no man but me; and that is sufficient. Her mother has nothing to object
to me. And if I was in business and had money enough to keep a wife
with, Rose would be my wife to-morrow. The only annoyance we have is,
that her mother will not let us meet so often as we wish. She says
frequent meetings do no good; but I differ from her, and so does
Rose--for we think meeting often does us both a great deal of good. And
we have agreed to meet to-night, at twelve o'clock, at the great door
of St. Gregory's Church, for Rose is bringing in the year at a friend's
house, and I am to take her home."
In the midst of such conversation the clock of the neighboring tower
struck three-quarters, and Philip took his father's great-coat from the
warm stove where Katharine had carefully laid it, wrapped himself in
it, and taking the lantern and staff, and wishing his parents
good-night, proceeded to his post.
II.
Philip stalked majestically through the snow-covered streets of the
capital, where as many people were still visible as in the middle of
the day. Carriages were rattling in all directions, the houses were all
brilliantly lighted. Our watchman enjoyed the scene, he sang his verses
at ten o'clock, and blew his horn lustily in the neighborhood of St.
Gregory's Church, with many a thought on Rose, who was then with her
friend. "Now she hears me," he said to himself; "now she thinks on me,
and forgets the scene around her. I hope she won't fail me at twelve
o'clock at the church door." And when he had gone his round, he always
returned to the dear house and looked up at the lighted windows.
Sometimes he saw female figures, and his heart beat quick at the sight;
sometimes he fancied he saw Rose herself; and sometimes he studied the
long shadows thrown on the wall or the ceiling to discover which of
them was Rose's, and to fancy what she was doing. It was certainly not
a very pleasant employment to stand in frost and snow and look up at a
window; but what care lovers for frost and snow? And watchmen are as
fiery and romantic lovers as ever were the knights of ancient ballads.
He only felt the effects of the frost when, at eleven o'clock, he had
to set out upon his round. His teeth chattered with cold; he could
scarcely call the hour or sound his horn. He would willingly have gone
into a beer-house to warm himself at the fire. As he was pacing through
a lonely by-street, he met a man with a black half-mask on his face,
enveloped in a fire-colored silken mantle, and wearing on his head a
magnificent hat turned up at one side, and fantastically ornamented
with a number of high and waving plumes.
Philip endeavored to escape the mask, but in vain. The stranger blocked
up his path and said: "Ha! thou art a fine fellow; I like thy phiz
amazingly. Where are you going, eh? I say, where are you going?"
"To Mary Street," replied Philip. "I am going to call the hour there."
"Enchanting!" answered the mask. "I'll hear thee: I'll go with thee.
Come along, thou foolish fellow, and let me hear thee, and mind thou
singest well, for I am a good judge. Canst thou sing me a jovial song?"
Philip saw that his companion was of high rank and a little tipsy, and
answered: "I sing better over a glass of wine in a warm room, than when
up to my waist in snow."
They had now reached Mary Street, and Philip sang and blew the horn.
"Ha! that's but a poor performance," exclaimed the mask, who had
accompanied him thither. "Give me the horn! I shall blow so well that
you'll half die with delight."
Philip yielded to the mask's wishes, and let him sing the verses and
blow. For four or five times all was done as if the stranger had been a
watchman all his life. He dilated most eloquently on the joys of such
an occupation, and was so inexhaustible in his own praises that he made
Philip laugh at his extravagance. His spirits evidently owed no small
share of their elevation to an extra glass of wine.
"I'll tell you what, my treasure, I've a great fancy to be a watchman
myself for an hour or two. If I don't do it now, I shall never arrive
at that honor in the course of my life. Give me your great-coat and
wide-brimmed hat, and take my domino. Go into a beer-house and take a
bottle at my expense; and when you have finished it, come again and
give me back my masking-gear. You shall have a couple of dollars for
your trouble. What do you think, my treasure?"
But Philip did not like this arrangement. At last, however, at the
solicitations of the mask, he capitulated as they entered a dark lane.
Philip was half frozen; a warm drink would do him good, and so would a
warm fire. He agreed for one half-hour to give up his watchmanship,
which would be till twelve o'clock. Exactly at that time the stranger
was to come to the great door of St. Gregory's and give back the
great-coat, horn, and staff, taking back his own silk mantle, hat, and
domino. Philip also told him the four streets in which he was to call
the hour. The mask was in raptures: "Treasure of my heart, I could kiss
thee if thou wert not a dirty, miserable fellow! But thou shalt have
naught to regret, if thou art at the church at twelve, for I will give
thee money for a supper then. Joy! I am a watchman!" The mask looked a
watchman to the life, while Philip was completely disguised with the
half-mask tied over his face, the bonnet ornamented with a buckle of
brilliants on his head, and the red silk mantle thrown around him. When
he saw his companion commence his walk he began to fear that the young
gentleman might compromise the dignity of the watchman. He therefore
addressed him once more, and said:
"I hope you will not abuse my good nature and do any mischief or
misbehave in any way, as it may cost me the situation."
"Hallo!" answered the stranger. "What are you talking about? Do you
think I don't know my duty? Off with you this moment, or I'll let you
feel the weight of my staff. But come to St. Gregory's Church and give
me back my clothes at twelve o'clock. Good-bye. This is glorious fun!"
The new guardian of the streets walked onward with all the dignity
becoming his office, while Philip hurried to a neighboring tavern.
III.
As he was passing the door of the royal palace, he was laid hold of by
a person in a mask who had alighted from a carriage. Philip turned
round, and in a low whispering voice asked what the stranger wanted.
"My gracious lord," answered the mask, "in your reverie you have passed
the door. Will your Royal Highness--"
"What? Royal Highness?" said laughing. "I am no highness. What put that
in your head?"
The mask bowed respectfully, and pointed to the brilliant buckle in
Philip's hat. "I ask your pardon if I have betrayed your disguise. But,
in whatever character you asume, your noble bearing will betray you.
Will you condescend to lead the way? Does your Highness intend to
dance?"
"I? To dance?" replied Philip. "No--you see I have boots on."
"To play, then?" inquired the mask.
"Still less. I have brought no money with me," said the assistant
watchman.
"Good heaven!" exclaimed the mask. "Command my purse--all that I
possess is at your service!" Saying this, he forced a full purse into
Philip's hand.
"But do you know who I am?" inquired Philip, and rejected the purse.
The mask whispered with a bow of profound obeisance: "His Royal
Highness, Prince Julian."
At this moment Philip heard his deputy in an adjoining street calling
the hour very distinctly, and he now became aware of his metamorphosis.
Prince Julian, who was well known in the capital as an amiable, wild,
and good-hearted young man, had been the person with whom he had
changed his clothes. "Now, then," thought Philip, "as he enacts the
watchman so well, I will not shame his rank; I'll see if, for one
half-hour, I can't be the Prince. If I make any mistake, he has himself
to blame for it." He wrapped the red silken mantle closer round him,
took the offered purse, put it in his pocket, and said: "Who are you,
mask? I will return your gold to-morrow."
"I am the Chamberlain Pilzou."
"Good--lead the way--I'll follow." The Chamberlain obeyed, and tripped
up the marble stairs, Philip coming close behind him. They entered an
immense hall lighted by a thousand tapers and dazzling chandeliers,
which were reflected by brilliant mirrors. A confused crowd of maskers
jostled each other, sultans, Tyrolese, harlequins, knights in armor,
nuns, goddesses, satyrs, monks, Jews, Medes, and Persians. Philip for a
while was abashed and blinded. Such splendor he had never dreamt of. In
the middle of the hall the dance was carried on with hundreds of people
to the music of a full band. Philip, whom the heat of the apartment
recovered from his frozen state, was so bewildered with the scene that
he could scarcely nod his head as different masks addressed him, some
confidentially, others deferentially.
"Will you go to the hazard table?" whispered the Chamberlain, who stood
beside him, and who Philip now saw was dressed as a Brahmin.
"Let me get thawed first," answered Philip; "I am an icicle at present."
"A glass of warm punch?" inquired the Brahmin, and led him into the
refreshment-room. The pseudo-prince did not wait for a second
invitation, but emptied one glass after the other in short time. The
punch was good, and it spread its genial warmth through Philip's veins.
"How is it you don't dance tonight, Brahmin?" he asked of his
companion, when they returned into the hall. The Brahmin sighed, and
shrugged his shoulders.
"I have no pleasure now in the dance. Gayety is distasteful to me. The
only person I care to dance with--the Countess Bonau--I thought she
loved me; our families offered no objection--but all at once she broke
with me." His voice trembled as he spoke.
"How?" said Philip, "I never heard of such a thing."
"You never heard of it?" repeated the other; "the whole city rings with
it. The quarrel happened a fortnight ago, and she will not allow me to
justify myself, but has sent back three letters I wrote to her,
unopened. She is a declared enemy of the Baroness Reizenthal, and had
made me promise to drop her acquaintance. But, think how unfortunate I
was! When the Queen-mother made the hunting party to Freudenwald, she
appointed me cavalier to the Baroness. What could I do? It was
impossible to refuse. On the very birthday of the adorable Bonau I was
obliged to set out.....She heard of it.....She put no trust in my
heart!"
"Well, then, Brahmin, take advantage of the present moment. The New
Year makes up all quarrels. Is the Countess here?"
"Do you not see her over there--the Carmelite on the left of the third
pillar beside the two black dominos. She has laid aside her mask. Ah,
Prince! your intercession would--"
Philip thought: "Now I can do a good work!" and, as the punch had
inspired him, he walked directly to the Carmelite. The Countess Bonau
looked at him for some time seriously, and with flushed cheeks, as he
sat down beside her. She was a beautiful girl; yet Philip remained
persuaded that Rose was a thousand times more beautiful.
"Countess," he said,--and became embarrassed when he met her clear
bright eye fixed upon him.
"Prince," said the Countess, "an hour ago you were somewhat too bold."
"Fair Countess, I am therefore at this present moment the more quiet."
"So much the better. I shall not, then, be obliged to keep out of your
way."
"Fair lady, allow me to ask one question. Have you put on a nun's gown
to do penance for your sins?"
"I have nothing to do penance for."
"But you have, Countess!--your cruelties--your injustice to the poor
Brahmin yonder, who seems neglected by his God and all the world."
The beautiful Carmelite cast down her eyes, and appeared uneasy.
"And do you know, fair Countess, that in the Freudenwald affair the
Chamberlain is as innocent as I am?"
"As you, Prince?" said the Countess, frowning, "what did you tell me an
hour ago?"
"You are right, dear Countess, I was too bold. You said so yourself.
But now I declare to you the Chamberlain was obliged to go to
Freudenwald by command of the Queen-mother--against his will was
obliged to be cavalier to the hated Reizenthal--"
"Hated--by him?"--interrupted the Countess with a bitter and sneering
laugh.
"Yes--he hates,--he despises the Baroness. Believe me, he scarcely
treated her with civility, and incurred the Royal displeasure by so
doing. I know it; and it was for your sake. You are the only person he
loves--to you he offers his hand, his heart--and you!--you reject him!"
"How comes it, Prince, that you intercede so warmly for Pilzou? You did
not do so formerly."
"That was because I did not know him, and still less the sad state into
which you have thrown him by your behavior. I swear to you he is
innocent--you have nothing to forgive in him--he has much to forgive in
you."
"Hush!" whispered the Carmelite, "we are watched here; away from this."
She replaced her mask, stood up, and placing her arm within that of the
supposed Prince, they crossed the hall and entered a side-room. The
Countess uttered many bitter complaints against the Chamberlain, but
they were the complaints of jealous love. The Countess was in tears,
when the tender Brahmin soon after came timidly into the apartment.
There was a deep silence among the three. Philip, not knowing how to
conclude his intercession better, led the Brahmin to the Carmelite, and
joined their hands together, without saying a word, and left them to
fate. He himself returned into the hall.
IV.
Here he was hastily addressed by a Mameluke: "I'm glad I have met you,
Domino. Is the Rose-girl in the side-room?" The Mameluke rushed into
it, but returned in a moment evidently disappointed. "One word alone
with you, Domino," he said, and led Philip into a window recess in a
retired part of the hall.
"What do you want?" asked Philip.
"I beseech you," replied the Mameluke, in a subdued yet terrible voice,
"where is the Rose-girl?"
"What is the Rose-girl to me?"
"But to me she is everything!" answered the Mameluke, whose suppressed
voice and agitated demeanor showed that a fearful struggle was going on
within. "To me she is everything. She is my wife. You make me wretched,
Prince! I conjure you drive me not to madness. Think of my wife no
more!"
"With all my heart," answered Philip, dryly; "what have I to do with
your wife?"
"O Prince, Prince!" exclaimed the Mameluke, "I have made a resolve
which I shall execute if it cost me my life. Do not seek to deceive me
a moment longer. I have discovered everything. Here! look at this! 'tis
a note my false wife slipped into your hand, and which you dropped in
the crowd, without having read."
Philip took the note. 'T was written in pencil, and in a fine delicate
hand: "Change your mask. Everybody knows you. My husband watches you.
He does not know me. If you obey me, I will reward you."
"Hem!" muttered Philip. "As I live, this was not written to me. I don't
trouble my head about your wife."
"Death and fury, Prince! do not drive me mad! Do you know who it is
that speaks to you? I am the Marshal Blankenswerd. Your advances to my
wife are not unknown to me, ever since the last rout at the palace."
"My Lord Marshal," answered Philip, "excuse me for saying that jealousy
has blinded you. If you knew me well, you would not think of accusing
me of such folly. I give you my word of honor I will never trouble your
wife."
"Are you in earnest, Prince?"
"Entirely."
"Give me a proof of this?"
"Whatever you require."
"I know you have hindered her until now from going with me to visit her
relations in Poland. Will you persuade her to do so now?"
"With all my heart, if you desire it."
"Yes, yes! and your Royal Highness will prevent inconceivable and
unavoidable misery."
The Mameluke continued for some time, sometimes begging and praying,
and sometimes threatening so furiously, that Philip feared he might
make a scene before the whole assembly that would not have suited him
precisely. He therefore quitted him as soon as possible. Scarcely had
he lost himself in the crowd, when a female, closely wrapped in deep
mourning, tapped him familiarly on the arm, and whispered:
"Butterfly, whither away? Have you no pity for the disconsolate Widow?"
Philip answered very politely: "Beautiful widows find no lack of
comforters. May I venture to include myself amongst them?"
"Why are you so disobedient? and why have you not changed your mask?"
said the Widow, while she led him aside that they might speak more
freely. "Do you really fancy, Prince, that every one here does not know
who you are?"
"They are very much mistaken in me, I assure you," replied Philip.
"No, indeed," answered the Widow, "they know you very well, and if you
do not immediately change your apparel, I shall not speak to you again
the whole evening. I have no desire to give my husband an opportunity
of making a scene."
By this Philip discovered whom he was talking with. "You were the
beautiful Rose-girl; are your roses withered so soon?"
"What is there that does not wither? not the constancy of man? I saw
you when you slipped off with the Carmelite. Acknowledge your
inconstancy--you can deny it no longer."
"Hem," answered Philip, dryly, "accuse me if you will, I can return the
accusation."
"How,--pretty butterfly?"
"Why, for instance, there is not a more constant man alive than the
Marshal."
"There is not indeed!--and I am wrong, very wrong to have listened to
you so long. I reproached myself enough, but he has unfortunately
discovered our flirtation."
"Since the last rout at Court, fair Widow---"
"Were you so unguarded and particular--pretty butterfly!"
"Let us repair the mischief. Let us part. I honor the Marshal, and, for
my part, do not like to give him pain."
The Widow looked at him for some time in speechless amazement.
"If you have indeed any regard for me," continued Philip, "you will go
with the Marshal to Poland, to visit your relations. 'Tis better that
we should not meet so often. A beautiful woman is beautiful--but a pure
and virtuous woman is more beautiful still."
"Prince!" cried the astonished Widow, "are you really in earnest? Have
you ever loved me, or have you all along deceived?"
"Look you," answered Philip, "I am a tempter of a peculiar kind. I
search constantly among women to find truth and virtue, and 'tis but
seldom that I encounter them. Only the true and virtuous can keep me
constant--therefore I am true to none; but no!--I will not lie--there
is one that keeps me in her chains--I am sorry, fair Widow, that that
one--is not you!"
"You are in a strange mood to-night, Prince," answered the Widow, and
the trembling of her voice and heaving of her bosom showed the working
of her mind.
"No," answered Philip, "I am in as rational a mood to-night as I ever
was in my life. I wish only to repair an injury; I have promised to
your husband to do so."
"How!" exclaimed the Widow, in a voice of terror, "you have discovered
all to the Marshal?"
"Not everything," answered Philip, "only what I knew."
The Widow wrung her hands in the extremity of agitation, and at last
said, "Where is my husband?"
Philip pointed to the Mameluke, who at this moment approached them with
slow steps.
"Prince," said the Widow, in a tone of inexpressible rage,--"Prince,
you may be forgiven this, but not from me! I never dreamt that the
heart of man could be so deceitful,--but you are unworthy of a thought.
You are an impostor! My husband in the dress of a barbarian is a
prince; you in the dress of a prince are a barbarian. In this world you
see me no more!"
With these words she turned proudly away from him, and going up to the
Mameluke, they left the hall in deep and earnest conversation. Philip
laughed quietly, and said to himself: "My substitute, the watchman,
must look to it, for I do not play my part badly; I only hope when he
returns he will proceed as I have begun."
He went up to the dancers, and was delighted to see the beautiful
Carmelite standing up in a set with the overjoyed Brahmin. No sooner
did the latter perceive him, than he kissed his hand to him, and in
dumb-show gave him to understand in what a blessed state he was. Philip
thought: "'T is a pity I am not to be prince all my life-time. The
people would be satisfied then; to be a prince is the easiest thing in
the world. He can do more with a single word than a lawyer with a
four-hours' speech. Yes! if I were a prince, my beautiful Rose would
be--lost to me for ever. No! I would not be a prince." He now looked at
the clock, and saw 't was half-past eleven. The Mameluke hurried up to
him and gave him a paper. "Prince," he exclaimed, "I could fall at your
feet and thank you in the very dust. I am reconciled to my wife. You
have broken her heart; but it is better that it should be so. We leave
for Poland this very night, and there we shall fix our home. Farewell!
I shall be ready whenever your Royal Highness requires me, to pour out
my last drop of blood in your service. My gratitude is eternal.
Farewell!"
"Stay!" said Philip to the Marshal, who was hurrying away, "what am I
to do with this paper?"
"Oh, that,-'tis the amount of my loss to your Highness last week at
hazard. I had nearly forgotten it; but before my departure, I must
clear my debts. I have indorsed it on the back." With these words the
Marshal disappeared.
V.
Philip opened the paper, and read in it an order for five thousand
dollars. He put it in his pocket, and thought: "Well, it's a pity that
I'm not a prince." Some one whispered in his ear:
"Your Royal Highness, we are both discovered; I shall blow my brains
out."
Philip turned round in amazement, and saw a negro at his side.
"What do you want, mask?" he asked, in an unconcerned tone.
"I am Colonel Kalt," whispered the negro. "The Marshal's wife has been
chattering to Duke Herman, and he has been breathing fire and fury
against us both."
"He is quite welcome," answered Philip.
"But the King will hear it all," sighed the negro. "This very night I
may be arrested and carried to a dungeon; I'll sooner hang myself."
"No need of that," said Philip.
"What! am I to be made infamous for my whole life? I am lost, I tell
you. The Duke will demand entire satisfaction. His back is black and
blue yet with the marks of the cudgelling I gave him. I am lost, and
the baker's daughter too! I'll jump from the bridge and drown myself at
once!"
"God forbid!" answered Philip; "what have you and the baker's daughter
to do with it?"
"Your Royal Highness banters me, and I am in despair!--I humbly beseech
you to give me two minutes' private conversation."
Philip followed the negro into a small boudoir dimly lighted up with a
few candles. The negro threw himself on a sofa, quite overcome, and
groaned aloud. Philip found some sandwiches and wine on the table, and
helped himself with great relish.
"I wonder your Royal Highness can be so cool on hearing this cursed
story. If that rascally Salmoni was here who acted the conjurer, he
might save us by some contrivance, for the fellow was a bunch of
tricks. As it is, he has slipped out of the scrape."
"So much the better," interrupted Philip, replenishing his glass;
"since he has got out of the way, we can throw all the blame on his
shoulders."
"How can we do that? The Duke, I tell you, knows that you, and I, and
the Marshal's wife, and the baker's daughter, were all in the plot
together, to take advantage of his superstition. He knows that it was
you that engaged Salmoni to play the conjurer; that it was I that
instructed the baker's daughter (with whom he is in love) how to
inveigle him into the snare; that it was I that enacted the ghost, that
knocked him down, and cudgelled him till he roared again. If I had only
not carried the joke too far, but I wished to cool his love a little
for my sweetheart. 'T was a devilish business. I'll take poison."
"Rather swallow a glass of wine--'t is delicious," said Philip, taking
another tart at the same time. "For to tell you the truth, my friend, I
think you are rather a white-livered sort of rogue for a colonel, to
think of hanging, drowning, shooting, and poisoning yourself about such
a ridiculous story as that. One of these modes would be too much, but
as to all the four--nonsense. I tell you that at this moment I don't
know what to make out of your tale."