, so hopeless, my son--even now, upon this day

of proud distinction for you? To-day you take your place as Prince

of Prussia."

"Yes, your majesty, to-day I am crowned with honor," said he,

bitterly. "This is also the anniversary of my betrothal."

Augustus turned and drew near to the king, who seized his hand and

led him to his wife and the young princesses, saying with a loud

voice, "Congratulate the Prince of Prussia, ladies." He then

beckoned to some of his generals, and drew back with them to the

window. As he passed the queen, his eye rested upon her for a moment

with an expression of sympathy and curiosity; he observed her with

the searching glance of a physician, who sinks the probe into the

bleeding wound, in order to know its depth and danger.

The queen understood his purpose. That piercing glance was a

warning; it gave her courage, self-possession, and proud

resignation. Her husband had spoken to her with his eyes; that must

ever be a consolation, a painful but sweet joy. She controlled

herself so far as to give her hand to the prince with a cordial

smile.

"You are most welcome in your double character," she said, in a

voice loud enough to be heard by the king and all around her. "Until

to-day, you have been my beloved brother; and from this time will

you be to me, as also to my husband, a dear son. By the decrees of

Providence a son has been denied me; I accept you, therefore,

joyfully, and receive you as my son and brother."

A profound silence followed these words; here and there in the

crowd, slight and derisive smiles were seen, and a few whispered and

significant words were uttered. The queen had now received the last

and severest blow; in the fulness and maturity of her beauty she had

been placed before the court as unworthy or incapable of giving a

successor to the throne; but she still wished to save appearances:

she would, if possible, make the world believe that the decree of

Providence alone denied to her a mother's honors. She had the cruel

courage to conceal the truth by prevarication.

The watchful eyes of the court had long since discovered the mystery

of this royal marriage: they had long known that the queen was not

the wife of Frederick; her words, therefore, produced contemptuous

surprise.

Elizabeth cared for none of these things. She looked toward her

husband, whose eyes were fixed upon her; she would read in his

countenance if he were pleased with her words. A smile played upon

the lips of the king, and he bowed his head almost imperceptibly as

a greeting to his wife.

A golden ray of sunlight seemed to play upon her face; content was

written in her eyes; twice to-day her glance had met her husband's,

and both times his eyes had spoken. Elizabeth was happier than she

had been for many days; she laughed and jested with the ladies, and

conversed gayly over the great event of the evening--the first

appearance of the Signora Barbarina. The princesses, also, conversed

unceremoniously with the ladies near them. A cloud darkened the

usually clear brow of the Princess Amelia, and she seemed to be in a

nervous and highly excited state.

At this moment the master of ceremonies, Pollnitz, drew near, with

Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassador. The princess immediately

assumed so scornful an expression, that even Pollnitz scarcely found

courage to present Count Tessin.

"Ah! you come from Sweden," said Amelia, immediately after the

presentation. "Sweden is a dark and gloomy country, and you have

indeed done well to save yourself, by taking refuge in our gay and

sunny clime."

The count was evidently wounded.

"Your royal highness calls this a refuge," said he; "you must, then,

think those to be pitied who dwell in my fatherland?"

"I do not feel it necessary to confide my views on that subject to

Count Tessin," said Amelia, with a short, rude laugh.

"Yes, sister, it is necessary," said Ulrica, with a magical smile,

"you must justify yourself to the count, for you have cast contempt

upon his country."

"Ah! your highness is pleased to think better of my fatherland,"

said Tessin, bowing low to Ulrica. "It is true, Sweden is rich in

beauty, and nowhere is nature more romantic or more lovely. The

Swedes love their country passionately, and, like the Swiss, they

die of homesickness when banished from her borders. They languish

and pine away if one is cruel enough to think lightly of their

birth-place."

"Well, sir, I commit this cruelty," cried Amelia, "and yet I

scarcely think you will languish and pine away on that account."

"Dear sister, I think you are out of temper to-day," said Ulrica,

softly.

"And you are wise to remind me of it in this courtly style," said

Amelia; "have you taken the role of governess for my benefit to-

day?"

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders and turned again to the count, who was

watching the young Amelia with a mixture of astonishment and anger.

She had been represented at the Swedish court as a model of

gentleness, amiability, and grace; he found her rude and

contradictory, fitful and childish. The Princess Ulrica soon led the

thoughts of the count in another direction, and managed to retain

him at her side by her piquant and intellectual conversation; she

brought every power of her mind into action; she was gracious in the

extreme; she overcame her proud nature, and assumed a winning

gentleness; in short, she flattered the ambassador with such

delicate refinement, that he swallowed the magical food offered to

his vanity, without suspecting that he was victimized.

Neither the princess nor the count seemed any longer to remember

Amelia, who still stood near them with a lowering visage. Pollnitz

made use of this opportunity to draw near with his young protege,

Frederick von Trenck, and present him to the princess, who

immediately assumed a gay and laughing expression; she wished to

give the ambassador a new proof of her stormy and fitful nature: she

would humble him by proving that she was not harsh and rude to all

the world. She received the two gentlemen, therefore, with great

cordiality, and laughed heartily over the adventure of the morning;

she recounted to them, merrily and wittily, how and why she had

thrown the sweet roses away. Amelia was now so lovely and so

spirited to look upon, so radiant with youth, animation, and

innocence, that the eyes of the poor young officer were dazzled and

sought the floor; completely intoxicated and bewildered, he could

not join in the conversation, uttering here and there only a

trembling monosyllable.

This did not escape the cunning eye of the master of ceremonies. "I

must withdraw," thought he; "I will grant them a first tete-a-tete.

I will observe them from a distance, and be able to decide if my

plan will succeed." Excusing himself upon the plea of duty, Pollnitz

withdrew; he glided into a window and concealed himself behind the

curtains, in order to watch the countenances of his two victims.

Pollnitz had rightly judged. The necessity of taking part in the

conversation with the princess restored to the young officer his

intellect and his courage, and, in the effort to overcome his

timidity, he became too earnest, too impassioned.

But the princess did not remark this; she rejoiced in an opportunity

to show the Swedish ambassador how amiable and gracious she could be

to others, and thus make him more sensible of her rudeness to

himself; he should see and confess that she could be winning and

attractive when it suited her purpose. The count observed her

narrowly, even while conversing with Ulrica; he saw her ready smile,

her beaming eye, her perhaps rather demonstrative cordiality to the

young officer. "She is changeable and coquettish," he said to

himself, while still carrying on his conversation with the talented,

refined, and thoroughly maidenly Princess Ulrica.

The great and, as we have said, somewhat too strongly marked

kindliness of Amelia, added fuel to the passion of Trenck; he became

more daring.

"I have to implore your highness for a special grace," said he in a

suppressed voice.

"Speak on," said she, feeling at that moment an inexplicable emotion

which made her heart beat high, and banished the blood from her

cheeks.

"I have dared to preserve one of the roses which you threw into the

garden. It was a mad theft, I know it, but I was under the power of

enchantment; I could not resist, and would at that moment have paid

for the little blossom with my heart's blood. Oh, if your royal

highness could have seen, when I entered my room and closed the

door, with what rapture I regarded my treasure, how I knelt before

it and worshipped it, scarcely daring to touch it with my lips! it

recalled to me a lovely fairy tale of my childhood."

"How could a simple rose recall a fairy tale?" said Amelia.

"It is a legend of a poor shepherd-boy, who, lonely and neglected,

had fallen asleep under a tree near the highway. Before sleeping, he

had prayed to God to have pity upon him; to fill this great and

painful void in his heart, or to send His Minister, Death, to his

release. While sleeping he had a beautiful dream. He thought he saw

the heavens open, and an angel of enchanting grace and beauty

floated toward him. Her eyes glowed like two of the brightest stars.

'You shall be no longer lonely,' she whispered; 'my image shall

abide ever in your heart, and strengthen and stimulate you to all

things good and beautiful.' While saying this, she laid a wondrous

rose upon his eyes, and, floating off, soon disappeared in the

clouds. The poor shepherd-boy awoke, and was enraptured with what he

supposed had been a wild dream. But lo! there was the rose, and with

unspeakable joy he pressed it to his heart. He thanked God for this

sweet flower, which proved to him that the angel was no dream, but a

reality. The rose, the visible emblem of his good angel, was the joy

and comfort of his life, and he wore it ever in his heart.--I

thought of this fairy tale, princess, as I looked upon my rose, but

I felt immediately that I dared not call it mine without the consent

of your highness. Decide, therefore; dare I keep this rose?"

Amelia did not reply. She had listened with a strange embarrassment

to this impassioned tale. The world--all, was forgotten; she was no

longer a princess, she was but a simple young girl, who listened for

the first time to words of burning passion, and whose heart trembled

with sweet alarm.

"Princess, dare I guard this rose?" repeated Frederick, with a

trembling voice.

She looked at him; their eyes met; the young maiden trembled, but

the man stood erect. He felt strong, proud, and a conqueror; his

glance was like the eagle's, when about to seize a lamb and bear it

to his eyrie.

"He goes too far; truly, he goes too far," whispered Pollnitz, who

had seen all, and from their glances and movements had almost read

their thoughts and words. "I must bring this tete-a-tete to an end,

and I shall do so in a profitable manner."

"Dare I keep this rose?" said Frederick von Trenck, a third time.

Amelia turned her head aside and whispered, "Keep it."

Trenck would have answered, but in that moment a hand was laid upon

his arm, and Pollnitz stood near him.

"Prudence," whispered he, anxiously. "Do you not see that you are

observed? You will make of your insane and treasonable passion a

fairy tale for the whole court."

Amelia uttered a slight cry, and looked anxiously at Pollnitz. She

had heard his whispered words, and the sly baron intended that she

should.

"Will your royal highness dismiss this madman," whispered he, "and

allow me to awake his sleeping reason?"

"Go, Herr von Trenck," said she lightly.

Pollnitz took the arm of the young officer and led him off, saying

to himself, with a chuckle: "That was a good stroke, and I feel that

I shall succeed; I have betrayed his passion to her, and forced

myself into their confidence. I shall soon be employed as Love's

messenger, and that is ever with princesses a profitable service.

Ah, King Frederick, King Frederick, you have made it impossible for

me to borrow money! Well, I shall not find that necessary; my hands

shall be filled from the royal treasures. When the casket of the

princess is empty, the king must of course replenish it." And the

baron laughed too loudly for a master of ceremonies.

CHAPTER VIII.

SIGNORA BARBARINA.

The princess regarded their retreating figures with dreamy eyes.

Then, yielding to an unconquerable desire to be alone, to give

herself up to undisturbed thought, she was about to withdraw; but

the Princess Ulrica, who thought it necessary that the Swedish

ambassador should have another opportunity of observing the proud

and sullen temper of her sister, called her back.

"Remain a moment longer, Amelia," said the princess. "You shall

decide between Count Tessin and myself. Will you accept my sister as

umpire, count?"

"Without doubt," said the count. "I should be greatly honored if the

princess will be so gracious. Perhaps I may be more fortunate on

this occasion."

"It appears to me," said Amelia, rudely interrupting him, "that

'fortunate' and 'unfortunate' are not terms which can be properly

used in any connection between a princess of Prussia and yourself."

Amelia then turned toward her sister and gave her a glance which

plainly said: Well, do I not play my role in masterly style? Have I

not hastened to follow your counsels? "Speak, sister; name the point

which Count Tessin dares to contest with you."

"Oh, the count is a man and a scholar, and has full right to

differ," said Ulrica, graciously. "The question was a comparison of

Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen Christina of Sweden. I maintain

that Christina had a stronger and more powerful intellect; that she

knew better how to conquer her spirit, to master her womanly

weaknesses; that she was more thoroughly cultivated, and studied

philosophy and science, not as Elizabeth, for glitter and show, but

because she had an inward thirst for knowledge. The count asserts

that Elizabeth was better versed in statecraft, and a more amiable

woman. Now, Amelia, to which of these two queens do you give the

preference?"

"Oh, without doubt, to Queen Christina of Sweden. This great woman

was wise enough not to regard the crown of Sweden as a rare and

precious gem; she chose a simple life of obscurity and poverty in

beautiful Italy, rather than a throne in cold and unfruitful Sweden.

This act alone establishes her superiority. Yes, sister, you are

right. Christina was the greater woman, even because she scorned to

be Queen of Sweden."

So saying, Amelia bowed slightingly, and, turning aside, she

summoned Madame von Kleist, and commenced a merry chat with her.

Count Tessin regarded her with a dark and scornful glance, and

pressed his lips tightly together, as if to restrain his anger.

"I beseech you, count," said Ulrica, in a low, soft voice, "not to

be offended at the thoughtless words of my dear little sister. It is

true, she is a little rude and resentful to-day; but you will see--

to-morrow, perhaps, will be one of her glorious sunny days, and you

will find her irresistibly charming. Her moods are changeable, and

for that reason we call her our little 'April fee.'"

"Ah, the princess is, then, as uncertain as April?" said the count,

with a frosty smile.

"More uncertain than April," said Ulrica, sweetly. "But what would

you, sir? we all, brothers and sisters, are responsible for that.

You must know that she is our favorite, and is always indulged. I

counsel you not to find fault with our little sister, Count Tessin;

that would be to bring an accusation against us all. You have

suffered to-day from a shower of her April moods; to-morrow you may

rejoice in the sunshine of her favor."

"I shall, however, be doubtful and anxious," said the ambassador,

coolly; "the April sun is sometimes accompanied by rain and storm,

and these sudden changes bring sickness and death."

"Allow me to make one request," said Ulrica. "Let not the king guess

that you have suffered from these April changes."

"Certainly not; and if your royal highness will graciously allow me

to bask in the sunshine of your presence, I shall soon recover from

the chilling effect of these April showers."

"Well, I think we have played our parts admirably," said Ulrica to

herself, as she found time, during the course of the evening, to

meditate upon the events of the day. "Amelia will accomplish her

purpose, and will not be Queen of Sweden. She would have it so, and

I shall not reproach myself."

Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably back in her arm-chair, and gave

her attention to a play of Voltaire, which was now being performed.

This representation took place in the small theatre in the royal

palace. There was no public theatre in Berlin, and the king justly

pronounced the large opera-house unsuited to declamation. Frederick

generally gave his undivided attention to the play, but this evening

he was restless and impatient, and he accorded less applause to this

piquant and witty drama of his favorite author than he was wont to

do. The king was impatient, because the king was waiting. He had so

far restrained all outward expression of his impatient curiosity;

the French play had not commenced one moment earlier than usual.

Frederick had, according to custom, gone behind the scenes, to say a

few friendly and encouraging words to the performers, to call their

attention to his favorite passages, and exhort them to be truly

eloquent in their recitations. And now the king waited; he felt

feverishly impatient to see and judge for himself this capricious

beauty, this world-renowned artiste, this Signora Barbarina, whose

rare loveliness and grace enchanted and bewildered all who looked

upon her.

At length the curtain fell. In a few moments he would see the

Barbarina dance her celebrated solo. A breathless stillness reigned

throughout the assembly; every eye was fixed upon the curtain. The

bell sounded, the curtain flew up, and a lovely landscape met the

eye: in the background a village church, rose-bushes in rich bloom,

and shady trees on every side; the declining sun gilded the summit

of the mountain, against the base of which the little village

nestled. The distant sound of the evening bell was calling the

simple cottagers to "Ave Maria." It was an enchanting picture of

innocence and peace; in striking contrast to this courtly

assemblage, glittering with gems and starry orders--a startling

opposite to that sweet, pure idyl. And now this select circle seemed

agitated as by an electric shock. There, upon the stage, floated the

Signora Barbarina.

The king raised himself involuntarily a little higher in his arm-

chair, in order to examine the signora more closely; he leaned back,

however, ashamed of his impatience, and a light cloud was on his

brow; he felt himself oppressed and overcome by this magical beauty.

He who had looked death in the face without emotion, who had seen

the deadly cannon-balls falling thickly around him without a

trembling of the eyelids, now felt a presentiment of danger, and

shrank from it.

Barbarina was indeed lovely, irresistibly lovely, in her ravishing

costume of a shepherdess; her dress was of crimson satin, her black

velvet bodice was fastened over her voluptuous bosom by rich golden

cords, finished off by tassels glittering with diamonds. A wreath of

crimson roses adorned her hair, which fell in graceful ringlets

about her wondrous brow, and formed a rich frame around her pure,

oval face. The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip contrasted

richly with the light, rosy blush of her fair, smooth cheek.

Barbarina's smile was a promise of love and bliss; and, when those

great fiery eyes looked at you earnestly, there was such an intense

glow, such a depth of power and passion in their rays, you could not

but feel that there was danger in her love as in her scorn.

To-day, she would neither threaten nor inspire; she was only a

smiling, joyous, simple peasant-girl, who had returned wild with joy

to her native village, and whose rapture found expression in the gay

and graceful mazes of the dance. She floated here and there, like a

wood-nymph, smiling, happy, careless, wonderful to look upon in her

loveliness and beauty, but more wonderful still in her art.

Simplicity and grace marked every movement; there seemed no

difficulties in her path--to dance was her happiness.

The dance was at an end. Barbarina, breathless, glowing, smiling,

bowed low. Then all was still; no hand was moved, no applause

greeted her. Her great burning eyes wandered threateningly and

questioningly over the saloon; then, raising her lovely head

proudly, she stepped back.

The curtain fell, and now all eyes were fixed upon the king, in

whose face the courtiers expected to read the impression which the

signora had made upon him; but the countenance of the king told

nothing; he was quiet and thoughtful, his brow was stern, and his

lips compressed. The courtiers concluded that he was disappointed,

and began at once to find fault, and make disparaging remarks.

Frederick did not regard them. At this moment he was not a king, he

was only a man--a man who, in silent rapture, had gazed upon this

wondrous combination of grace and beauty. The king was a hero, but

he trembled before this woman, and a sort of terror laid hold upon

him.

The curtain rose, and the second act of the drama began; no one

looked at the stage; after this living, breathing, impersonation of

a simple story, a spoken drama seemed oppressive. Every one rejoiced

when the second act was at an end. The curtain would soon rise for

Barbarina.

But this did not occur; there was a long delay; there was eager

expectation; the curtain did not rise; the bell did not ring. At

last, Baron Swartz crossed the stage and drew near to the king.

"Sire," said he, "the Signora Barbarina declares she will not dance

again; she is exhausted by grief and anxiety, and fatigued by her

journey."

"Go and say to her that I command her to dance," said Frederick, who

felt himself once more a king, and rejoiced in his power over this

enchantress, who almost held him in her toils.

Baron Swartz hastened behind the scenes, but soon returned, somewhat

cast down.

"Sire, the signora affirms that she will not dance, and that the

king has no power to compel her. She dances to please herself."

"Ah! that is a menace," said the king, threateningly; and without

further speech he stepped upon the stage, followed by Baron Swartz.

"Where is this person?" said the king.

"She is in her own room, your majesty; shall I call her?"

"No, I will go to her. Show me the way."

The baron stepped forward, and Frederick endeavored to collect

himself and assume a cool and grave bearing.

"Sire, this is the chamber of the Signora Barbarina."

"Open the door." But before the baron had time to obey the command,

the impatient hand of the king had opened the door, and he had

entered the room.

CHAPTER IX.

THE KING AND BARBARINA.

Barbarina was resting, half reclining, and wholly abstracted, upon a

small crimson divan; her rounded arms were crossed over her breast.

She fixed her blazing, glowing eyes upon the intruders, and seemed

petrified, in her stubborn immobility, her determined silence. She

had the glance of a panther who has prepared herself for death, or

to slay her enemy.

The king stood a moment quiet and waiting, but Barbarina did not

move. Baron Swartz, alarmed by her contemptuous and disrespectful

bearing, drew near, in order to say that the king had vouchsafed to

visit her, but Frederick motioned him to withdraw; and, in order

that Barbarina might not understand him, he told him in German to

leave the room and await him in the corridor.

"I do not wish the signora to know that I am the king," said he. As

the baron withdrew, Frederick said to him, "Leave the door open."

Barbarina was motionless, only her large black eyes wandered

questioningly from one to the other; she sought to read the meaning

of their words, not one of which she understood; but her features

expressed no anxiety, no disquiet; she did not look like a culprit

or a rebel; she had rather the air of a stern queen, withholding her

royal favor. The king drew near her. Her eyes were fixed upon him

with inexpressible, earnest calm; and this cool indifference, so

rarely seen by a king, embarrassed Frederick, and at the same time

intoxicated him.

"You are, then, determined not to dance again?" said the king.

"Fully determined," said she, in a rich and sonorous voice.

"Beware! beware!" said he; but he could not assume that threatening

tone which he wished. "The king may perhaps compel you."

"Compel me! me, the Barbarina!" said she, with a mocking laugh, aim

disclosing two row? of pearly teeth. "And how can the king compel me

to dance?"

"You must be convinced that he has some power over you, since he

brought you here against your will."

"Yes, that is true," said she, raising herself up proudly; "he

brought me here by force; he has acted like a barbarian, a cold-

blooded tyrant!"

"Signora," said Frederick, menacingly, "one does not speak so of

kings."

"And why not?" she said, passionately. "What is your king to me?

What claim has he upon my love, upon my consideration, or even my

obedience? What has he done for me, that I should regard him

otherwise than as a tyrant? What is he to me? I am myself a queen;

yes, and believe me, a proud and an obstinate one! Who and what is

this king, whom I do not know, whom I have never seen, who has

forgotten that I am a woman, yes, forgotten that he is a man, though

he bears the empty title of a king? A true king is always and only a

gallant cavalier in his conduct to women. If he fails in this, he is

contemptible and despised."

"How! you despise the king?" said Frederick, who really enjoyed this

unaccustomed scene.

"Yes, I despise him! yes, I hate him!" cried the Barbarina, with a

wild and stormy outbreak of her southern nature. "I no longer pray

to God for my own happiness; that this cruel king has destroyed. I

pray to God for revenge; yes, for vengeance upon this man, who has

no heart, and who tramples the hearts of others under his feet. And

God will help me. I shall revenge myself on this man. I have sworn

it--I will keep my word! Go, sir, and tell this to your king; tell

him to beware of Barbarina. Greater, bolder, more magnanimous than

he, I warn him! Cunningly; slyly, unwarned, by night I was fallen

upon by spies, and dragged like a culprit to Berlin."

The king had no wish to put an end to this piquant scene; he was

only accustomed to the voice of praise and of applause; it was a

novelty, and therefore agreeable to be so energetically railed at

and abused.

"Do you not fear that the king will be angry when I repeat your

words?"

"Fear! What more can your king do, that I should fear him? Yes, he

is a king; but am not I a queen? This paltry kingdom is but a small

portion of the world, which is mine, wholly mine; it belongs to me,

as it belongs to the eagle who spreads her proud wings and looks

down upon her vast domains; he has millions in his treasury, but

they are pressed from the pockets of his poor subjects; he requires

many agents to collect his gold, and his people give it grudgingly,

but my subjects bring their tribute joyfully and lay it at my feet

with loving words. Look you! look at these two little feet: they are

my assessors; they collect the taxes from my people, and all the

dwellers in Europe are mine. These are my agents, they bring me in

millions of gold; they are also my avengers, by their aid I shall

revenge myself on your barbaric king."

She leaned back upon the pillows and breathed audibly, exhausted by

her wild passion. The king looked at her with wonder. She was to him

a rare and precious work of art, something to be studied and

worshipped. Her alluring beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled

passions, her bold sincerity, were all attractions, and he felt

himself under the spell of her enchantments. Let her rail and swear

to be revenged on the barbarian. The king heard her not; a simple

gentleman stood before her; a man who felt that Barbarina was right,

and who confessed to himself that the king had forgotten, in her

rude seizure, that this Barbarina was a woman--forgotten that he, in

all his relations with women, should be only a cavalier.

"Yes, yes," said Barbarina, and an expression of triumph was painted

on her lips--"yes, my little feet will be my avengers. The king will

never more see them dance--never more; they have cost him thousands

of gold; because of them he is at variance with the noble Republic

of Venice. Well, he has seen them for the last time. Ah! it is a

light thing to subdue a province, but impossible to conquer a woman

and an artiste who is resolved not to surrender."

Frederick smiled at these proud words.

"So you will not dance before the king, and yet you have danced for

him this evening?"

"Yes," said she, raising her head proudly. "I have proved to him

that I am an artiste; only when he feels that, will it pain him

never again to see me exercise my art."

"That is, indeed, refined reasoning," said the king. "You danced,

then, in order to make the king thirst anew for this intoxicating

draught, and then deny him? Truly, one must be an Italian to

conceive this plan."

"I am an Italian, and woe to me that I am!" A storm of tears gushed

from her eyes, but in a moment, as if scorning her own weakness, she

drove them back into her heart. "Poor Italian," she said, in a soft,

low tone--"poor child of the South, what are you doing in this cold

North, amongst these frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify art and

beauty? Ah! to think that even the Barbarina could not melt the ice-

rind from their pitiful souls; to think that she displayed before

them all the power and grace of her art, and they looked on with

motionless hands and silent lips! Ah! this humiliation would have

killed me in Italy, because I love my people, and they understand

and appreciate all that is rare and beautiful. My heart burns with

scorn and contempt for these torpid Berliners."

"I understand you now," said the king; "you heard no bravos, you

were not applauded; therefore you are angry?"

"I laugh at it!" said she, looking fiercely at the king. "Do you not

know, sir, that this applause, these bravos, are to the artiste as

the sound of a trumpet to the gallant war-horse, they invigorate and

inspire, and swell the heart with strength and courage? When the

artiste stands upon the stage, the saloon before him is his heaven,

and there his judges sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eternal

condemnation; to crown him with immortal fame, or cover him with

shame and confusion. Now, sir, that I have explained to you that the

stage saloon is our heaven, and the spectators are our judges, you

will understand that these bravos are to us as the music of the

spheres."

"Yes, I comprehend," said the king, smiling; "but you must be

indulgent; in this theatre etiquette forbids applause. You have

danced to-day before an invited audience, who pay nothing, and

therefore have not the right to blame or praise; no one dare

applaud--no one but the king."

"Ha! and this rude man did not applaud!" cried she, showing her

small teeth, and raising her hand threateningly toward heaven.

"Perhaps he was motionless and drunk from rapture," said the king,

bowing gracefully; "when he sees you dance again, he will have more

control over himself, and will, perhaps, applaud you heartily."

"Perhaps?" cried she. "I shall not expose myself to this 'perhaps.'

I will dance no more. My foot is sore, and your king cannot force me

to dance."

"No, he cannot force you, but you will do it willingly; you will

dance for him again this evening, of your own free will."

Barbarina answered by one burst of wild, demoniac laughter,

expressive of her scorn and her resentment.

"You will dance again this evening," repeated Frederick, and his

keen eye gazed steadily into that of Barbarina, who, though weeping

bitterly, shook her lovely head, and gave him back bravely glance

for glance. "You will dance, Barbarina, because, if you do not, you

are lost. I do not mean by this that you are lost because the king

will punish you for your obstinacy. The king is no Bluebeard; he

neither murders women nor confines them in underground prisons; he

has no torture chambers ready for you; for the King of Prussia, whom

you hate so fiercely, has abolished the torture throughout his

kingdom--the torture, which still flourishes luxuriantly by the side

of oranges and myrtles in your beautiful Italy. No, signora, the

king will not punish you if you persist in your obstinacy; he will

only send you away, that is all."

"And that is my only wish, all that I ask of Fate."

"You do not know yourself. You, who are an artiste, who are a lovely

woman, who are ambitious, and look upon fame as worth striving for,

you would not lose your power, trample under foot your ambition, see

your rare beauty slighted, and your enchanting grace despised?"

"I cannot see why all these terrible things will come to pass if I

refuse to dance again before your king?"

"I will explain to you, signora--listen. The king (however

contemptuously you may think and speak of him) is still a man, upon

whom the eyes of all Europe are turned--that is to say," he added,

with a gay smile and a graceful bow, "when his bold eye is not

exactly fixed upon them, signora. The voice of this king has some

weight in your world, though, as yet, he has only stolen provinces

and women. It is well known that the king has so irresistible a

desire to see you and to admire you, that he forgot his knightly

gallantry, or set it aside, and, relying only upon his right, he

exacted the fulfilment of the contract signed by your own lovely

hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy of a cavalier, but it was not

unjust. You were forced to obey. You came to Berlin unwillingly,

that I confess; but you have this evening danced before the king of

your own free will. This, from your stand-point, was a great

mistake. You can no longer say, 'I will not dance before the king,

because I wish to revenge myself.' You have already danced, and no

matter with what refinement of reason you may explain this false

step, no one will believe you if the king raises his voice against

you; and he will do this, believe me. He will say: 'I brought this

Barbarina to Berlin. I wished to see if the world had gone mad or

become childish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and

adoration which followed her steps. Well, I have seen her dance, and

I find the world is mad in folly. I give them back their goddess--

she does not suit me. She is a wooden image in my eyes. I wished to

capture Terpsichore herself, and lo, I found I had stolen her

chambermaid! I have seen your goddess dance once, and I am weary of

her pirouettes and minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that is

thine.'"

"Sir, sir!" cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing up with

flaming eyes and panting breath.

"That is what the king will say," said Frederick quietly. "You know

that the voice of the king is full and strong; it will resound

throughout Europe. No one will believe that you refused to dance. It

will be said that you did not please the king; this will be proved

by the fact that he did not applaud, did not utter a single bravo.

In a word, it will be said you have made a fiasco."

Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon the arm of the

king with indescribable, inimitable grace and passion.

"Lead me upon the stage--I will dance now. Ah, this king shall not

conquer me, shall not cast me down. No, no! I will compel him to

applaud; he shall confess that I am indeed an artiste. Tell the

director to prepare--I will come immediately upon the stage."

Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a war-horse. At

this moment she did indeed resemble one: she seemed to hear the

sound of the trumpet calling to battle and to fame. Her cheeks

glowed, her nostrils dilated, a quick and violent breathing agitated

her breast, and a nervous and convulsive trembling for action was

seen in every movement. The king observed and comprehended her. He

understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this soul-

thirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by the

possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him. The sincerity

and power with which she expressed her emotions, commanded his

respect; and while the king paid this tribute to her intellectual

qualities, the man at the same time confessed to himself that her

personal attractions merited the worship she received. She was

beautiful, endowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and

at the same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the goddess

rising from the sea.

"Come," said Frederick, "give me your hand. I will conduct you, and

I promise you that this time the king will applaud."

Barbarina did not reply. In the fire of her impatience, she pressed

the king onward toward the door. Suddenly she paused, and giving him

an enchanting smile, she said, "I am, without doubt, much indebted

to you; you have warned me of a danger, and in fact guarded me from

an abyss. Truly I think this was not done for my sake, but because

your king had commanded that I should dance. Your reasons were well

grounded, and I thank you sincerely. I pray you, sir, give me your

name, that I may guard it in my memory as the only pleasant

association with Berlin."

"From this day, signora, you will confess that you owe me a small

service. You have told ine it was a light task to win provinces, but

to capture and subdue a woman was impossible, I hope now I shall be

a hero in your eyes: I have not only conquered provinces, I have

captured a woman and subdued her."

Barbarina was neither astonished nor alarmed at these words. She had

seen so many kings and princes at her feet to be blinded by the

glitter of royalty. She let go the arm of the king, and said calmly

and coolly: "Sire, I do not ask for pardon or grace. The possessor

of a crown must wear it, if he demands that it should be

acknowledged and respected, and the pomp and glare of royalty is, it

seems, easily veiled. Besides, I would not have acted otherwise, had

I known who it was that dared intrude upon me."

"I am convinced of that," said Frederick, smiling. "You are a queen

who has but small consideration for the little King of Prussia,

because he requires so many agents to impress the gold from the

pockets of his unwilling subjects. You are right--my agents cost me

much money, and bring small tribute, while yours cost nothing and

yield a rich harvest. Come, signora, your assessors must enter upon

their duties."

He nodded to Baron Swartz, who stood in the corridor, and said in

German, "The signora will dance; she must be received with respect

and treated with consideration." He gave a light greeting to

Barbarina and returned to the saloon, where he found the last act of

the drama just concluded.

Every eye was fixed upon the king as he entered. He had left the

room in anger, and the courtiers almost trembled at the thought of

his fierce displeasure; but Frederick's brow was clear, and an

expression of peace and quiet was written on his features. He took

his place between the two queens, muttered a few words of

explanation to his mother, and bowed smilingly to his wife. Poor

queen! poor Elizabeth Christine! she had the sharp eye of a loving

and jealous woman, and she saw in the king's face what no one, not

even Frederick himself, knew. While every eye was turned upon the

stage; while all with breathless rapture gazed upon the marvellous

beauty and grace of Barbarina, the queen alone fixed a stolen and

trembling glance upon the countenance of her husband. She saw not

that Barbarina, inspired by ambition and passion, was more lovely,

more enchanting than before. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of

her husband, now luminous with admiration and delight; she saw his

soft smile, and the iron entered her soul.

The dance was at an end. Barbarina came forward and bowed low; and

now something happened so unheard of, so contrary to court

etiquette, that the master of ceremonies was filled with surprise

and disapprobation. The king applauded, not as gracious kings

applaud generally, by laying his hands lightly together, but like a

wild enthusiast who wishes to confess to the world that he is

bewildered, enraptured. He then rose from his chair, and turning to

the princesses and generals behind him, he said, "Gentlemen, why do

you not applaud?" and as if these magical words had released the

hands from bondage and given life to the wild rapture of applause

which had before but trembled on the lip, the wide hall rang with

the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of the spectators. Barbarina

bowed low and still lower, an expression of happy triumph playing

upon her glowing face.

"I have never seen a more beautiful woman," said the king, as he

sank back, seemingly exhausted, in his chair.

Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips together, to suppress a cry of

pain. She had heard the king's words; for her they had a deeper

meaning. "He will love her, I know it, I feel it!" she said to

herself as she returned after this eventful evening to Schonhausen.

"Oh, why has God laid upon me this new trial, this new humiliation?

Until now, no one thought the less of me because I was not loved by

the king. The world said, 'The king loves no woman, he has no heart

for love.' From this day I shall be despised and pitied. The king

has found a heart. He knows now that he has not outlived his youth;

he feels that he is young--that he is young in heart, young in love!

Oh, my God! and I too am young, and love; and I must shroud my heart

in resignation and gloom."

While the queen was pouring out her complaints and prayers to God,

the Swedish ambassador was confiding his wrath to his king. He wrote

to his sovereign, and repeated to him the angry and abusive words of

the little Princess Amelia, who was known at the court as the little

April Fee. She was more changeable than April, and more stormy and

imperious than Frederick himself. He painted skilfully the gentle

and attractive bearing of the Princess Ulrica, and asked for

permission to demand the hand of this gracious and noble princess

for Adolph Frederick. After the ambassador had written his

dispatches, and sent them by a courier to the Swedish ship lying in

the sound, he said to himself, with a triumphant smile: "Ah, my

little Princess Amelia, this is a royal punishment for royal

impertinence. You were pleased to treat me with contempt, but you

did not know that I could avenge myself by depriving you of a

kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my mission, how smilingly you would

have greeted the Count Tessin!"

The gentlemen diplomatists are sometimes outwitted.

CHAPTER X.

ECKHOF.

The reader has learned, from the foregoing chapters, what a splendid

role the French theatre and ballet were now playing at the court of

Berlin. A superb house had been built for the Italian opera and the

ballet, a stage had been prepared in the king's palace for the

French comedies, and every representation was honored by the

presence of the king, the royal family, and the court circle. The

most celebrated singers of Italy, the most graceful Parisian dancers

were now to be heard and seen in Berlin. These things assumed such

vast importance, that the king himself appeared as a critic in the

daily journals, and his articles were published in the foreign

papers. While the king favored the strange actors with his presence

and his grace, the German theatre, like a despised step-child, was

given over to misery and contempt. Compelled to seek an asylum in

low dark saloons, its actors had to be thankful for even the

permission to exist, and to plead with Apollo and the Muses for aid

and applause. The king and the so-called good society despised them

altogether. But this step-child carried under her ashes and ragged

garments the golden robes of her future greatness; her cunning step-

sisters had cast her down into obscurity and want, but she was not

extinguished; she could not be robbed of her future! Only a few

propitious circumstances were necessary to enable her to shake the

dust from her head, and bring her kingly crown to light.

The king had given Schonemein permission to bring his company to

Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schonemein had engaged the young and

talented actor Eckhof for the season. Eckhof was destined to give

renown to the German theatre; he was justly called the first and

greatest actor in Germany. Alas, how much of misery, how much of

humiliation, how many choking tears, how much suffering and care,

how much hunger and thirst were then comprised in that one word, a

"German actor!" None but a lost or despairing man, or an enthusiast,

would enroll himself as a German actor; only when he had nothing

more to lose, and was willing to burn his ships behind him, could he

enter upon that thorny path. Religion and art have always had their

martyrs, and truly the German actors were martyrs in the time of

Frederick the Great. Blessings upon those who did not despair, and

took up their cross patiently!

The French comedy and the Italian opera flourished like the green

bay-tree. The German actors took refuge in the saloon of the

Council-house. The lighting up of the Royal Opera-house cost two

hundred and seventy-seven florins every night. The misty light of

sweltering oil lamps illuminated the poor saloon of the Council-

house.

The audience of the German theatre was composed of burghers,

philosophers, poets, bankers, and clerks--the people of the middle

classes, who wore no white plumes in their hats; they were indeed

allowed to enter the opera-house, but through a side passage, and

their boxes were entirely separated from those of the court circle.

These people of the middle classes seemed obscure and unimportant,

but they were educated and intelligent; even then they were a power;

proud and independent, they could not be bribed by flattery, nor

blinded by glitter and pomp. They judged the king as they judged the

beggar, the philosopher as they did the artist, and they judged

boldly and well.

This public voice had declared that Eckhof was a great tragedian,

who rivalled successfully the great French actor, Monsieur Dennis.

This public voice, though but the voice of the people, found

entrance everywhere, even in the saloons of the nobles and cabinets

of princes. Berlin resounded with the name of Eckhof, who dared to

rival the French actor, and with the name of Schonemein, who dared,

every time a drama of Corneille or Racine, of Moliere or Voltaire,

was given in the palace theatre, to represent the same in the

Council-house on the following evening. This was a good idea. Those

who had been so fortunate as to witness the performance at the

palace, wished to compare the glittering spectacle with the poor

caricature, as they were pleased to call it, in the Council-house.

Those whose obscure position prevented them from entering the French

theatre, wished at least to see the play which had enraptured the

king and court; they must be content with a copy, somewhat like the

hungry beggar who stands before the kitchen door, and refreshes

himself by smelling the roast beef he cannot hope to taste. But

there was still a third class who visited the German theatre, not in

derision, not from curiosity, not from a desire to imitate the

nobles in their amusements, but with the seemingly Utopian hope of

building up the German drama. Amongst these were the scholars, who

pronounced the dramas of Gottsched far superior to those of

Corneille and Racine; there were the German patriots, who would not

grant a smile to the best representation of "Le Malade Imaginaire,"

but declared "The Hypochondriac," by Guistorp, the wittiest drama in

the world. In short, this large class of men ranged themselves in

bold opposition to the favoritism shown to Frenchmen by Frederick

the Great. These were the elements which composed the audience in

the Council-house.

One afternoon, just before the opening of the theatre, two young men

were walking arm-in-arm in the castle court; with one of them we are

already acquainted, Joseph Fredersdorf, the merry student of Halle,

the brother of the private secretary--he who had been commissioned

to seek the black ram, for the propitiation of the devil. In

obedience to the command of the secretary, he, with ten other

members of this unholy alliance, had been searching in every quarter

for this sacrifice. Joseph Fredersdorf, indebted to fortune or his

own adroitness, was the first to return from his wanderings, and he

brought with him a black ram, on whose glossy coat the sharpest eye

could not detect one white hair.

Fredersdorf, and Baron Kleist, the husband of the lovely Louise von

Schwerin, were truly happy, and paid willingly some hundred thalers

for this coveted object. Indeed, they considered this a very small

interest to pay for the large capital which they would soon realize.

They were the principal leaders in the secret conspiracy for gold-

making, and many other most distinguished nobles, generals, and

officers belonged to the society. Fredersdorf was resolved to fathom

this mystery; he wished to buy himself free from his service to the

king, and wed the woman he had long so passionately loved. Kleist

was riotous and a spendthrift; he felt that gold alone would enable

him to buy smiles and rapture from this worn-out and wearisome

world. Kleist and his beautiful wife required money in large

measure; she had been a faithful companion and aid--had stood by

honestly and assisted in the waste of her own property; and now they

were compelled to confine themselves to the small income of captain

of the king's guard.

Joseph laughed, chatted, and jested with his young companion, who

walked by his side with modest and downcast eyes. Joseph sometimes

put his hand merrily under the dimpled chins of the rosy servant-

girls who passed them from time to time, or peeped rather

impertinently under the silk hoods of the burgher maidens; his

companion blushed and took no part in these bold pastimes.

"Truly," said Joseph, "if I did not have in my pocket a letter from

my former room-mate at Halle, introducing you as a manly, brave boy,

and a future light in the world of science, I should suspect you

were a disguised maiden; you blush like a girl, and are as timid as

a lamb which has never left its mother's side."

"I am a villager, a poor provincial," said the youth, in a somewhat

maidenly voice. "The manners of your great city embarrass me. I

admire but cannot imitate them. I have been always a recluse, a

dusty book-worm."

"A learned monster!" cried Joseph, mockingly, "who knows and

understands every thing except the art of enjoying life. I

acknowledge that you are greatly my superior, but I can instruct you

in that science. You have been so strongly commended to me that I

will at once commence to unfold to you the real, satisfying duties

and pleasures of life."

"I fear," said the youth. "your science is beyond my ability. I have

no organ for it. My father is a celebrated physician in Quedlinburg;

he would be greatly distressed if I should occupy myself with any

thing else than philosophy and the arts. I myself have so little

inclination and so little ability for the enjoyment of mirth and

pleasure, that I dare not exchange the world of books for the world

of men. I do not understand their speech, and their manners are

strange to me."

"But, without doubt, you have come to Berlin to learn something of

these things?"

"No, I have come to visit the medical college, and to speak with the

learned and renowned Euler."

"Folly and nonsense!" said Fredersdorf, laughing; "keep your dry

pursuits for Halle, and give your time and attention to that which

you cannot find there, gayety and amusement. I promise to be your

counsellor and comrade. Let us begin our studies at once. Do you see

that little theatre-bill fastened to the wall? Eckhof appears as

Cato to-night."

"Go to the theatre!" said Lupinus, shrinkingly. "How! I go to the

theatre?"

"And why not, friend?" said Joseph. "Perhaps you belong to the

pietists, who look upon the stage as the mother of blasphemy and

sin, and who rail at our noble king because he will not close these

houses?"

"No, I do not belong to the pietists," said the youth, with a sad

smile, "and I try to serve God, by understanding and admiring His

works: that is my religion."

"Well, it seems to me that this faith does not forbid you to enter

the theatre. If it pleases you to study God's master-work, I promise

to show you this night on the stage the noblest exemplar. Eckhof

plays this evening."

"Who, then, is Eckhof?"

Joseph looked at the young man with surprise, and shrugged his

shoulders contemptuously.

"You have, indeed, been greatly neglected, and it was high time you

should come to me. You do not know, then, that Eckhof is the first

tragedian who has dared to set aside the old and absurd dress and

manners of the stage, and introduce real, living, feeling men, of

like passions with ourselves, and who move and speak even as we do.

Now we must certainly enter the theatre; look there, at that great

crowd entering the dark and lowly entrance. Let us remove our hats

reverentially; we stand before the temple of art." So saying, he

drew the young man, who had no longer courage to resist, into the

house. "This is Eckhof's benefit. You see the great tragedian has

many admirers; it seems to me that half of Berlin has come to bring

him tribute this evening."

Lupinus sat silent and confused in the parterre, near Joseph. There

was a row of seats slightly elevated and made of common plank,

called loges; one of these nearest the stage was adorned by a golden

eagle, from which some pitiful drapery was suspended; this was

called the king's loge, but, I am constrained to say, it had never

been visited by the king or any member of the royal family. The

royal loge was indeed empty, but the great body of the house was

fearfully crowded, and many an expression of pain was heard from

those who were closely pressed and almost trampled upon.

"It is fortunate for you that Eckhof appears as Cato tonight: it is

his best role. Perhaps your learned soul may be somewhat reconciled

to such vanities when you see a drama of Gottsched, and a hero of

the old and classic time."

"Yes, but will not your Eckhof make a vile caricature of the noble

Roman?" sighed Lupinus.

"You are a pedant, and I trust the Muses will revenge themselves

upon you this night," said Joseph, angrily. "I prophesy that you

will become this evening a wild enthusiast for Eckhof: that is

always the punishment for those who come as despisers and doubters.

If you were a girl, I should know that you would be passionately in

love with Eckhof before you slept; you have taken the first step, by

hating him."

Joseph said this thoughtlessly, and did not remark the deep

impression his words made upon the stranger. His face flushed, and

his head sank upon his breast. Joseph saw nothing of this. At this

moment the curtain rose and the piece began.

A breathless silence reigned throughout the vast crowd; every eye

was fixed upon the stage; and now, with a stately step and a Roman

toga falling in artistic folds from his shoulders, Eckhof as Cato

stood before them. Every thing about him was antique; his noble and

proud bearing, his firm and measured step, his slow but easy

movements, even the form of his head and the expression of his

finely-cut features, were eminently classic. He was the complete and

perfect picture of an old Roman; nothing was forgotten. The sandals,

laced with red over the powerful and well-formed leg; the white

under-garment and leathern girdle, the blue toga, the cut of his

hair, every thing brought before you the noble Roman, the son of

Liberty, imposing in his majesty and power.

Eckhof was the first who had the courage to clothe his characters in

the costume of the time they represented, to make them move and

speak simply as men. Eckhof did that for the German stage which some

years later Talma introduced on the French boards. Talma was only a

copyist of Eckhof, but this fact was not acknowledged, because at

that time the German stage had not won for itself the sympathy and

consideration of other nations.

As I have said, silence reigned, and from time to time the rapture

of applause, which could not be altogether suppressed, was evidenced

by thundering bravos. Then again all was still; every eye and every

ear were open to the great actor, true to himself and true to

nature; who, glowing with enthusiasm, had cast his whole soul into

his part; who had forgotten the line separating imagination from

reality; who had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and felt and thought

and spoke as Cato. At the close of an act, Eckhof was forced to come

forward and show himself by the wild the stormy applause and loud

cries of the audience.

"Do you not find him beyond all praise?" said Fredersdorf.

Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage; he had only soul, breath,

hearing, for Eckhof. His old world had passed away like a misty

dream--a new world surrounded him. The olden time, the olden time to

which he had consecrated years of study and of thought, to which he

had offered up his sleep and all the pleasures of youth, had now

become a reality for him. He who stood upon the stage was Cato; that

was the Roman forum; there were the proud temples, and the dwelling-

houses consecrated by their household gods. There was, then, outside

of the world of books and letters, another world of light and

gladness! What was it, which made his heart beat and tremble so

powerfully? why did his blood rush so madly through his veins? A

dark veil had fallen from his face; all around him were life, light,

gladness, and rapture. With trembling lips and silent tears he said

to himself: "I will live; I will be young; I will turn to Eckhof; he

shall counsel me, and I will follow his advice as I would a holy

gospel.--Did you not say that you knew Cato?" said he, suddenly

awaking from his dream and turning to his companion.

"Cato?" said Fredersdorf. "Do you mean the drama, or that wearisome

old fellow himself? or Eckhof, who plays the part of Cato?"

"So it is Eckhof," said Lupinus, to himself; "he is called Eckhof?"

The play was at an end; the curtain fell for the last time, and now

the long-suppressed enthusiasm burst forth in wild and deafening

applause. The young stranger was silent, his eyes were full of

tears; and yet he was perhaps the happiest of them all, and these

rapturous tears were a loftier tribute to the great actor than the

loudest bravos. The people had passed a happy evening, and common

cares and sorrows had been forgotten; but Lupinus felt as if his

heart had risen from the dead: he was changed from old age to sunny

youth; he had suddenly discovered in himself something new,

something never suspected--a glowing, loving heart.

"Well, now I am resolved, wholly resolved," said Joseph, as they

forced their way through the crowd. "I no longer hesitate; I give up

to you your dry learning and philosophy; you are welcome to your

dusty books and your imposing cues. I will be an actor."

"Ha! an actor?" said Lupinus, awaking from his dream and trembling

violently.

"Why are you shocked at my words? I suppose you despise me because

of this decision; but what do I care? I will be an artiste; I shall

not be disturbed by the turned-up noses and derisive shrugs of you

wise ones. I will be a scholar of Eckhof; so despise me, my learned

Lupinus--I give you permission."

"I am not laughing," said Lupinus. "Each one must walk in that path

at the end of which he hopes to find his ideal."

"Yes, truly, and so I will go to Eckhof," said Fredersdorf, waving

his hat triumphantly in the air.

"Do you know where he dwells?" said the youth.

"Certainly. We are standing now just before his door. See there in

the third story, those two lighted windows? That is Eckhof's home."

"What is the name of this street?"

"What is that to you? Has my prophecy really come true, and are you

in love with the great actor? Do not let go my arm; do not turn away

from me angrily. The Post Strasse is a long way off from where you

dwell; you will lose yourself. Let us go together. I will risk no

more unseemly jests with you. Come!"

"He lives in the Post Strasse; he is called Eckhof," said Lupinus to

himself, as he took Joseph's arm and walked through the dark

streets. "I must see Eckhof; he shall decide my fate."

CHAPTER XI.

A LIFE QUESTION.

It was the morning after Eckhof's benefit. The usually quiet

dwelling of the actor resounded with the ringing of glasses and

merry songs after the toils and fatigues of the evening. He wished

to afford to himself and his comrades a little distraction; to give

to the hungry sons of the Muses and Graces a few hours of simple

enjoyment. Eckhof's purse was full and he wished to divide its

contents with his friends.

"Drink and be merry," said he to his gay companions. "Let us forget

for a few hours that we are poor, despised German actors. We will

drink, and picture to ourselves that we belong to the cherished and

celebrated artistes of the French stage, on whom the Germans so

willingly shower gold, honor, and even love. Raise your glasses, and

drink with me to the success of German art!"

"We will drink also to Eckhof," cried one of the youthful company,

raising his glass. "Yes, to the father of the now school of German

acting."

"You are that, Eckhof, and you are also our benefactor," said

another. "We thank you, that for some months we have not suffered

from hunger and thirst; that the good people of Berlin take an

interest in the German stage, and treat us with some consideration.

Let us, then, drink to our preserver, to the great Eckhof!"

Every glass was raised, and their shouts rang out merrily. Eckhof

alone was sad and troubled, and his great dreamy eyes gazed

thoughtfully in the distance. His friends observed this, and

questioned him as to the cause of his melancholy.

"I am not melancholy, though a German actor has always good reason

to be so; but I have some new plans which I wish to disclose to you.

You greet me as your benefactor. Alas! how suffering, how pitiful

must your condition be, if such a man as I am can have been useful

to you! You are all artistes, and I say this to you from honest

conviction, and not from contemptible flattery. You are greater in

your art than I am, only you had not the courage to break through

the old and absurd customs of your predecessors. That I have done

this, that I have dared to leave the beaten paths, is the only

service I have rendered. I have tried to banish from the stage the

crazy fools who strutted from side to side, and waved their arms

from right to left; who tried to play the orator by uttering their

pathetic phrases in weird, solemn sounds from the throat, or

trumpeted them through the nose. I have placed living men upon the

boards, who by natural speech and action lend truth and reality to

the scenes they wish to portray. You, comrades, have assisted me

faithfully in this effort. We are in the right path, but we are far

from the goal. Let us go forward, then, bravely and hopefully. You

think yourselves happy now in Berlin; but I say to you that we dare

not remain in Berlin. This vegetation, this bare permission to live,

does not suffice, will not satisfy our honor. I think, with Caesar,

it is better to be the first in a village than the second or third

in a great city. We will leave Berlin; this cold, proud, imperious

Berlin, which cherishes the stranger, but has no kind, cheering word

for her own countrymen. Let us turn our backs upon these French

worshippers, and go as missionaries for the German drama throughout

our fatherland."

A long pause followed this speech of Eckhof; every eye was

thoughtful, every face was troubled.

"You do not answer? I have not, then, convinced you?"

"Shall we leave Berlin now," said the hero and lover of the little

company, "even now, when they begin to show a little interest, a

little enthusiasm for us?"

"Alas, friend! the enthusiasm of the Berliners for us is like a fire

of straw--it flashes and is extinguished; to-day, perhaps, they may

applaud us, to-morrow we will be forgotten, because a learned

sparrow or hound, a French dancer, or an Italian singer, occupies

their attention. There is neither endurance nor constancy in the

Berliners. Let us go hence."

"It seems to me that we should make use of the good time while it

lasts," said another. "At present, our daily bread is secured for

ourselves and our families."

"If you are not willing to endure suffering and want," said Eckhof,

sadly, "you will never be true artistes. Poverty and necessity will

be for a long time to come the only faithful companions of the

German actor; and he who has not courage to take them to his arms,

would do better to become an honest tailor or a shoemaker. If the

prosperity of your family is your first consideration, why have you

not contented yourselves with honest daily labor, with being

virtuous fathers of families? The pursuit of art does not accord

with these things; if you choose the one, you must, for a while at

least, be separated from the other."

"That will we do," cried Fredersdorf, who had just entered the room;

"I, for my part, have already set you all a good example. I have

separated from my family, in order to become the husband of Art,

whose sighing and ardent lover I have long been; and now, if the

noble Eckhof does not reject me as a scholar, I am wholly yours."

Eckhof seized his hand, and said, with a soft smile, "I receive you

joyfully; you have the true fire of inspiration. From my heart I say

you are welcome."

"I thank you for the word--and now let us be off. The German actor

is in Germany no better than the Jew was to the Romans. Let us do as

the Jews: we have also found our Moses, who will lead us to the

promised land, where we shall find liberty, honor, and gold."

"Yes," they cried, with one voice, "we will follow Eckhof, we will

obey our master, we will leave Berlin and seek a city where we shall

be truly honored."

"I have found the city," said Eckhof; "we will go to Halle. The wise

men who have consecrated their lives to knowledge are best fitted to

appreciate and treasure the true artiste; we will unite with them,

and our efforts will transform Halle into an Athens, where knowledge

and art shall walk hand-in-hand in noble emulation."

"Off, then, for Halle!" said Fredersdorf, waving his hat in the air,

but his voice was less firm, and his eye was troubled. "Will the

director, Schonemein, consent?"

"Schonemein has resolved to go with us, provided we make no claim

for salaries, but will share with him both gains and losses."

"If the undertaking fails in Halle, we must starve, then," said a

trembling voice.

Eckhof said nothing; he crossed the room to his writing-table, and

took out a well-filled purse. "I do not say that we shall succeed in

Halle, that is, succeed as the merchants and Jews do; we go as

missionaries, resolved to bear hunger and thirst, if need be, for

the cause we love and believe in. Look, this purse contains what

remains of my profits from the last two months and from my benefit

last night. It is all I have; take it and divide it amongst you. It

will, at least, suffice to support you all for one month."

"Will you accept this?" said Joseph, with glowing cheeks.

"No, we will not accept it; what we do we will do freely, and no man

shall fetter us by his generosity or magnanimity, not even Eckhof."

Eckhof was radiant with joy. "Hear, now--I have another proposition

to make. You have refused my offer for yourselves, but you dare not

refuse it for your children; take this money and divide it equally

amongst your wives and children. With this gold you shall buy

yourselves free for a while from your families."

After a long and eloquent persuasion, Eckhof's offer was accepted,

and divided fairly. He looked on with a kindly smile.

"I now stand exactly as I did when I resolved two years ago to be an

actor. Before that I was an honest clerk; from day to day I

vegetated, and thanked God, when, after eight hours' hard work, I

could enjoy a little fresh air and the evening sunshine, and declaim

to the fields and groves my favorite lines from the great authors.

It is probable I should still have been a poor clerk and a dreamer,

if my good genius had not stood by me and given me a powerful blow,

which awakened me from dreaming to active life. The justice of the

peace, whose clerk I was, commanded me to serve behind his carriage

as a footman; this aroused my anger and my self-respect, and I left

him, determined rather to die of hunger than to submit to such

humiliation. My good genius was again at hand, and gave me courage

to follow the promptings of my heart, and become an actor. He who

will be great has the strength to achieve greatness. Let us go

onward, then, with bold hearts." He gave his hand to his friends and

dismissed them, warning them to prepare for their journey.

"You are determined to go to Halle?" said Frederedorf, who had

remained behind for the last greeting.

"We will go to Halle; it is the seat of the Muses, and belongs,

therefore, to us."

Joseph shook his head sadly. "I know Halle," said he. "You call it

the seat of the Muses. I know it only as the seat of pedantry. You

will soon know and confess this. There is nothing more narrow-

minded, jealous, arrogant, and conceited than a Halle professor. He

sees no merit in any thing but himself and a few old dusty Greeks

and Romans, and even these are only great because the professor of

Halle has shown them the honor to explain and descant upon them.

But, you are resolved--I would go with you to prison and to death;

in short, I will follow you to Halle."

"And now I am at last alone," said Eckhof; "now I must study my new

role; now stand by me, ye gods, and inspire me with your strength;

give me the right tone, the right emphasis to personate this rare

and wonderful Hippolytus, with which I hope to win the stern

professors of Halle!"

Walking backward and forward, he began to declaim the proud and

eloquent verses of Corneille; he was so thoroughly absorbed that he

did not hear the oft-repeated knock upon the door; he did not even

see that the door was softly opened, and the young Lupinus stood

blushing upon the threshold. He stood still and listened with

rapture to the pathetic words of the great actor; and as Eckhof

recited the glowing and innocent confession of love made by

Hippolytus, a burning blush suffused the cheek of the young student,

and his eyes were filled with tears. He overcame his emotion, and

advanced to Eckhof, who was now standing before the glass, studying

the attitude which would best accord with this passionate

declaration.

"Sir," said he, with a low and trembling voice, "pardon me for

disturbing you. I was told that I should find Eckhof in this room,

and it is most important to me to see and consult with this great

man. I know this is his dwelling; be kind enough to tell me if he is

within."

"This is his home, truly, but he is neither a great nor a wise man;

only and simply Eckhof the actor."

"I did not ask your opinion of the distinguished man whom I honor,

but only where I can find him."

"Tell me first what you want of Eckhof."

"What I want of him, sir?" said the youth, thoughtfully; "I scarcely

know myself. There is a mystery in my soul which I cannot fathom.

Eckhof has age, wisdom, and experience--perhaps he can enlighten me.

I have faith in his eyes and in his silver beard, and I can say

freely to him what I dare not say to any other."

Eckhof laughed merrily. "As to his white beard, you will find that

in his wardrobe; his wisdom you will find in the books of the

authors, to whose great thoughts he has only given voice; he is

neither old, wise, nor experienced. In short--I, myself, am Eckhof."

"You are Eckhof!" said Lupinus, turning deadly pale, and, stepping

back a few paces, he stared with distended eyes at the actor, whose

noble and intellectual face, glowing with youthful fire, was turned

toward him.

"I am Eckhof, and I hope you will forgive me for being a little

younger, a little browner, and somewhat less wise than the great

Cato, in which character you no doubt saw me last night. I dare hope

that my confession will not shake your confidence in me; with my

whole heart I beg you will tell me how I can be useful to you and

what mystery you wish to have explained."

"No, no! I cannot explain," cried the youth; "forgive me for having

disturbed you. I have nothing more to say." Confused and ashamed,

Lupinus left the room. The actor gazed after him wonderingly,

convinced that he had been closeted with a madman.

With trembling heart, scarcely knowing what he thought or did, the

student reached his room and closed the door, and throwing himself

upon his knees, he cried out in tones of anguish: "Oh, my God! I

have seen Eckhof: he is young, he is glorious in beauty, unhappy

that I am!" With his hands folded and still upon his knees, he gazed

dreamily in the distance; then springing up suddenly, his eyes

glowing with energy and passion, he cried: "I must go, I must go! I

will return to Halle, to my books and my quiet room; it is lonely,

but there I am at peace; there the world and the voice of Eckhof

cannot enter. I must forget this wild awakening of my youth; my

heart must sleep again and dream, and be buried at last under the

dust of books. Unhappy that I am, I feel that the past is gone

forever. I stand trembling on the borders of a new existence. I will

go at once--perhaps there is yet time; perhaps I may yet escape the

wretchedness which threatens me. Oh! in my books and studies I may

forget all. I may no longer hear this voice, which is forever

sounding in my enraptured ears, no longer see those fearful but

wondrous eyes."

With feverish haste and trembling hands he made up his little

parcel. A few hours later the post-wagon rolled by Eckhof's

dwelling. A young man with pale, haggard face and tearful eyes gazed

up at his windows.

"Farewell, Eckhof," murmured he; "I flee from you, but may God bless

you! I go to Halle; there I shall never see you, my heart shall

never thrill at the sound of your eloquent voice."

Lupinus leaned sadly back in the carriage, comforting himself with

the conviction that he was safe; but fate was too strong for him,

and the danger from which he so bravely fled, followed him speedily.

CHAPTER XII.

SUPERSTITION AND PIETY.

The goal was at last reached. The black ram for the propitiatory

offering was found, and was now awaiting in Berlin the hour of

sacrifice.

With what eager impatience, with what throbbing pulses, did

Fredersdorf wait for the evening! At last this sublime mystery would

be explained, and rivers of gold would flow at his command. Happily,

the king was not in Berlin--he had gone to Charlottenburg.

Fredersdorf was free-lord of himself.

"And after to-morrow, it will be ever the same," said he to himself

joyfully. "To-morrow the world will belong to me! I will not envy

the king his crown, the scholar his learning, or youth and beauty

their bloom. I shall be more powerful, more honored, more beloved

than them all. I shall possess an inexhaustible fountain of gold.

Gold is the lord and king of the world. The king and the

philosopher, youth, beauty, and grace, bow down before its shrine.

Oh, what a life of gladness and rapture will be mine! I shall be at

liberty. I shall wed the woman I adore. The sun is sinking; the moon

will soon ride triumphantly in the heavens, and then--"

A light rustling on the tapestry door interrupted him; and he turned

anxiously toward this door, which led directly to the chamber of the

king, and through which he alone could enter. It was indeed

Frederick. He entered the room of his private secretary with a

bright, gay smile.

"I have come unexpectedly," said the king. His clear, piercing

glance instantly remarked the cloud which lowered upon the brow of

Fredersdorf. "But what will you have? The King and Fate, as Deus ex

machina, appear without warning and confuse the calculations of

insignificant mortals."

"I have made no calculations, sire," said Fredersdorf, confused;

"and the presence of my king can never disturb my peace."

"So much the better," said Frederick, smiling. "Well, I have made my

calculations, and you, Fredersdorf, have an important part to play.

We have a great work on hand, and if you have set your heart upon

being at liberty this evening, I regret it; the hope is a vain one.

This evening you are the prisoner of your king."

The king said this with so grave, so peculiar, and at the same time

so kindly an expression, that Fredersdorf was involuntarily touched

and softened, and he pressed his lips warmly upon the hand which

Frederick held out to him.

"We must work diligently," said the king. "The time of idleness is

past, and also the time consecrated to the Muses. Soon I will lay my

flute in its case, and draw my sword from its scabbard. It appears

that my godmother, Maria Theresa, thinks it unseemly for a King of

Prussia to pass his days elsewhere than in a tented field, or to

hear other music than the sound of trumpet or the thunder of cannon

calling loudly to battle. Well, if Austria will have war, she shall

have it promptly. Never will Prussia yield to her imperious

conditions, and never will the house of Hohenzollern subject herself

to the house of Hapsburg. My godmother, the empress, can never

forget that the Prince-Elector of Brandenburg once, at the table,

held a wash-basin for the emperor. For this reason she always

regards us as cavaliere servente to the house of Hapsburg. Now, by

the help of England, Saxony, and Russia, she hopes to bring us under

the old yoke. But she shall not succeed. She has made an alliance

with England, Russia, and Saxony. I have united with France and

Bavaria, for the protection of Charles the Seventh. This, you see,

Fredersdorf, is war. Our life of fantasy and dreaming is over. I

have given you a little dish of politics," said the king, after a

pause. "I wish to show you that I have need of you, and that we have

much to do. We must arrange my private accounts, we have many

letters to write; and then we must select and prepare the rich

presents to be given to the Princess Ulrica on her marriage.

Fredersdorf, we cannot afford to be idle."

"I shall be ready at all times to obey the commands of my king. I

will work the entire night; but I pray your majesty to grant me a

few hours this evening--I have most important business, which cannot

be postponed."

"Ah! without doubt, you wish to finish the epistle of Horace, of

which we spoke a few days since. If I remember correctly, this

epistle relates to the useless offering of a lamb or black ram.

Well, I give up this translation for the present; we have no time

for it; and I cannot possibly give you leave of absence this

evening."

"And yet I dare to repeat my request," said Fredersdorf, with

passionate excitement. "Sire, my business cannot be postponed, and I

beseech you to grant me a few hours."

"If you will not yield to the earnest wish of your friend, you will

be forced to submit to the command of your king," said Frederick,

sternly. "I forbid you to leave your room this evening."

"Have pity, sire, I entreat you! I wish but for two hours of

liberty. I tell you my business is most important; the happiness of

my life depends upon it."

The king shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "The happiness of

your life! How can this poor, short-sighted, vain race of mortals

decide any question relating to 'the happiness of life'? You seek it

to-day, perhaps, in riches; to-morrow in the arms of your beloved;

and the next day you turn away from and despise both the one and the

other. I cannot fulfil your wish; I have important work for you, and

will not grant you one moment's absence."

"Sire, I must--"

"Not another word! you remain here; I command you not to leave this

room!"

"I will not obey this command," said Fredersdorf, completely beside

himself with rage and despair. "Will your majesty dismiss me from

your service, withdraw your favor, and banish me forever from your

presence? I must and will have some hours of liberty this evening."

The king's eyes flashed lightning, and his features assumed so

threatening an expression, that Fredersdorf, though completely

blinded by passion, trembled. Without a word in reply, the king

stepped hastily to the door which led into the corridor. Two

soldiers stood before the door.

"You will see that no one leaves this room," said Frederick--"you

will fire upon any one who opens the door." He turned and fixed his

eyes steadily upon the pale face of the secretary. "I said to you

that you were the prisoner of your king to-day. You would not

understand my jest. I will force you to see that I am in earnest.

The guards stand before this, door; the other door leads to my

apartment, and I will close it. You shall not work with me to-day;

you are not worthy of it. You are a bold rebel, deserving

punishment, and 'having eyes see not.'"

Fredersdorf had not the courage to reply. The king stepped hastily

through the room and opened the tapestry door; as he stood upon the

threshold, he turned once again. "Fredersdorf, the time will come

when you will thank me for having been a stern king." He closed the

door, placed the key in his pocket, and returned to his room, where

Jordan awaited him.

"And now, friend, the police may act promptly and rigorously;

Fredersdorf will not be there, and I shall not find it necessary to

punish him further. Alas! how difficult it is to turn a fool from

his folly! Fredersdorf would learn to make gold through the

sacrifice of a black ram; in order to do this, he joins himself to

my adversaries, to the hypocrites and pietists; he goes to the so-

called prayer-meetings of the godless, who call themselves,

forsooth, the children of God! Ah! Jordan, how selfish, how pitiful

is this small race of man! how little do they merit! I took

Fredersdorf from obscurity and poverty. I not only took him into my

service, I made him my confidant and my friend--I loved him

sincerely. And what is my reward? He is ungrateful, and he hates me

with a perfect hatred; he is now sitting in his room and cursing his

king, who has done nothing more than protect him from the withering

ridicule which his childish and mad pursuit was about to bring upon

him. Jordan, Jordan! kings are always repaid with ingratitude."

"Yes, sire; and God, our heavenly Father, meets with the same

reward," said Jordan, with a painful smile. "God and the king are

the two powers most misunderstood. In their bright radiance they

stand too high above the sons of men: they demand of the king that

he shall be all-wise, almighty, even as God is; they require of God

that He shall judge and act as weak, short-sighted men do, not

'knowing the end from the beginning.'"

The king did not reply; with his arms folded, he walked thoughtfully

through the room.

"Poor Fredersdorf," said he, softly, "I have slain his hobby-horse,

and that is always an unpardonable offence to any man. I might,

perhaps, have closed my eyes to the mad follies of these so-called

pietists, if they had not drawn my poor secretary into the toils.

For his sake I will give them a lesson. I will force him to see that

they are hypocrites and charlatans. Happen what will, I have saved

Fredersdorf from ridicule; if he curses me for this, I can bear it

cheerfully."

The king was right; Fredersdorf was insane with passion. He cursed

the king, not only in his heart, but with his trembling lips; he

called him a tyrant, a heartless egotist. He hated him, even as an

ignorant, unreasoning child hates the kind hand which corrects and

restrains.

"They will discover this mystery; they will learn how to make gold,

and I shall not be there," murmured Fredersdorf, gnashing his teeth;

"who knows? perhaps they will not divulge to me this costly receipt!

They will lie to me and deceive me. Ah! the moon is rising; she

casts her pure, silver rays into this hated room, now become my

prison. Now, even now, they are assembling; now the holy incantation

begins, and I--I am not there! "He tore his hair, and beat his

breast, and cried aloud.

Fredersdorf was right. As the moon rose, the conspirators, who had

been notified by Von Kleist, the husband of the beautiful Louise von

Schwerin, began to assemble. The great saloon in which the gay and

laughter-loving Louise had given her superb balls and soirees--in

which her dancing feet had trampled upon her fortune and her

happiness--was now changed into a solemn temple of worship, where

the pious believers assembled to pray to God and to adjure the

devil. The king had forbidden that the churches should be opened

except on Sunday and the regular fete days. Some over-pious and

fanatical preachers had dared to disobey this order. The assemblies

had been broken up by force of arms, the people driven to their

homes, and the churches closed. Both priests and people were

threatened with severe punishment if they should dare to open the

churches again during the week. [Footnote: Preuss's "Geschichte

Friedriotia des Grossen."]

The pietists, forgetting the Bible rule, to "give unto Caesar that

which is Caesar's," refused obedience to the spirit of the command,

and assembled together in the different houses of the faithful.

Their worship consisted principally in stern resolves to remain

obedient to the only true doctrine. To the proud fanatic this is, of

course, the faith which he professes, and there is salvation in no

other. With zealous speech they railed at the king as a heretic or

unbeliever, and strengthened themselves in their disobedience to his

commands by declaring it was well-pleasing in the sight of God.

The pietists, who had in vain endeavored to retain the power and

influence which they had enjoyed under Frederick William, whom they

now declared to have been the holiest and wisest of kings, had

become the bitterest enemies of Frederick the Great. The king called

their piety hypocrisy, laughed at their rage, replied to their

curses by witty words and biting sarcasm; and on one occasion, after

listening to an impertinent request, he replied laconically: "The

cursed priest don't know himself what he wants. Let him go to the

devil!" [Footnote: Busching's "Character of Frederick the Great."]

This so-called prayer-meeting was to take place to-day in the ball-

room of the beautiful Louise, after the regular hour of worship.

Only the elect and consecrated would remain behind to take part in

the deeper mysteries, and be witness to the incantation by which the

astrologist Pfannenschmidt would constrain his majesty the devil to

appear. No woman was allowed to be present at this holy ordinance,

and each one of the consecrated had sworn a solemn oath not to

betray an act of the assembly.

Von Kleist had taken the oath, and kept it faithfully. But there is

a wise Persian proverb which says: "If you would change an obedient

and submissive wife into a proud rebel, you have only to forbid

something! If you wish to keep a secret from the wife of your bosom,

slay yourself, or tear out your tongue; if you live, she will

discover your secret, even though hidden in the bottom of your

heart." Louise von Kleist had proved the truth of this proverb. She

had discovered the secret which her husband wished to conceal from

her. She had soon recovered from the fleeting love entertained at

first for the husband chosen for her by the king. She had returned

to the levity of her earlier days, and only waited for an

opportunity to revenge herself upon her husband. Louise hated him

because he had never been rich enough to gratify her extravagant

taste and caprices. He had even restrained her in the use of her own

means: they were always in want of money, and constantly railing

bitterly at each other.

For all this misery Louise wished to revenge herself upon her

husband, as beautiful and coquettish women always wish to revenge

themselves. She was more than ready to believe the words of that

poet who says that "a woman's heart is always girlish and youthful

enough for a new love." She wished to take special vengeance upon

her husband for daring to keep a secret from her. So soon as she

discovered the object of these secret meetings, she informed the

king, and implored him to come to her assistance and rescue her

husband from those crooked paths which had cost her her wedded

happiness and her fortune. Frederick agreed at once to her

proposition, not so much for her sake as because he rejoiced in the

opportunity to free Fredersdorf from the mystic suppositions which

had clouded his intellect, and convince him of the cunning and

hypocrisy of the alchemist Pfannenschmidt.

Every necessary preparation had been made by order of the king. The

pious assembly had scarcely met, when Louise called the four

policemen who were waiting in a neighboring house, and placed them

in a small closet adjoining the ball-room, where every thing which

took place could be both seen and heard.

The conspirators had no suspicion. The meeting was larger than ever

before. There were people of all classes, from the day laborer to

the comfortable burgher, from the honorable officer under government

to the highest noble. They prayed earnestly and fervently, and sang

hymns to the honor and glory of God. Then one of the popular priests

stepped into the pulpit and thundered forth one of those arrogant,

narrow-minded, and violent discourses which the believers of those

days indulged in. He declared all those lost, condemned to eternal

torture, who did not believe as he believed; and all those elected

and sanctified who adhered to his holy faith, and who, despising the

command of the heretical king, met together for these forbidden

services.

All this, however, was but the preparation for the great solemnity

prepared for the initiated, who were now waiting with loudly-beating

hearts and breathless expectation for the grand result.

And now another orator, the astrologer, the enlightened prophet of

God, ascended the pulpit. With what pious words he warned his

hearers to repentance! how eloquently he exhorted them to contemn

the hollow and vain world, which God had only made lovely and

attractive in order to tempt men to sin and try their powers of

resistance! "Resist! resist!" he howled through his nose, "and

persuade men to turn to you, and be saved even as we are saved--to

become angels of God, even as we are God's holy angels." In order,

however, to reach their exalted goal, they must make greater

efforts, use larger means. Power and wealth were necessary to make

the world happy and convert it to the true faith. The world must

become wholly theirs; they must buy from the devil the gold which he

has hid in the bowels of the earth, and with it allure men, and save

their souls from perdition. "We, by the grace of God, have been

empowered to subdue the devil, and to force him to give up his

secret. To those who, like ourselves, are enlightened by the holy

spirit of knowledge, the mysteries of the lower world must be made

clear. It is also a noble and great work which we have before us; we

must make gold, and with it we must purchase and convert the whole

race to holiness!"

When this pious rhapsody was concluded, he called the assembly to

earnest prayer. They fell upon their knees, and dared to pray to God

that He would give them strength to adjure the devil.

It was not, however, exactly the plan of the astrologer to crown the

efforts of the elect with success, and bring the devil virtually

before them. As long as his majesty did not appear, the pious must

believe and hope in their priest; must give him their love, their

confidence, and their gold; must look upon him as their benefactor,

who was to crown their future with glory and riches, and bring the

world to their feet. In short, he knew it was impossible for him to

introduce a devil who could disclose the great secret. The prayers

and offerings of the past had failed, and their future sacrifices

must also be in vain.

And now, in the midst of solemn hymns, the ram was led to the altar-

-this rare offering which had cost so much weary wandering and so

much precious gold. With pompous ceremony, and covered with a white

veil, the black ram was led to the sacrifice. The holy priest

Pfannenschmidt, clothed in gold-embroidered robes, stood with a

silver knife in his hand, and a silver bowl to receive the blood of

the victim. As he raised the knife, the faithful threw themselves

upon their knees and prayed aloud, prayed to God to be with them and

bless their efforts.

The astrologer, glowing with piety and enthusiasm, was about to sink

the knife into the throat of the poor trembling beast, when suddenly

something unheard of, incredible, took place. A figure fearful to

look upon sprang fiercely from behind the altar, and seized the arm

of the priest.

"Spare the offering, let the sacrifice go free!" he said, with a

thundering voice. "You have called me, and I am here! I am the

devil!"

"The devil! it is truly the devil!" and, with timid glances, they

looked up at the giant figure, clothed in crimson, his face

completely shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, from which three crimson

feathers waved majestically: these, with his terrible club-foot, all

gave unmistakable evidence of the presence of Satan. They believed

truly in him, these pious children of God; they remained upon their

knees and stammered their prayers, scarcely knowing themselves if

they were addressed to God or to the devil.

There in the little cabinet stood Louise von Kleist, trembling with

mirth, and with great effort suppressing an outburst of laughter.

She looked with wicked and mocking eyes upon her husband, who lay

shivering and deadly pale at the feet of the devil and the black

ram. He fixed his pleading glances upon the fiery monster who was to

him indeed the devil. Louise, however, fully understood this scene;

she it was who had induced young Fredersdorf to assume this part,

and had assisted him in his disguise.

"This moment repays me, avenges me for all I have suffered by the

side of this silly and extravagant fool," said Louise to herself.

"Oh, I will mock him, I will martyr him with this devil's work. The

whole world shall know of it, and, from this time forth, I shall be

justified and pitied. No one will be surprised that I am not

constant to my husband, that I cannot love him."

Whilst the pious-elect still rested upon their knees in trembling

adoration, the priest Pfannenschmidt had recovered from his surprise

and alarm. He, who did not believe in the devil, although he daily

addressed him, knew that the monster before him was an unseemly jest

or a malicious interruption. He must, therefore, tear off his mask

and expose him to the faithful.

With passionate energy he stretched out both his arms toward him.

"Away with you, you son of Baal! Fly, fly, before I unmask you! You

are not what you appear. You are no true devil!"

"How! you deny me, your lord and master?" cried the intruder,

raising his hand covered with a crimson glove, against the priest.

"You have long called for me. You have robbed these, my children, of

their gold in order to propitiate me, and now that I am come, you

will not confess me before men! Perhaps you fear that these pious

believers will no longer lavish their attentions and their gold upon

you, and suffer you to lead them by the nose. Go, go! you are not my

high priest. I listened to your entreaties, and I came, but only to

prove to my children that you are a deceiver, and to free them from

your yoke. Away, you blasphemer of God and of the devil! Neither God

nor the devil accepts your service; away with you!" Saying this, he

seized the astrologer with a powerful arm, and dragged him toward

the altar.

But Pfannenschmidt was not the man to submit to such indignities.

With a wild cry of rage, he rushed upon his adversary; and now began

a scene which neither words nor colors could portray. The pious

worshippers raised themselves from their knees and stared for a

moment at this curious spectacle; and then, according as they

believed in the devil or the priest, sprang forward to take part in

the contest.

In the midst of this wild tumult the policemen appeared, to arrest

those who were present, in the name of the king; to break up the

assembly, and put an end to the noise and tumult.

Louise, meanwhile, laughing boisterously, observed this whole scene

from the cabinet; she saw the police seize the raging astrologer,

who uttered curses, loud and deep, against the unbelieving king, who

dared to treat the pious and prayerful as culprits, and to arrest

the servant and priest of the Lord. Louise saw these counts and

barons, these officers and secretaries, who had been the brave

adherents of the astrologer, slipping away with shame and confusion

of face. She saw her own husband mocked and ridiculed by the police,

who handed him an order from the king, written by the royal hand,

commanding him to consider himself as under arrest in his own house.

As Louise heard this order read, her laughter was hushed and her

brow was clouded.

"Truly," said she, "that is a degree of consideration which looks

like malice in the king. To make my husband a prisoner in his own

house is to punish me fearfully, by condemning me steadily to his

hateful society. My God, how cruel, how wicked is the king! My

husband is a prisoner here! that is to banish my beautiful, my

beloved Salimberri from my presence. Oh, when shall we meet again,

my love, my adorer?"

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

THE TWO SISTERS.

"I have triumphed! I have reached the goal!" said Princess Ulrica,

with a proud smile, as she laid her hymn-book aside, and removed

from her head her long white veil. "This important step is taken;

yet one more grand ceremony, and I will be the Princess Royal of

Sweden--after that, a queen! They have not succeeded in setting me

aside. Amelia will not be married before me, thus bringing upon me

the contempt and ridicule of the mocking world. All my plans have

succeeded. In place of shrouding my head in the funereal veil of an

abbess, to which my brother had condemned me, I shall soon wear the

festive myrtle-wreath, and ere long a crown will adorn my brow."

Ulrica threw herself upon the divan, in order to indulge quietly in

these proud and happy dreams of the future, when the door was

hastily thrown open, and the Princess Amelia, with a pale and angry

face, entered the room. She cast one of those glances of flame, with

which she, in common with the king, was wont to crush her

adversaries, upon the splendid toilet of her sister, and a wild and

scornful laugh burst from her lips.

"I have not, then, been deceived." she cried; "it is not a fairy

tale to which I have listened. You come from the chapel?"

"I come from the chapel? yes," said Ulrica, meeting the angry glance

of her sister with a firm and steady look. Resolved to breast the

coming storm with proud composure, she folded her arms across her

bosom, as if she would protect herself from Amelia's flashing eyes.

"I come from the chapel--what further?"

"What further?" cried Amelia, stamping fiercely on the floor. "Ah,

you will play the harmless and the innocent! What took you to the

chapel?"

Ulrica looked up steadily and smilingly; then said, in a quiet and

indifferent tone: "I have taken the sacrament of the Lord's Supper,

according to the Lutheran form of worship."

Amelia shuddered as if she felt the sting of a poisonous serpent.

"That signifies that you are an apostate; that signifies that you

have shamefully outwitted and betrayed me; that means--"

"That signifies," said Ulrica, interrupting her, "that I am a less

pious Christian than you are; that you, my noble young sister, are a

more innocent and unselfish maiden than the Princess Ulrica."

"Words, words! base, hypocritical words!" cried Amelia. "You first

inspired me with the thought which led to my childish and

contradictory behavior, and which for some days made me the jest of

the court. You are a false friend, a faithless sister! I stood in

your path, and you put me aside. I understand now your perfidious

counsels, your smooth, deceitful encouragement to my opposition

against the proposition of the Swedish ambassador. I, forsooth, must

be childish, coarse, and rude, in order that your gentle and girlish

grace, your amiable courtesy, might shine with added lustre. I was

your foil, which made the jewel of your beauty resplendent. Oh! it

is shameful to be so misused, so outwitted by my sister!"

With streaming eyes, Amelia sank upon a chair, and hid her face with

her trembling little hands.

"Foolish child!" said Ulrica, "you accuse me fiercely, but you know

that you came to me and implored me to find a means whereby you

would be relieved from this hateful marriage with the Prince Royal

of Sweden."

"You should have reasoned with me, you should have encouraged me to

give up my foolish opposition. You should have reminded me that I

was a princess, and therefore condemned to have no heart."

"You said nothing to me of your heart; you spoke only of your

religion. Had you told me that your heart rebelled against this

marriage with the Crown Prince of Sweden, then, upon my knees, with

all the strength of a sister's love, I would have implored you to

accept his hand, to shroud your heart in your robe of purple, and

take refuge on your throne from the danger which threatens a young

princess if she allows her heart to speak."

Amelia let her hands fall from her face, and looked up at her

sister, whose great earnest eyes were fixed upon her with an

expression of triumph and derision.

"I did not say that my heart had spoken," she cried, sobbing and

trembling; "I only said that we poor princesses were not allowed to

have hearts."

"No heart for one; but a great large heart, great enough for all!"

cried Ulrica. "You accuse me, Amelia, but you forget that I did not

intrude upon your confidence. You came to me voluntarily, and

disclosed your abhorrence of this marriage; then only did I counsel

you, as I would wish to be advised under the same circumstances. In

a word, I counselled you to obey your conscience, your own

convictions of duty."

"Your advice was wonderfully in unison with your own plans; your

deceitful words were dictated by selfishness," cried Amelia,

bitterly.

"I would not have adopted the course which I advised you to pursue,

because my character and my feeling are wholly different from yours.

My conscience is less tender, less trembling than yours. To become a

Lutheran does not appear to me a crime, not even a fault, more

particularly as this change is not the result of fickleness or

inconstancy, but for an important political object."

"And your object was to become Queen of Sweden?"

"Why should I deny it? I accept this crown which you cast from you

with contempt. I am ambitious. You were too proud to offer up the

smallest part of your religious faith in order to mount the throne

of Sweden. I do not fear to be banished from heaven, because, in

order to become a queen, I changed the outward form of my religion;

my inward faith is unchanged: if you repent your conduct--if you

have modified your views--"

"No, no!" said Amelia, hastily, "I do not repent. My grief and my

despair are not because of this pitiful crown, but because of my

faithless and deceitful sister who gave me evil counsel to promote

her own interests, and while she seemed to love, betrayed me. Go,

go! place a crown upon your proud head; you take up that which I

despise and trample upon. I do not repent. I have no regrets. But,

hark! in becoming a queen, you cease to be my sister. Never will I

forget that through falsehood and treachery you won this crown. Go!

be Queen of Sweden. Let the whole world bow the knee before you. I

despise you. You have shrouded your pitiful heart in your royal

robes. Farewell!"

She sprang to the door with flashing eyes and throbbing breast, but

Ulrica followed and laid her hand upon her shoulder.

"Let us not part in anger, my sister," said she, softly--"let us--"

Amelia would not listen; with an angry movement she dashed the hand

from her shoulder and fled from the room. Alone in her boudoir, she

paced the room in stormy rage, wild passion throbbed in every pulse.

With the insane fury of the Hohenzollerns, she almost cursed her

sister, who had so bitterly deceived, so shamefully betrayed her.

In outward appearance, as well as in character, the Princess Amelia

greatly resembled her royal brother: like him, she was by nature

trusting and confiding; but, once deceived, despair and doubt took

possession of her. A deadly mildew destroyed the love which she had

cherished, not only for her betrayer, but her confidence and trust

in all around her. Great and magnanimous herself, she now felt that

the rich fountain of her love and her innocent, girlish credulity

were choked within her heart. With trembling lips, she said aloud

and firmly: "I will never more have a friend. I do not believe in

friendship. Women are all false, all cunning, all selfish. My heart

is closed to them, and their deceitful smiles and plausible words

can never more betray me. Oh, my God, my God! must I then be always

solitary, always alone? must I--"

Suddenly she paused, and a rich crimson blush overspread her face.

What was it which interrupted her sorrowful words? Why did she fix

her eyes upon the door so eagerly? Why did she listen so earnestly

to that voice calling her name from the corridor.

"Pollnitz, it is Pollnitz!" she whispered to herself, and she

trembled fearfully.

"I must speak with the Princess Amelia," cried the master of

ceremonies.

"But that is impossible," replied another voice; "her royal highness

has closed the door, and will receive no one."

"Her royal highness will open the door and allow me to enter as soon

as you announce me. I come upon a most important mission. The life-

happiness of more than one woman depends upon my errand."

"My God!" said Amelia, turning deadly pale, "Pollnitz may betray me

if I refuse to open the door." So saying, she sprang forward and

drew back the bolt.

"Look, now, Mademoiselle von Marwitz," cried Pollnitz, as he bowed

profoundly, "was I not right? Our dear princess was graciously

pleased to open the door so soon as she heard my voice. Remark that,

mademoiselle, and look upon me in future as a most important person,

who is not only accorded les grandes but les petites entrees."

The Princess Amelia was but little inclined to enter into the jests

of the master of ceremonies.

"I heard," said she, in a harsh tone, "that you demanded

importunately to see me, and you went so far as to declare that the

happiness of many men depended upon this interview."

"Pardon me, your highness, I only said that the happiness of more

than one woman depended upon it; and you will graciously admit that

I have spoken the truth when you learn the occasion which brings me

here."

"Well, let us hear," said Amelia, "and woe to you if it is not a

grave and important affair!"

"Grave indeed: it concerns the toilets for a ball, and you must

confess that the happiness of more than one woman hangs upon this

question."

"In truth, you are right, and if you came as milliner or dressmaker,

Mademoiselle von Marwitz did wrong not to announce you immediately."

"Now, ladies, there is nothing less important on hand than a masked

ball. The king has commanded that, besides the masked ball which is

to take place in the opera-house, and to which the public are

invited, another shall be arranged here in the castle on the day

before the betrothal of the Princess Ulrica."

"And when is that ceremony to take place?" said Amelia.

"Has not your royal highness been informed? Ah, I forgot--the king

has kept this a secret, and to no one but the queen-mother has it

been officially announced. Yes, yes, the Princess Ulrica is to marry

this little Prince of Holstein, who will, however, be King of

Sweden. This solemn ceremony takes place in four days; so we have

but three days before the masquerade, and we must work night and day

to prepare the necessary costumes--his majesty wishes it to be a

superb fete. Quadrilles are arranged, the king has selected the

partners, and I am here at his command, to say to your royal

highness that you will take part in these quadrilles. You will dance

a quadrille, in the costume of Francis the First, with the

Margravine of Baireuth and the Duchess of Brunswick."

"And who is to be my partner?" said Amelia, anxiously.

"The Margrave von Schwedt."

"Ah! my irresistible cousin. I see there the hand of my malicious

brother; he knows how dull and wearisome I consider the poor

margrave."

The princess turned away displeased, and walked up and down the

room.

"Did you not say that I, also, would take part in the quadrille?"

said Mademoiselle von Marwitz.

"Certainly, mademoiselle; you will dance in Russian costume."

"And who will be my partner?"

Pollnitz laughed heartily. "One would think that the most important

question was not as to the ball toilet, but as to the partner; that

he, in short, was as much a life-question as the color and cut of

your robe, or the fashion of your coiffure. So you demand the name

of your partner? Ah, mademoiselle, you will be more than content.

The partner whom the king has selected for you is one of our

youngest, handsomest, most amiable and talented cavaliers; a youth

whom Alcibiades would not have been indignant at being compared

with, and whom Diana would have preferred, perhaps, to the dreaming

and beautiful Endymion, had she found him sleeping. And mark you,

you will not only dance with this pearl of creation, but in the next

few days you must see and speak with him frequently. It is necessary

that you should consult together over the choice and color of your

costumes, and about the dances. If your royal highness will allow

it, he must come daily to arrange these important points. Alas! why

am I not a young maiden? Why can I not enjoy the felicity of loving

this Adonis? Why can I not exchange this poor, burnt-out heart for

one that glows and palpitates?"

"You are a fool, and know nothing about a maiden's heart! In your

ecstasy for this Ganymede, who is probably an old crippled monster,

you make rare confusion. You force the young girl to play the part

of the ardent lover, and give to your monster the character of a

cool, vain fop."

"Monster? My God! she said monster!" cried Pollnitz, pathetically.

"Fall upon your knees, mademoiselle, and pray fervently to your good

fortune to forgive you; you have sinned greatly against it, I assure

you. You will confess this when I have told you the name of your

partner."

"Name him, then, at last."

"Not before Princess Amelia is gracious enough to promise me that

she will watch over and shield you; that she will never allow you a

single tete-a-tete with your dangerous partner."

"Ah, you will make me the duenna of my maid of honor," said Amelia,

laughing. "I shall be the chaperon of my good Marwitz, and shield

her from the weakness of her own heart."

"If your royal highness declines to give this promise, Mademoiselle

Marwitz shall have another partner. I cannot answer to my conscience

if she is left alone, unobserved and unprotected, with the most

beautiful of the beautiful."

"Be merciful, princess, and say yes. For you see well that this

terrible Pollnitz will make me a martyr to curiosity. Consent,

gracious princess, and then I may perhaps hear the name of my

partner."

"Well, then," said Amelia, smiling, "I consent to play Mentor to my

maid of honor."

"Your royal highness promises then, solemnly, to be present at every

conference between Mademoiselle von Marwitz and her irresistible

partner?"

"I promise; be quick! Marwitz will die of curiosity, if you do not

tell the name of this wonder."

"Well, now, that I have, so far as it is in my power, guarded the

heart of this young girl from disaster, and placed it under the

protecting eye of our noble princess, I venture to name my paragon.

He is the young lieutenant-Baron von Trenck, the favorite of the

king and the court."

Very different was the impression made by this name upon the two

ladies. The eager countenance of Mademoiselle von Marwitz expressed

cool displeasure; while the princess, blushing and confused, turned

aside to conceal the happy smile which played upon her full, rosy

lips.

Pollnitz, who had seen all this, wished to give the princess time to

collect herself. He turned to Mademoiselle Marwitz and said: "I see,

to my amazement, that our lovely maid of honor is not so enraptured

as I had hoped. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! you are a wonderful

actress, but you cannot deceive me. You wish to seem disappointed

and indifferent, in order to induce our gracious princess to

withdraw her promise to me, and to think it unnecessary to be

present at your interviews with Trenck. This acting is in vain. The

princess has given her word, and she will most surely keep it."

"Certainly," said Amelia, smiling, "I have no alternative. Queens

and princesses, kings and princes, are bound by their promises, even

as common men, and their honor demands that they fulfil their

contracts. I will keep my word. But enough of jesting for the

present. Let us speak now of the solemn realities of life, namely,

of our toilets. Baron, give me your model engraving, and make known

your views. Call my chambermaid, mademoiselle, and my dressmakers;

we will hold a solemn conference."