It was the beginning of January 1733. In the morning Prince Frederick
returned from hunting at Hubertsburg. Sulkowski was with him. In the
evening the incomparable Faustina was going to sing in the opera. The
Prince was as great an admirer of her voice and beauty as his father.
The singer would tyrannise over her competitors, would persecute those
who had not the good fortune to please her, and when she deigned to
sing there was quiet in the hall as in a church; if anyone dared to
sneeze he might be sure that she would become his bitterest foe. The
opera called 'Cleophia' was announced and Prince Frederick enjoyed the
prospect.
In the afternoon, the Prince, dressed in a splendid _robe de chambre_,
was sitting in an armchair, digesting with that pleasant feeling
produced by a strong stomach and excellent cooking.
Sulkowski stood opposite him. From time to time the Prince would look
at his friend, smile, and smoke on in silence.
The friend and servant looked with pleasure on his happy master,
sharing his happiness silently.
The Prince's face beamed, but it was his habit, when in a happy mood,
to speak very little and to think. Nobody knew what about. Sometimes he
would raise his drooping head, look at Sulkowski and say:
'H'm! Sulkowski?'
'I am here.'
Then he would nod and that was the end of it. A quarter of an hour
would elapse and the Prince would call him again by his Christian name,
or caressingly in the Italian language. The Count would reply as before
that he was there and the eloquent silence would follow.
The Prince spoke but little and only when obliged to do so. He disliked
anything unexpected. His life must flow quietly, monotonously. The
afternoon hours, when he only received his most familiar friends, were
those he enjoyed best. In the forenoon he was obliged to give audience,
to listen, to talk, to sign papers. After such efforts the afternoon
_siesta_ was delightful to him. When there was no opera he would go to
Princess Josepha, listen to some music, and the day would end with a
supper.
Never before did the courtiers have a lord more easy to entertain. He
was satisfied though one day resembled another as two drops of water.
That day the afternoon _siesta_ had just begun; the Prince was smoking
a second pipe, when Sulkowski, noticing something through the window,
hesitated a moment and then went towards the door. The Prince's eyes
followed him.
'Sulkowski!' he said softly.
'I return at once,' answered the Count, opening the door and
disappearing through it. In the anteroom two pages and some servants
were waiting.
'Don't let anybody in without my special permission,' said Sulkowski.
All heads bowed.
Sulkowski went out, rushed down the stairs, and stopped in the doorway
petrified.
'Bruehl? You here?'
Wrapped in a fur cloak covered with snow, cold, tired, pale and
troubled, there stood the favourite of Augustus II. In the courtyard
one might have seen a carriage with two tired horses; the postillions
had already dismounted and were also so tired that they could hardly
keep on their feet.
Bruehl did not answer: he made him understand by his look that he wished
to enter and to rest. This sudden arrival had something so mysterious
about it, that Sulkowski, being very much troubled about it, led the
way to a room situated on the ground floor. The servants recognised
Bruehl, and pressed forward, but he dismissed them with a wave of the
hand and entered the room with Sulkowski. Bruehl quickly divested
himself of his furs. The Count stood waiting.
'For Heaven's sake, Bruehl, what news do you bring?'
Bruehl sat down on a chair as though not having heard the question, and
leaned his sorrowful head on his hand. The favourite of the Prince,
uneasy and impatient, stood before him, but pride prevented him from
insisting.---He waited.
Bruehl rose and sighed, looked around, wrung his hands and cried:
'My most gracious lord, the King, is dead!'
Over Sulkowski's face there passed like lightning an expression
difficult to define--fear and joy mixed. He moved as though about to
run, but stopped.
'Nobody come before me from Warsaw?' asked Bruehl.
'Nobody.'
'Then the Prince knows nothing?'
'No, he does not even suspect anything,' said Sulkowski. 'The Prince
must be notified at once,' continued the Count. 'But tell me, how was
it? The King was in good health.'
Bruehl sighed pitifully.
'On the sixteenth we came to Warsaw,' he said quietly. 'The road was
most abominable: in some places snow drifts, in others mud. The King
was tired and impatient, but catching sight of Warsaw, his face
brightened up. We sent couriers ahead; the reception was splendid
notwithstanding the wretched weather, the cannons boomed, the regiment
of musketeers was splendid. The carriage stopped at the door of the
Saxon Palace. As the King alighted he knocked his foot against the
step, in the place which has troubled him continually since Weiss
amputated his big toe. We noticed that he grew pale and leaned on his
stick. Two pages ran to help him, and leaning on them he entered the
palace, where the clergy, the lords and the ladies awaited him in large
numbers. The King was obliged to sit down immediately and he told the
Grand Marshal to shorten the reception as he did not feel well. As soon
as he entered the chamber he ordered Dr Weiss to be called, complaining
that he felt his foot hot and wet. They cut the boot; it was full of
blood. Weiss grew pale: the foot was already swollen and discoloured;
yet notwithstanding that--'
'Cut it short,' cried Sulkowski. 'Someone might tell the Prince that
you have arrived.'
Bruehl came near to him.
'Count,' said he, 'I--we should come to some understanding before we
venture to do anything. The Prince loved his father dearly, the shock
he will receive--will it not be necessary to prepare him for the news?'
'Yes, but how?'
'My advice is,' said Bruehl, 'that we should do nothing without first
consulting Padre Guarini and the Princess.'
Sulkowski looked at him with ill-disguised discontent.
'But it seems to me,' said he, 'that the Prince needs neither the
Princess's help nor the spiritual consolation of his confessor.'
'I should think--' said Bruehl, and suddenly confused he looked towards
the door which opened and Padre Guarini appeared. It was difficult to
guess how he could have learned so quickly of Bruehl's arrival. He
walked straight to him; his face was sad although it was difficult for
him to change its naturally cheerful expression; he opened his arms as
though he would like to embrace him. Bruehl would probably have kissed
his hand had there not been a witness. Therefore he only advanced and
drooping his head said:
'The King is dead.'
'_Eviva il re!_' answered the Jesuit quietly, raising his eyes. 'God's
designs are impenetrable. Does the Prince know it?'
'Not yet,' said Sulkowski drily, looking at the Jesuit askance.
Guarini purposely averted his gaze.
'My wish,' said Bruehl, 'is to spare the Prince's feelings and take the
advice of the Princess.'
Guarini nodded and Sulkowski shrugged his shoulders and looked at Bruehl
with discontent.
'Then let us all go to the Princess,' he said, 'for there is not a
moment to be lost.'
Bruehl glanced at his travelling clothes.
'I can't go as I am,' said he. 'You both go to the Princess; I shall
order my clothes to be brought here and dress first.'
Sulkowski agreed in silence to the proposition, Guarini nodded in the
affirmative, and they turned towards the door. Bruehl threw himself into
a chair, as though unable to stand on his feet.
Sulkowski followed the Jesuit quite unwillingly, leaving Bruehl who
leaned his head on his hand and became thoughtful.
This resting and thinking did not last very long; as soon as the two
disappeared in the dark corridor of the castle, Bruehl rose quickly,
hurried to the door, opened it, and looked into the ante-room.
There stood a lackey as if waiting for orders.
'Send page Berlepsch at once to me.'
The servant went off and five minutes later a boy, wearing the uniform
of the King's pages, rushed in out of breath.
Bruehl, standing near the door, put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
'Berlepsch, I hope you have confidence in me; don't ask any questions
but go to the Prince's apartments, and on your own responsibility,
understand, on your own responsibility tell the Prince that I have
arrived. Listen! If anything prevented you all would be useless.'
The intelligent boy looked into Bruehl's eyes, did not say a word, and
went out. Bruehl again sat at the table and covered his face with his
hands.
It was quiet about him, but he trembled at the slightest noise. There
was some stir and bustle on the upper floor, and on the stairs one
could hear someone rushing down; a good-looking man, with an ironical
smile, appeared in the doorway, and said:
'His Royal Highness, the Prince, having learned by an accident about
your arrival, commands you at once to bring him the dispatches.'
Bruehl pretended to be embarrassed.
'I am not dressed.'
'Come as you are.'
'Such is the order?'
'Word for word.'
Bruehl rose as if he were forced, but he was satisfied inwardly.
They both went silently upstairs.
The door opened, Bruehl entered slowly with such a sorrowful expression
on his face, that the Prince dropped his pipe and rose.
The door closed and Bruehl fell on his knees.
'I bring to Your Majesty the saddest news, but first bow down at the
feet of the new King. Our most gracious lord, the King, is dead.'
Frederick stood for a while as if turned into a block of stone; he
covered his face. There was a moment of silence; at length Frederick
gave Bruehl his hand to be kissed and made a sign to him to rise.
'Bruehl, how and when did it happen?'
'On the first day of February, the King Augustus the Great died in my
arms and entrusted me with his last will, with the jewels of the Crown
and secret papers. I, myself, brought the jewels and the papers and I
deposit them at the feet of your Majesty.'
Frederick again gave him his hand to be kissed; Bruehl bent very low and
pretended to be crying; covering his eyes with a handkerchief, he
sobbed. The new King also took out a handkerchief and began to weep for
his father, whom he loved and respected.
'Bruehl, tell me, how did this misfortune occur?' he said quietly.
In a muffled voice, trying to master his emotion, Bruehl narrated the
circumstances of the illness, its course, and told of the King's
patience and peace at the moment of death. At length he took out a
letter and handed it to Frederick, who impatiently tore open the
envelope. After having read it, he kissed it.
The letter contained the blessing and recommendation of his most
faithful and best servant, the messenger of his last will. Frederick
looked at Bruehl and sighed.
'I will do as my father advises and commands me.'
The letter was still lying on Frederick's knees, when the door leading
to the Princess's rooms opened, and there entered Josepha dressed in
black, Sulkowski and Guarini.
How surprised they were at seeing Frederick crying, Bruehl in his
travelling clothes standing at the door, and the opened letter!
Frederick, still sobbing, threw himself into his wife's arms; she began
to cry also, according to the Spanish etiquette prescribed to rulers
and their courtiers as the form of sorrow and expression of grief.
Sulkowski looked at Bruehl with disapproval and whispered to him:
'You told me, you would wait for me.'
'Someone betrayed the secret of my arrival; they called me; I was
obliged to obey.'
'Who did that?'
'Watzdorf.'
Sulkowski seemed to be trying to remember the name.
The five people gathered in that room made an interesting group.
Frederick alone was really sorrowful. Accustomed to respect and love
his father, overwhelmed by grief and the fear of the burden that now
fell on his shoulders, Frederick's face was very much changed. Usually
serene and quiet, it was now twisted with grief which he could not
conceal. Josepha's sorrow was more simulated than true; she never
forgot for a moment her dignity and etiquette. Sulkowski was thoughtful
and gloomy, as a man who, coming into power, calculates how to begin.
His great self-esteem never left him even in the presence of the lady,
to whom his respect was due.
Padre Guarini bent his head, closed his eyes, and twitched his face
with an expression well assumed for the moment. Bruehl while not
forgetting that he should appear to be overwhelmed by sorrow, could not
abstain from glancing from time to time at those present, especially at
Sulkowski. He seemed to see an adversary.
While the Princess tried to comfort her husband, Sulkowski mustered up
courage and coming nearer proposed that he should call the dignitaries
for a council and announce to the capital and the country, by ordering
the bells to be rung, that Augustus II was dead.
Josepha looked at the intruding adviser with some aversion, whispered
something to her husband, and majestically directed her steps towards
the same door through which she had entered a short time before,
Guarini following her.
Those who remained were silent for a time. Bruehl waited for orders
which the new King did not dare to give; Sulkowski gave Bruehl to
understand that he had better leave them.
Bruehl hesitated, and then he left the room. Frederick did not notice
him go out. They remained alone, till suddenly Frederick took the
handkerchief from his eyes and said:
'Where is Bruehl?'
'He went out.'
'He must not leave me. Pray command him to stay here.'
Sulkowski wished to protest, but then he opened the door, whispered
through it and returned.
'One must bear God's will as a man and king,' said he familiarly. 'The
King has no time for sorrow.'
Frederick only made a gesture.
'The council shall be called at once.'
'Then go and preside at it; I can't,' said the King. 'Call Bruehl here.'
'But why is Bruehl necessary?' said Sulkowski in a tone of reproach.
'He? In his arms my father died. Father recommended him to me, I wish
to have him, let him come.'
'They have sent for him,' Sulkowski said shrugging his shoulders
impatiently.
'Joseph, don't be angry,' said Frederick in a plaintive tone.
As he said this the bells began to ring mournfully in the churches of
the capital of Saxony. Frederick kneeled and prayed. Sulkowski followed
his example. One after the other the bells rang out, the solemn sounds
forming a gloomy choir, accompanied by the whispering of the people,
whispering to each other the sad news.