CHAPTER I. THE MAIDEN OF BRUNEN.

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY.

A HISTORICAL NOVEL

By L. Muhlbach

Translated From German By Mrs. Chapman Coleman And Her Daughters

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

I. The King

II. Prince Henry

III. Louise von Kleist

IV. At the Masked Ball

V. A Secret Captain

VI. The Legacy of Von Trenck, Colonel of the Pandours

VII. The King and Weingarten

VIII. The Unwilling Bridegroom

IX. The First Disappointment

X. The Conquered

XI. The Travelling Musicians

XII. Travelling Adventures

XIII. The Drag-Boat

XIV. In Amsterdam

XV. The King without Shoes

BOOK II.

I. The Unhappy News

II. Trenck on his Way to Prison

III. Prince Henry and His Wife

IV. The Fete in the Woods

V. Intrigues

VI. The Private Audience

VII. The Traitor

VIII. Declaration of War

IX. The King and his Brothers

X. The Laurel-Branch

XI. The Ball at Count Bruhl’s

XII. The Interrupted Feast

XIII. The Archives at Dresden

XIV. Saxony Humiliated

BOOK III.

I. The Maiden of Brunen

II. News of Battle

III. The Certificate of Enlistment

IV. Farewell to the Village

V. The Prisoner

VI. The Prison Barricade

VII. The Battle of Collin

VIII. The Inimical Brothers

IX. The Letters

X. In the Castle at Dresden

XI. The Te Deum

XII. Camp Scene

XIII. The Watch-Fire

XIV. The Battle of Leuthen

XV. Winter Quarters in Breslau

XVI. The Broken Heart

BOOK IV.

I. The King and his Old and New Enemies

II. The Three Officers

III. Ranuzi

IV. Louise du Trouffle

V. The Fortune-Teller

VI. A Court Day in Berlin

VII. In the Window-Niche

VIII. The Nutshells behind the Fauteuil of the Queen

IX. The Duel and its Consequences

X. The Five Couriers

XI. After the Battle

XII. A Heroic Soul

XIII. The Two Grenadiers

XIV. The Right Counsel

XV. A Hero in Misfortune

BOOK V.

I. The Teresiani and the Prussiani

II. Frederick the Great as a Saint

III. The Cloister Brothers of San Giovanni e Paolo

IV. The Return from the Army

V. The Brave Fathers and the Cowardly Sons

VI. The Traitor’s Betrayal

VII. The Accusation

VIII. Revenge

IX. Trenck

X. “Trenck, are you there?”

XI. The King and the German Scholar

XII. Gellert

XIII. The Poet and the King

XIV. The King and the Village Magistrate

XV. The Proposal of Marriage

XVI. The Ambassador and the Khan of Tartary

BOOK VI.

I. The King’s Return

II. Prince Henry

III. Mother and Daughter

IV. The King in Sans-Souci

V. The Engraved Cup

VI. The Princess and the Diplomatist

VII. The Royal House-Spy

VIII. The Clouds Gather

IX. Brother and Sister

X. The Stolen Child

XI. The Discovery

XII. The Morning at Sans-Souci

XIII. A Husband’s Revenge

XIV. The Separation

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. THE KING.

The king laid his flute aside, and with his hands folded behind his

back, walked thoughtfully up and down his room in Sans-Souci. His

countenance was now tranquil, his brow cloudless; with the aid of music

he had harmonized his soul, and the anger and displeasure he had so

shortly before felt were soothed by the melodious notes of his flute.

The king was no longer angry, but melancholy, and the smile that played

on his lip was so resigned and painful that the brave Marquis d’Argens

would have wept had he seen it, and the stinging jest of Voltaire have

been silenced.

But neither the marquis nor Voltaire, nor any of his friends were at

present in Potsdam. D’Argens was in France, with his young wife, Barbe

Cochois; Voltaire, after a succession of difficulties and quarrels, had

departed forever; General Rothenberg had also departed to a land from

which no one returns--he was dead! My lord marshal had returned to

Scotland, Algarotti to Italy, and Bastiani still held his office in

Breslau. Sans-Souci, that had been heretofore the seat of joy and

laughing wit--Sans-Souci was now still and lonely; youth, beauty, and

gladness had forsaken it forever; earnestness and duty had taken their

place, and reigned in majesty within those walls that had so often

echoed with the happy laugh and sparkling jest of the king’s friends and

contemporaries.

Frederick thought of this, as with folded hands he walked up and down,

and recalled the past. Sunk in deep thought, he remained standing before

a picture that hung on the wall above his secretary, which represented

Barbarina in the fascinating costume of a shepherdess, as he had seen

her for the first time ten years ago; it had been painted by Pesne for

the king. What recollections, what dreams arose before the king’s soul

as he gazed at that bewitching and lovely face; at those soft, melting

eyes, whose glance had once made him so happy! But that was long ago;

it had passed like a sunbeam on a rainy day, it had been long buried in

clouds. These remembrances warmed the king’s heart as he now stood so

solitary and loveless before this picture; and he confessed to that

sweet image, once so fondly loved, what he had never admitted to

himself, that his heart was very lonely.

But these painful recollections, these sad thoughts, did not last. The

king roused himself from those dangerous dreams, and on leaving the

picture cast upon it almost a look of hatred.

“This is folly,” he said; “I will to work.”

He approached the secretary, and seized the sealed letters and packets

that were lying there. “A letter and packet from the queen,” he said,

wonderingly opening the letter first. Casting a hasty glance through it,

a mocking smile crossed his face. “She sends me a French translation of

a prayer-book,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Poor queen! her heart

is not yet dead, though, by Heaven! it has suffered enough.”

He threw the letter carelessly aside, without glancing at the book; its

sad, pleading prayer was but an echo of the thoughts trembling in her

heart.

“Bagatelles! nothing more,” he murmured, after reading the other letters

and laying them aside. He then rang hastily, and bade the servant send

Baron Pollnitz to him as soon as he appeared in the audience-chamber.

A few minutes later the door opened, and the old, wrinkled, sweetly

smiling face of the undaunted courtier appeared.

“Approach,” said the king, advancing a few steps to meet him. “Do you

bring me his submission? Does my brother Henry acknowledge that it is

vain to defy my power?”

Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders. “Sire,” he said, sighing, “his highness

will not understand that a prince must have no heart. He still continues

in his disobedience, and declares that no man should marry a woman

without loving her; that he would be contemptible and cowardly to allow

himself to be forced to do what should be the free choice of his own

heart.”

Pollnitz had spoken with downcast eyes and respectful countenance; he

appeared not to notice that the king reddened and his eyes burned with

anger.

“Ah! my brother dared to say that?” cried the king. “He has the Utopian

thought to believe that he can defy my wishes. Tell him he is mistaken;

he must submit to me as I had to submit to my father.”

“He gives that as an example why he will not yield. He believes a forced

marriage can never be a happy one; that your majesty had not only made

yourself unhappy by your marriage, but also your queen, and that there

was not a lady in the land who would exchange places with your wife.”

The king glanced piercingly at Pollnitz. “Do you know it would have been

better had you forgotten a few of my wise brother’s words?”

“Your majesty commanded me to tell you faithfully every word the prince

said.”

“And you are too much a man of truth and obedience, too little of a

courtier, not to be frank and faithful. Is it not so? Ah! vraiment, I

know you, and I know very well that you are playing a double game. But I

warn you not to follow the promptings of your wicked heart. I desire

my brother to marry, do you hear? I will it, and you, the grand

chamberlain, Baron Pollnitz, shall feel my anger if he does not

consent.”

“And if he does?” said Pollnitz, in his laughing, shameless manner; “if

I persuade the prince to submit to your wishes, what recompense shall I

receive?”

“On the day of their betrothal, I will raise your income five hundred

crowns, and pay your debts.”

“Ah, sire, in what a pitiable dilemma you are placing me! Your majesty

wishes Prince Henry to engage himself as soon as possible, and I must

now wish it to be as late as possible.”

“And why?”

“Because I must hasten to make as many debts as possible, that your

majesty may pay them.”

“You are and will remain an unmitigated fool; old age will not even cure

you,” said the king, smiling. “But speak, do you think my brother may be

brought to reason?”

Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders, gave a sly smile, but was silent.

“You do not answer me. Is my brother in love? and has he confided in

you?”

“Sire, I believe the prince is in love from ennui alone, but he swears

it is his first love.”

“That is an oath that is repeated to each lady-love; I am not afraid of

it,” said the king, smiling “Who is the enchantress that has heard his

first loving vows? She is doubtless a fairy--a goddess of beauty.”

“Yes, sire, she is young and beautiful, and declares it is also her

first love, so no one can doubt its purity; no one understands love as

well as this fair lady; no other than Madame von Kleist, who, as your

majesty remembers, was lately divorced from her husband.”

“And is now free to love again, as it appears,” said the king, with a

mocking smile. “But the beautiful Louise von Schwerin is a dangerous,

daring woman, and we must check her clever plans in the bud. If she

desires to be loved by my brother, she possesses knowledge, beauty, and

experience to gain her point and to lead him into all manner of follies.

This affair must be brought quickly to a close, and Prince Henry

acknowledged to be the prince royal.”

“Prince Henry goes this evening to Berlin to attend a feast given by the

Prince of Prussia,” whispered Pollnitz.

“Ah! it is true the prince’s arrest ceases at six o’clock, but he will

not forget that he needs permission to leave Potsdam.”

“He will forget it, sire.”

The king walked up and down in silence, and his countenance assumed an

angry and threatening appearance. “This struggle must be brought to a

close, and that speedily. My brother must submit to my authority. Go and

watch his movements; as soon as he leaves, come to me.”

Long after Pollnitz had left him, the king paced his chamber in deep

thought. “Poor Henry! I dare not sympathize with you; you are a king’s

son--that means a slave to your position. Why has Providence given

hearts to kings as to other men? Why do we thirst so for love? as the

intoxicating drink is always denied us, and we dare not drink it even

when offered by the most bewitching enchantress!”

Involuntarily his eye rested upon the beautiful picture of Barbarina.

But he would have no pity with himself, as he dared not show mercy to

his brother. Seizing the silver bell, he rang it hastily.

“Take that picture from the wall, and carry it immediately to the

inspector, and tell him to hang it in the picture-gallery,” said

Frederick.

He looked on quietly as the servant took the picture down and carried

it from the room, then sighed and gazed long at the plane where it had

hung.

“Empty and cold! The last token of my youth is gone! I am now the king,

and, with God’s blessing, will be the father of my people.”

CHAPTER II. PRINCE HENRY.

Prince Henry sat quiet and motionless in his lonely room; dark thoughts

seemed to trouble him; his brow was clouded, his lips compressed. Had

you not known him, you would have taken him for the king, so great

was the resemblance of the two brothers; but it was only an outward

resemblance. The prince had not the spiritual expression, his eyes

had not the passionate fire, his face (beautiful as it was) wanted the

fascinating geniality, the sparkling inspiration, that at all times

lighted the king’s countenance like a sunbeam.

The prince possessed a greater mind, a clearer understanding, but he

wanted soul and poetic feeling, and allowed himself at times to ridicule

his brother’s poetic efforts. The king, knowing this, was inclined

to regard the shortcomings of the prince as a determined contempt and

resistance to his command; and as the prince became more reckless and

more indifferent, he became more severe and harsh. Thus the struggle

commenced that had existed for some time between the two brothers.

For the last four days the prince had been in arrest for disobeying

orders, but the hour of his release was approaching, and he awaited it

with impatience.

The bell of the nearest church had just announced the hour of six.

The door opened immediately, and an officer, in the name of the king,

pronounced his arrest at an end.

The prince answered with a low bow, and remained seated, pointing

haughtily to the door; but as the officer left him he arose and paced

hastily to and fro.

“He treats me like a school-boy,” he murmured; “but I shall show him

that I have a will of my own! I will not be intimidated--I will not

submit; and if the king does not cease to annoy me, if he continues to

forget that I am not a slave, but son and brother of a king, no motives

shall restrain me, and I also will forget, as he does, that I am a

prince, and remember only that I am a free, responsible man. He wishes

me to marry, and therefore has me followed, and surrounds me with spies.

He wishes to force me to marry. Well, I will marry, but I will choose my

own wife!”

The prince had just made this resolve, when the door opened, and the

servant announced that Messrs. Kalkreuth and Kaphengst awaited his

commands.

He bade them enter, and advancing smilingly gave them his hand.

“Welcome! welcome!” he said; “the cage is open, and I may enjoy a little

air and sunshine; let us not delay to make use of this opportunity. Our

horses shall be saddled.”

“They are already saddled, prince,” said Baron Kalkreuth. “I have

ordered them to the court, and as soon as it is dark we will mount

them.”

“What! is it not best that we should mount before my door and ride

openly away?” said the prince, wonderingly.

“It is my opinion that is the best plan,” cried Baron Kaphengst,

laughing gayly. “Every one will believe your highness to be simply

taking a ride, while curiosity would be raised if we left the city on

foot.”

“I think leaving in the dark, and on foot, looks as if I were afraid,”

said the prince, thoughtfully.

“Secrecy is good for priests and old women, but not for us,” cried

Kaphengst.

“Secrecy suits all who wish to do wrong,” said Kalkreuth, earnestly.

The prince glanced hastily at him. “You believe, then, we are about to

do wrong?”

“I dare not speak of your highness, but we two are certainly doing

wrong; we are about to commit an act of insubordination. But still, my

prince, I am ready to do so, as your highness wishes us to accompany

you.”

The prince did not answer, but stepped to the window, and looked out

thoughtfully and silently. In a few moments he returned, looking calm

and resolute.

“Kalkreuth is right--we were going to do wrong, and we must avoid it.

I shall write to the king, and ask leave for you and myself to go to

Berlin.”

“That is, unfortunately, impossible,” said a sweet voice behind him, and

as the prince turned he saw the smiling face of Pollnitz. “I beg pardon,

your highness, for having entered unannounced, but you allowed me to

come at this hour and give you an account of the commissions you gave

me.”

“Why do you say it is impossible to obtain leave of the king today?”

asked Henry, hastily.

“Because his majesty is already in the concert-saloon, and your highness

knows that he has strictly forbidden any one to disturb him there.”

“We shall, then, have to give up our plan and remain here,” said the

prince.

Kaphengst glanced angrily and threateningly at his friend.

“And why should your highness do this?” asked Pollnitz, astonished. “All

your preparations are made, all your commands fulfilled. I have procured

your costumes; no one will recognize you, and if they should, would not

dare to betray you to the king. Only two persons know that you are

to visit the ball, the Prince of Prussia, and a lovely lady, whose

beautiful eyes were misty with tears when I delivered her your message.

‘Tell the prince,’ she murmured, in a tender voice, ‘I will await him

there, even if I knew the king would crush me with his anger.’”

The prince blushed with joy. “And you say it is impossible for me to see

the king?”

“Impossible, my prince.”

“Well, we will have to renounce it,” said the prince, sighing.

“Renounce seeing the king, yes! for he will not leave his rooms in

Sans-Souci today.”

“Then we would be entirely safe; he would not notice our departure,”

said Kaphengst, quickly.

“Entirely safe,” said Pollnitz.

“That is, if Baron Pollnitz does not himself inform the king,” said

Baron Kalkreuth, whose quick, clear glance rested upon the smiling face

of the courtier, and appeared to read his inmost thoughts.

Baron Pollnitz cast a suspicious and angry glance at Kalkreuth. “I

did not know that borrowing money from you gave you the right to speak

rudely to me!”

“Silence! gentlemen,” cried the prince, who, until now, had stood

quietly struggling with his own wishes. “Take your cloaks and let us

walk. Did you not say that horses were awaiting us at the door, Baron

Kalkreuth?”

“I said so, your highness.”

“And you Pollnitz? Did you not say that three costumes awaited us in

Berlin?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Well, then,” said the prince, smiling, “we must not allow the horses

and costumes to await us any longer. Come, gentlemen, we will ride to

Berlin.”

“Really it was hard to get him off,” murmured Pollnitz, as he regained

the street, and saw the three young men fading in the distance. “The

good prince had quite a dutiful emotion; if the king only knew it, he

would forgive him all, and renounce the idea of his marriage. But that

would not suit me--my debts would not be paid! I must not tell the king

of his brother’s inward struggle.”

“Well!” said the king, as Pollnitz entered, “has my brother really gone

to Berlin?”

“Yes, your majesty, and accompanied by the two Messieurs--”

“Silence!” cried the king, hastily; “I do not wish to know their names,

I should have to punish them also. He has then gone, and without any

hesitation, any reluctance?”

“Yes, sire, without hesitation. He thinks he has the right to go where

he pleases, and to amuse himself as he can.”

“Order the carriage, Pollnitz,” said the king. “Without doubt my brother

has taken the shortest road to Berlin?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Then there is no danger of our meeting them and being recognized; and

as we have relays on the road, we will reach Berlin before them.”

CHAPTER III. LOUISE VON KLEIST.

Madame von Kleist was alone in her boudoir. She had just completed her

toilet, and was viewing herself with considerable pleasure in a

large Venetian glass. She had reason to be pleased. The costume of

an odalisque became her wonderfully; suited her luxuriant beauty, her

large, dreamy blue eyes, her full red lips, her slender, swaying form.

At twenty-eight, Louise von Kleist was still a sparkling beauty; the

many trials and sorrows she had passed through had not scattered the

roses from her cheek, nor banished youth from her heart.

Louise von Kleist resembled greatly the little Louise von Schwerin

of earlier days--the little dreamer who found it romantic to love a

gardener, and was quite ready to flee with him to a paradise of love.

The king’s watchfulness saved her from this romantic folly, and gave her

another husband. This unhappy match was now at an end. Louise was again

free. She still felt in her heart some of the wild love of romance

and adventure of the little Louise; she was the same daring, dreamy,

impressible Louise, only now she was less innocent. The little coquette

from instinct was changed into a coquette from knowledge.

She stood before the glass and surveyed once more her appearance; then

acknowledged with a pleased smile that she was beautiful enough to

fascinate all men, to arouse in all hearts a painful longing.

“But I shall love no one but the prince,” she said, “and when my power

over him is sufficient to induce him to marry me, I shall reward him by

my faith, and entire submission to his wishes. Oh! I shall be a virtuous

wife, a true and faithful mother; and my lovely little Camilla shall

find in her mother a good and noble example. I shall promise this to my

angel with my farewell kiss; and then--to the ball!”

She entered the next chamber, and stood at her child’s bed. What a

strange sight! This woman, in a fantastic, luxuriant costume, bending

over the cot of the little girl, with such tender, pious looks, with

folded hands, and soft, murmuring lips, uttering a prayer or holy wish!

“How beautiful she is!” murmured Louise, not dreaming that her own

beauty at this moment beamed with touching splendor--that mother love

had changed the alluring coquette into an adorable saint--“how beautiful

she is!”

The gay, ringing laughter of her daughter interrupted her; the child

opened her large black eyes, and looked amused.

“You naughty child, you were not asleep,” said Louise.

“No, mamma, I was not asleep; I was playing comedy.”

“Ah! and who taught you to play comedy, you silly child?” said Louise,

tenderly.

The child looked earnestly before her for a few moments as children are

wont to do when a question surprises them.

“I believe, mamma,” she said, slowly--“I believe I learned it from you.”

“From me, Camilla? When have you seen me act?”

“Oh, very often,” she cried, laughing. “Just a few days ago, mamma,

don’t you remember when we were laughing and talking so merrily

together, Prince Henry was announced, and you sent me into the next

room, but the door was open, and I saw very well that you made a sad

face, and I heard the prince ask you how you were, and you answered, ‘I

am sick, your highness, and how could it be otherwise, as I am always

sad or weeping?’ Now, mother, was not that acting?”

Louise did not answer. Breathing heavily, she laid her hand upon her

heart, for she felt a strange sorrow and indescribable fear.

Camilla continued, “Oh! and I saw how tenderly the prince looked at you;

how he kissed you, and said you were as lovely as an angel. Oh, mamma, I

too shall be beautiful, and beloved by a prince!”

“To be beautiful, darling, you must be good and virtuous,” said the fair

odalisque, earnestly.

Little Camilla arose in her bed; the white gown fell from her shoulders

and exposed her soft childish form, her brown ringlets curled down her

neck and lost themselves in her lace-covered dress.

The chandelier that hung from the ceiling lighted her lovely face, and

made the gold and silver embroidered robes and jewels of her mother

sparkle brilliantly.

At this moment, as with folded arms she glanced up at her mother, she

looked like an angel, but she had already dangerous and earthly thoughts

in her heart.

“Mamma,” she said, “why should I be virtuous, when you are not?”

Louise trembled, and looked terrified at her daughter. “Who told you I

was not virtuous?”

“My poor, dear papa told me when he was here the last time. Oh, he told

me a great deal, mamma! He told,” continued the child, with a sly smile,

“how you loved a beautiful gardener, and ran off with him, and how he,

at the command of the king, married you and saved you from shame; and he

said you were not at all grateful, but had often betrayed and deceived

him, and, because he was so unhappy with you, he drank so much wine to

forget his sorrow. Oh, mamma, you don’t know how poor papa cried as

he told me all this, and besought me not to become like you, but to be

good, that every one might love and respect me!”

Whilst Camilla spoke, her mother had sunk slowly, as if crushed, to the

floor; and, with her face buried in the child’s bed, sobbed aloud.

“Don’t cry, mamma,” said Camilla, pleadingly; “believe me, I will not

do as papa says, and I will not be so stupid as to live in a small town,

where it is so still and lonesome.”

As her mother still wept, Camilla continued, as if to quiet her:

“I shall be like you, mamma; indeed, I will. Oh, you should but see how

I watch you, and notice how you smile at all the gentlemen, what soft

eyes you make, and then again, how cold and proud you are, and then look

at them so tenderly! Oh, I have noticed all, and I shall do just the

same, and I will run away with a gardener, but I will not let papa catch

me--no, not I.”

“Hush, child, hush!” cried the mother, rising, pale and trembling, from

her knees; “you must become a good and virtuous girl, and never run away

with a man. Forget what your bad father has told you; you know he hates

me, and has told you all these falsehoods to make you do the same.”

“Mamma, can you swear that it is not true?”

“Yes, my child, I can swear it.”

“You did not run off with a gardener?”

“No, my child. Have I not told you that a virtuous girl never runs

away?”

“You did not make papa unhappy, and, being his wife, love other men?”

“No, my daughter.”

“Mamma,” said the child, after a long pause, “can you give me your right

hand, and swear you did not?”

Louise hesitated a moment; a cold shiver ran through her, she felt as if

she was about to perjure herself; but as she looked into the beautiful

face of her child, whose eyes were fixed on her with a strange

expression, she overcame her unwillingness.

“Here is my hand--I swear that all your father told you is false!”

Camilla laughed gleefully. “Oh, mamma, I have caught you: you always

want me to tell the truth, and never give my right hand when a thing is

not true, and now you have done it yourself.”

“What have I done!” said the mother, trembling.

“You gave me your right hand, and swore that all papa told me was false;

and I say it is true, and you have sworn falsely.”

“Why do you believe that, Camilla?” she asked.

“I don’t believe it, I know it,” said the child, with a sly smile, “When

papa spoke to you, for the last time, and told you good-by forever, he

told you the same he had told me. Oh! I was there and heard all; you did

not see me slip into the room and hide behind the fire-place. Papa told

you that you had been the cause of all his unhappiness and shame; that

from the day you had run off with the gardener and he, at the king’s

command, went after you, and married you--from that day, he had been a

lost man, and when he said that, you cried, but did not tell him, as you

told me, that it was not true.”

Louise did not answer. This last taunt had crushed her heart, and

silenced her. Still leaning on the bed, she looked at her child with

painful tenderness. Camilla’s mocking laughter had pierced her soul as

with a dagger.

“Lost,” she murmured, “both of us lost!”

With passionate despair she threw her arms around the child, and pressed

her closely; kissed her wildly again and again, and covered her face

with burning tears.

“No, Camilla, no! you shall not be lost, you must remain good and pure!

Every child has its guardian angel; pray, my child, pray that your angel

may watch over you!”

She pressed her again in her arms, then returned to her chamber, sadder

and more hopeless than she had ever been before.

But this unusual sadness commenced to annoy her; her heart was not

accustomed to feel sorrow, and her remorseful, dreary feeling made her

shudder. “If the carriage would but come!” she murmured, and then, as

if to excuse her thoughtlessness, she added, “it is now my holy duty to

listen to the prince; I must regain the respect of my child. Yes, yes,

I must become the wife of Henry I I can accomplish this, for the prince

loves me truly.”

And now, she was again the coquette, whose captivating smile harmonized

perfectly with her alluring costume--no longer the tender mother, no

longer the sinner suffering from repentance and self-reproach.

She stood before the glass, and arranged her disordered dress and

smoothed her dishevelled hair.

“I must be bewitching and fascinating,” she murmured, with a smile that

showed two rows of pearl-like teeth; “the prince must gain courage from

my glance, to offer me his hand. Oh, I know he is quite prepared to do

so, if it were only to annoy his brother!” As she saw the carriage drive

up, she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, “The battle begins--to victory!”

CHAPTER IV. AT THE MASKED BALL.

The feast had commenced. As Louise von Kleist, the beautiful odalisque,

entered the dancing-saloon, she was almost blinded by the gay and

sparkling assembly. The fairy-like and fantastic robes sparkled with

gold and jewels. The sea of light thrown from the crystal chandelier

upon the mirrors and ornaments of the brilliant saloon dazzled the eye.

The entertainments of the Prince of Prussia were renowned for their

taste and splendor.

Unrecognized, the beautiful Louise slipped through the gay assembly of

masks, and, when detecting some friends under the muffled forms of

their disguise, she murmured their names, and some mischievous and witty

remark; then springing gayly on to shoot again her arrow, and excite

astonishment and surprise.

“Oh, that life were a masked ball!” she murmured softly to herself,

“mysterious and sweet! where you find more than you seek, and guess more

than is known. No one recognizes me here. The brave and handsome

Count Troussel, who is leaning against that pillar, and casting such

melancholy glances through the crowd, hunting for the one his heart

adores, never dreams that she is standing opposite him, and is laughing

at his perplexity. No, he does not recognize me, and no one knows my

costume but the prince and Pollnitz, and as they have not yet found me,

I conclude they have not arrived. I will therefore amuse myself during

their absence.”

She was just approaching the sentimental cavalier, when she suddenly

felt her arm touched, and, turning around, saw two masks wrapped in dark

dominoes before her.

“Beautiful odalisque, I bring you your sultan.” murmured one of them, in

whom she recognized Baron Pollnitz.

“And where is my sultan?” she asked.

“Here,” said the second mask, offering the beautiful lady his arm.

Louise saw those glorious eyes beaming upon her through his mask-eyes

which the king and Prince Henry alone possessed.

“Ah, my prince!” she murmured softly and reproachfully, “you see that it

is I who have waited.”

The prince did not answer, but conducted her hastily through the crowd.

They had soon reached the end of the saloon. A small flight of steps

led them to a little boudoir opening on a balcony. Into this boudoir

Pollnitz led the silent pair, then bowing low he left them.

“My God! your highness, if we should be surprised here!”

“Fear nothing, we will not be surprised. Pollnitz guards the door. Now,

as we are alone and undisturbed, let us lay aside our disguises.”

Thus speaking, the supposed prince removed his mask and laid it upon the

table.

“The king!” cried Louise, terrified and stepping back.

The king’s eyes rested upon her with a piercing glance. “What!” he

asked, “are you still acting? You appear astonished; and still you must

have known me. Who but the king would show the beautiful Madame von

Kleist such an honor? In what other cavalier could you place such

perfect confidence as to accompany him into this lonely boudoir? With

whom but the king could you have trusted your fair fame? You need not

be alarmed; to be in my presence is to be under my protection--the kind

guardianship of your king. I thank you that you knew me, and, knowing

me, followed me trustingly.”

The searching glance of the king alarmed Louise; his mocking words

bewildered her, and she was incapable of reply.

She bowed silently, and allowed herself to be conducted to the divan.

“Sit down, and let us chat awhile,” said the king. “You know I hate the

noise of a feast, and love to retire into some corner, unnoticed and

unseen. I had no sooner discovered the fair Louise under this charming

costume, than I knew I had found good company. I ordered Pollnitz

to seek out for us some quiet spot, where we might converse freely.

Commence, therefore.”

“Of what shall I speak, your majesty?” said Louise, confused and

frightened. She knew well that the king had not found her by chance, but

had sought her with a determined purpose.

“Oh! that is a question whose naivete reminds me of the little Louise

Schwerin of earlier days. Well, let us speak on that subject which

interests most deeply all who know you; let us speak of your happiness.

You sigh. Have you already paid your tribute? Do you realize the

fleetness of all earthly bliss?”

“Ah! your majesty, an unhappy marriage is the most bitter offering

that can be made to experience,” sighed Madame von Kliest. “My life was

indeed wretched until released by your kindness from that bondage.”

“Ah, yes, it is true you are divorced. When and upon whom will you now

bestow this small, white hand?”

Louise looked up astonished. “What!” she stammered, confused, “your

majesty means--”

“That you will certainly marry again. As beautiful a lady as you will

always be surrounded by lovers, and I sincerely hope that you will

marry. You should go forward as an example to my brothers, your youthful

playmates, and I will tell my brother Henry that marriage is not so bad

a thing, as the beautiful Madame von Kleist has tried it for the second

time.”

“I doubt very much, sire,” said Louise, timidly, “if the example of so

insignificant a person would have the desired effect upon the prince.”

“You do yourself injustice. The prince has too strong an admiration for

you, not to be influenced by your encouraging example. My brother must

and shall marry according to his birth. I am assured that, contrary to

my wishes and commands, he is about to make a secret and illegitimate

marriage. I am not yet acquainted with the name of his wily mistress,

but I shall learn it, and, when once noted in my memory, woe be unto

her, for I shall never acknowledge such a marriage, and I shall take

care that his mistress is not received at court--she shall be regarded

as a dishonored woman.”

“Your majesty is very stern and pitiless toward the poor prince,” said

Madame Kleist, who had succeeded in suppressing her own emotions, and,

following the lead of the king, she was desirous to let it appear that

the subject was one of no personal interest to herself.

“No,” said the king, “I am not cruel and not pitiless. I must forget

that I am a brother, and remember only I am a king, not only for the

good of my family, but for the prosperity of my people. My brother must

marry a princess of wealth and influence. Tell Prince Henry this. Now,”

said the king, with an engaging smile, “let us speak of your lovely

self. You will, of course, marry again. Have you not confidence enough

in me to tell me the name of your happy and favored lover?”

“Sire,” said Louise, smiling, “I do not know it myself, and to show what

unbounded confidence I have in your majesty, I modestly confess that I

am not positively certain whether among my many followers there is

one who desires to be the successor of Kleist. It is easy to have many

lovers, but somewhat difficult to marry suitably.”

“We need a marrying man to chase away the crowd of lovers,” said the

king, smiling. “Think awhile--let your lovers pass in review before

you--perhaps you may find among them one who is both ardent and

desirable.”

Louise remained thoughtful for a few moments. The king observed her

closely.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “have you made your selection?”

Madame von Kleist sighed, and her beautiful bright eyes filled with

tears. She took leave of her most cherished and ambitious dream--bade

farewell to her future of regal pomp and splendor.

“Yes, sire, I have found an e’poitseur, who only needs encouragement, to

offer me his heart and hand.”

“Is he of good family?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Military?”

“Yes, sire. He wears only a captain’s epaulets. Your majesty sees that I

am modest.”

“On the day of his marriage he shall be major. When the Church

pronounces her blessing, the king’s blessing shall not be wanting. We

are, of course, agreed. When will you be engaged?”

“Sire, that depends upon my lover, and when I succeed in bringing him to

terms.”

“We will say in eight days. You see I am anxious to become speedily

acquainted with one blissful mortal, and I think that the husband of the

beautiful Madame Kleist will be supremely happy. In eight days, then,

you will be engaged, and, to complete your good work, you must announce

this happy fact to my brother Henry. Of course, he must not even surmise

that you sacrifice yourself in order to set him a good example. No, you

will complete your noble work, and tell him that a love which you could

not control induced you to take this step; and that he may not doubt

your words, you will tell your story cheerfully--yes, joyously.”

“Sire, it is too much--I cannot do it,” cried Madame von Kleist. “It is

enough to trample upon my own heart; your majesty cannot desire me to

give the prince his death-blow.”

The king’s eyes flashed angrily, but he controlled himself.

“His death!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders, “as if men died of

such small wounds. You know better yourself. You know that the grave

of one love is the cradle of another. Be wise, and do as I tell you: in

eight days you will be engaged, and then you will have the kindness to

acquaint Prince Henry with your happy prospects.”

“Ah, sire, do not be so cruel as to ask this of me,” cried Louise,

gliding from the divan upon her knees, “be merciful. I am ready to obey

the commands of my king, to make the sacrifice that is asked of me--let

it not be too great a one. Your majesty asks that I shall draw down the

contempt of the man I love upon myself; that this man must not only

give me up, but scorn me. You require too much. This is more than the

strongest, bravest heart can endure. Your majesty knows that the prince

loves me passionately. Ah, sire, your brother would have forfeited his

rank and your favor by marrying me, but he would have been a happy man;

and I ask the king if that is not, at last, the best result? Are you,

sire, content and happy since you trampled your breathing, loving heart

to death at the foot of the throne? You command your brother to do as

you have done. Well, sire, I submit--not only to resign the prince, but

to marry again, to marry without love. Perhaps my soul will be lost by

this perjury, but what matters that--it is a plaything in the hands

of the king? He may break my heart, but it shall not be dishonored and

trodden in the dust. The prince shall cease to love me, but I will not

be despised by him. He shall not think me a miserable coquette, despise,

and laugh at me. Now, sire, you can crush me in your anger. I have said

what I had to say--you know my decision.”

She bowed her head almost to the earth; motionless, kneeling at the foot

of the king, her hands folded on her breast, she might in reality have

been taken for an odalisque but that her sad, tearful face was not in

unison with the situation or costume.

A long pause ensued--a solemn, fearful pause. The king struggled

with his rage, Louise with her disappointment and distress. Sounds of

laughter, the gay notes of music reached them from the dancing-saloon.

The ball had commenced, and youth and beauty were mingling in the dance.

These sounds aroused the king, and the sad contrast made Louise shudder.

“You will not, then, comply with my request?” said the king, sternly.

“Sire, I cannot!” murmured Louise, raising her hands imploringly to the

king.

“You cannot!” cried the king, whose face glowed with anger; “you cannot,

that means you will not, because your vain, coquettish heart will not

resign the love of the prince. You submit to resign his hand, because

you must; but you wish to retain his love: he must think of you as a

heavenly ideal, to be adored and longed for, placed amongst the stars

for worship. Ah, madame, you are not willing to make the gulf between

you impassable! You say you wish, at least, to retain the respect of

Prince Henry. I ask you, madame, what you have done to deserve his

respect? You were an ungrateful and undutiful daughter; you did not

think of the shame and sorrow you prepared for your parents, when you

arranged your flight with the gardener. I succeeded in rescuing you from

dishonor by marrying you to a brave and noble cavalier. It depended upon

you entirely to gain his love and respect, but you forgot your duty as

a wife, as you had forgotten it as a daughter. You had no pity with the

faults and follies of your husband, you drove him to despair. At

last, to drown his sorrows, he became a drunkard, and you, instead of

remaining at his side to encourage and counsel him, deserted him, and

so heartlessly exposed his shame that I, to put an end to the scandal,

permitted your divorce. You not only forgot your duty as a wife and

daughter, but also as a mother. You have deprived your child of a

father, you have made her an orphan; you have soiled, almost depraved

her young soul; and now, after all this, you wish to be adored and

respected as a saint by my poor brother! No, madame! I shall know how

to save him from this delusion; I shall tell to him and the world the

history of little Louise von Schwerin! Fritz Wendel still lives, and, if

you desire it, I can release him, and he may tell his romantic story.”

“Oh, for the second time to-day I have heard that hateful name!” cried

Louise; “the past is an avenger that pursues us mercilessly through our

whole lives.”

“Choose, madame!” said the king, after a pause; “will you announce your

betrothal to my brother in a gay and unembarrassed tone, or shall I

call Fritz Wendel, that he may sing the unhappy prince to sleep with his

romantic history?”

Whilst the king spoke, Louise had raised herself slowly from her knees,

and taken a seat upon the divan. Now rising, and bowing lowly, she said,

with trembling lips and tearful voice: “Sire, I am prepared to do all

that you wish. I shall announce my betrothal to the prince cheerfully,

and without sighs or tears. But be merciful, and free me forever from

that hideous spectre which seems ever at my side!”

“Do you mean poor Fritz Wendel?” said the king, smiling.

“Well, on the day of your marriage I will send him as a soldier to

Poland: there he may relate his love-adventures, but no one will

understand him. Are you content?”

“I thank you, sire,” said Louise, faintly.

“Ah, I see our conversation has agitated you a little!” said the king.

“Fortunately, we are now at an end. In the next eight days, remember,

you will be engaged!”

“Yes, sire.”

“The day of your marriage, I will make your captain a major. You promise

to tell my brother of your engagement, and that it is in accordance with

the warmest wishes of your heart?”

“Yes, sire; and you will banish the gardener forever?”

“I will; but wait--one thing more. Where will you tell my brother of

your engagement, and before what witnesses?”

“At the place and before the witnesses your majesty may select,” said

Madame von Kleist.

The king thought a moment. “You will do it in my presence,” said he; “I

will let you know the time and place through Pollnitz. We have arranged

our little affairs, madame, and we will descend to the saloon where, I

think, your epouseur is sighing for your presence.”

“Let him sigh, sire! With your permission, I should like to retire.”

“Go, madame, where you wish. Pollnitz will conduct you to your

carriage.”

He offered her his hand, and, with a friendly bow, led her to the door.

“Farewell, madame! I believe we part friends?”

“Sire,” she answered, smiling faintly, “I can only say as the soldiers

do, ‘I thank you for your gracious punishment!’”

She bowed and left the room hastily, that the king might not see her

tears.

CHAPTER V. A SECRET CAPTAIN.

The king looked long after her in silence; at first with an expression

of deep pity, but this soon gave place to a gay, mocking smile.

“She is not a woman to take sorrow earnestly. When mourning no longer

becomes her, she will lay it aside for the rosy robes of joy. She is a

coquette, nothing more. It is useless to pity her.”

He now stepped upon the balcony that overlooked the saloon, and glanced

furtively from behind the curtains upon the gay assembly below.

“Poor, foolish mankind! how wise you might be, if you were not so very

childish--if you did not seek joy and happiness precisely where it is

not to be found! But how is this?” said the king, interrupting himself,

“those two giant forms at the side of the little Armenians are certainly

Barons Kalkreuth and Kaphengst, and that is my brother with them. Poor

Henry! you have made a bad use of your freedom, and must, therefore,

soon lose it. Ah! see how searchingly he turns his head, seeking his

beautiful odalisque! In vain, my brother, in vain! For to-day, at least,

we have made her a repentant Magdalen; to-morrow she will be again

a life-enjoying Aspasia. Ah, the prince separates himself from

his followers. I have a few words to whisper in the ear of the gay

Kaphengst.”

The king stepped back into the room, and after resuming his mask, he

descended into the saloon, accompanied by his grand chamberlain.

Mirth and gayety reigned; the room was crowded with masks. Here stood

a group in gay conversation; there was dancing at the other end of the

saloon. Some were listening to the organ-player, as he sang, in comical

German and French verses, little incidents and adventures that had

occurred during the present year at court, bringing forth laughter,

confused silence, and blushes. Some were amusing themselves with the

lively, witty chat of the son of the Prince of Prussia, the little

ten-year-old, Prince Frederick William. He was dressed as the God of

Love, with bow and quiver, dancing around, and, with an early-ripened

instinct, directing his arrow at the most beautiful and fascinating

ladies in the room.

Prince Henry paid no attention to all this; his wandering glance sought

only the beautiful Louise, and a deep sigh escaped him at not having

found her. Hastily he stepped through the rows of dancers which

separated the two cavaliers from him.

“It appears,” murmured Baron Kalkreuth to his friend, “it appears to me

that the prince would like to get rid of us. He wishes to be entirely

unobserved. I think we can profit by this, and therefore I shall take

leave of you for a while, and seek my own adventures.”

“I advise you,” murmured Baron Kaphengst, laughingly, “to appoint no

rendezvous for to-morrow.”

“And why not, friend?”

“Because you will not be able to appear; for you will doubtless be in

arrest.”

“That is true, and I thank you for your prudent advice, and shall

arrange all my rendezvous for the day after to-morrow. Farewell.”

Baron Kaphengst turned laughingly to another part of the saloon.

Suddenly he felt a hand placed on his shoulder, and a low voice murmured

his name.

Terrified, he turned. “I am not the one you seek, mask,” he said; but as

he met those two large, burning eyes, he shuddered, and even his bold,

daring heart stood still a moment from terror. Only the king had such

eyes; only he had such a commanding glance.

“You say you are not the one I seek,” said the mask. “Well, yes, you

speak wisely. I sought in you a brave and obedient officer, and it

appears that you are not that. You are not, then, Lieutenant von

Kaphengst?”

Kaphengst thought a moment. He was convinced it was the king that

spoke with him, for Frederick had not attempted to disguise his voice.

Kaphengst knew he was discovered. There remained nothing for him but to

try and reconcile the king by a jest.

He bowed close to the king, and whispered: “Listen, mask--as you have

recognized me, I will acknowledge the truth. Yes, I am Lieutenant von

Kaphengst, and am incognito. You understand me--I came to this ball

incognito. He is a scoundrel who repeats it!” and, without awaiting

an answer, he hastened away to seek the prince and Baron Kalkreuth,

acquaint them with the king’s presence, and fly with them from his

anger.

But Prince Henry, whose fruitless search for his sweetheart had made

him angry and defiant, declared he would remain at the ball until it was

over, and that it should be optional with the king to insult his brother

openly, and to punish and humble a prince of his house before the world.

“I, unfortunately, do not belong to the princes of the royal house, and

I therefore fear that the king might regard me as the cat who had to

pull the hot chestnuts from the ashes, and I might suffer for all three.

I therefore pray your highness to allow me to withdraw.”

“You may go, and if you meet Kalkreuth, ask him to accompany you. You

officers must not carry your insubordination any further. I, as prince,

and Hohenzollern, dare the worst, but, be assured, I shall pay for my

presumption. Farewell, and hasten! Do not forget Kalkreuth.”

Kaphengst sought in vain. Kalkreuth was nowhere to be found, and he had

to wend his way alone to Potsdam.

“I shall take care not to await the order of the king for my arrest,”

said Baron Kaphengst to himself, as he rode down the road to Potsdam. “I

shall be in arrest when his order arrives. Perhaps that will soften his

anger.”

Accordingly, when Kaphengst arrived at the court guard, in Potsdam, he

assumed the character of a drunken, quarrelsome officer, and played his

role so well that the commander placed him in arrest.

An hour later the king’s order reached the commander to arrest Baron

Kaphengst, and with smiling astonishment he received the answer that he

had been under arrest for the last hour.

In the mean time, Kaphengst had not miscalculated. The prince was put

under arrest for eight days, Kalkreuth for three. He was released the

next morning, early enough to appear at the parade. As the king,

with his generals, rode down to the front, he immediately noticed the

audacious young officer, whose eye met his askance and pleadingly. The

king beckoned to him, and as Baron Kaphengst stood erect before him, the

king said, laughingly; “It is truly difficult to exchange secrets with

one of your height; bow down to me, I have something to whisper in you

ear.”

The comrades and officers, yes, even the generals, saw not without envy

that the king was so gracious to the young Lieutenant von Kaphengst;

whispered a few words to him confidentially, and then smiling and bowing

graciously, moved on.

It was, therefore, natural that, when the king left, all were anxious

to congratulate the young lieutenant, and ask him what the king had

whispered. But Baron Kaphengst avoided, with dignified gravity, all

inquiries, and only whispered to his commander softly, but loud

enough for every one to hear, the words, “State secrets,” then bowing

profoundly, returned with an earnest and grave face to his dwelling,

there to meditate at his leisure upon the king’s words--words both

gracious and cruel, announcing his advancement, but at the same time

condemning him to secrecy.

The king’s words were: “You are a captain, but he is a scoundrel who

repeats it!”

Thus Baron Kaphengst was captain, but no one suspected it; the captain

remained a simple lieutenant in the eyes of the world.

CHAPTER VI. THE LEGACY OF VON TRENCK, COLONEL OF THE PANDOURS.

Baron Weingarten, the new secretary of legation of the Austrian embassy

in Berlin, paced the ambassador’s office in great displeasure. It was

the hour in which all who had affairs to arrange with the Austrian

ambassador, passports to vise, contracts to sign, were allowed entrance,

and it was the baron’s duty to receive them. But no one came; no one

desired to make use of his ability or his mediation, and this displeased

the baron and put him out of humor. It was not the want of work and

activity that annoyed him; the baron would have welcomed the dolce far

niente had it not been unfortunately connected with his earnings; the

fees he received for passports, and the arrangement of other affairs,

formed part of his salary as secretary of legation, and as he possessed

no fortune, this was his only resource. This indigence alone led him to

resign his aristocratic independence and freedom of action. He had not

entered the state service from ambition, but for money, that he might

have the means of supporting his mother and unmarried sisters, and

enable himself to live according to his rank and old aristocratic

name. Baron Weingarten would have made any sacrifice, submitted to any

service, to obtain wealth. Poverty had demoralized him, pride had laid

a mildew on his heart and stifled all noble aspirations. As he read

a letter, just received from his mother, complaining of wants and

privations, telling of the attachment of a young officer to his sister,

and that poverty alone prevented their marriage, his heart was filled

with repining, and at this moment he was prepared to commit a crime, if,

by so doing, he could have obtained wealth.

In this despairing and sorrowful mood he had entered the office,

and awaited in vain for petitioners who would pay him richly for

his services. But the hours passed in undisturbed quiet, and Baron

Weingarten was in the act of leaving the office, as the servant

announced Baron von Waltz, and the court councillor, Zetto, from Vienna.

He advanced to meet the two gentlemen, with a smiling countenance, and

welcomed his Austrian countrymen heartily.

The two gentlemen seated themselves silently; Weingarten took a seat in

front of them.

A painful, embarrassed pause ensued. The majestic Baron von Waltz looked

silently at the ceiling, while the black, piercing eyes of the little

Councillor Zetto examined the countenance of Weingarten with a strangely

searching and penetrating expression.

“You are from Vienna?” said Weingarten at last, putting an end to this

painful silence.

“We are from Vienna,” answered the baron, with a grave bow. “And have

travelled here post-haste to have an interview with you.”

“With me?” asked the secretary of legation, astonished.

“With you alone,” said the baron, gravely.

“We wish you to do the King of Prussia a great service,” said Zetto,

solemnly.

Weingarten reddened, and said confusedly: “The King of Prussia! You

forget, gentlemen, that my services belong alone to the Empress Maria

Theresa.”

“He defends himself before he is accused,” said Zetto, aside. “It is

then true, as we have been told, he is playing a double game--serves

Austria and Prussia at the same time.” Turning to Baron Weingarten, he

said: “That which we ask of you will be at the same time a service to

our gracious empress, for certainly it would not only distress, but

compromise her majesty, if an Austrian officer committed a murder in

Prussia.”

“Murder!” cried the secretary of legation.

“Yes, an intentional murder,” said Baron Waltz, emphatically--“the

murder of the King of Prussia. If you prevent this crime, you will

receive ten thousand guilders,” said Zetto, examining Weingarten’s

countenance closely. He remarked that the baron, who was but a moment

ago pale from terror, now reddened, and that his eyes sparkled joyously.

“And what can I do to prevent this murder?” asked Weingarten, hastily.

“You can warn the king.”

“But to warn successfully, I must have proofs.”

“We are ready to give the most incontrovertible proofs.”

“I must, before acting, be convinced of the veracity of your charges.”

“I hope that my word of honor will convince you of their truth,” said

Baron Waltz, pathetically.

Weingarten bowed, with an ambiguous smile, that did not escape Zetto.

He drew forth his pocket-book, and took from it a small, folded paper,

which he handed to Weingarten.

“If I strengthen my declaration with this paper, will you trust me?”

Weingarten looked with joyful astonishment at the paper; it was a check

for two thousand guilders. “My sister’s dowry,” thought Weingarten, with

joy. But the next moment came doubt and suspicion. What if they were

only trying him--only convincing themselves if he could be bought?

Perhaps he was suspected of supplying the Prussian Government from time

to time with Austrian news--of communicating to them the contents of

important dispatches!

The fire faded from his eye, and with a firm countenance he laid the

paper upon the table.

“Your are mistaken, gentlemen! That is no document, but a check.”

“With which many documents could be purchased,” said Zetto, smiling.

Placing the paper again in his pocket-book, he took out another and a

larger one. It was a check for three thousand guilders.

But Weingarten had regained his composure. He knew that men acting thus

must be spies or criminals; that they were testing him, or luring him on

to some unworthy act. In either case, he must be on his guard.

“I beg you to confirm your charge in the usual manner,” said he, with

a cold, indifferent glance at the paper. “Murder is a dreadful

accusation--you cannot act too carefully. You say that an Austrian

officer intends to murder the King of Prussia. How do you know this?”

“From himself,” said Baron Waltz. “He communicated his intentions to me,

and confided to me his entire plan.”

“It appears,” remarked Weingarten, mockingly, “that the officer had

reason to believe he might trust you with this terrible secret.”

“You see, however, that he was mistaken,” said the baron, smilingly. “I

demand of you to warn the King of Prussia of the danger that threatens

him.”

“I shall be compelled to make this danger clear, give all particulars,

or the king will laugh at my story and consider it a fairy tale.”

“You shall give him convincing proof. Say to him that the murder is

to be committed when his majesty attends the Austrian review at

Konigsberg.”

“How will the officer cross the Prussian border?”

“He is supplied with an Austrian passport, and under the pretence of

inheriting a large property in Prussia, he has obtained leave of absence

for a month.”

“There remains now but one question: why does the officer wish to murder

the king? What motive leads him to do so?”

“Revenge,” said Baron von Waltz, solemnly--“an act of vengeance. This

Austrian officer who is resolved to murder the king of Prussia, is

Frederick von Trenck.”

Weingarten was embarrassed, and his countenance bore an uneasy and

troubled expression. But as his eye fell upon the weighty paper that lay

before him, he smiled, and looked resolved.

“Now I have but one thing more to ask. Why, if your story is authentic,

and well calculated to startle even the brave king, have you thought it

necessary to remove my doubts with this document?”

Baron Waltz was silent, and looked inquiringly at Zetto.

“Why did I hand you this document?” said the councillor, with a sweet

smile. “Because gold remains gold, whether received from an Austrian

councillor or from a Prussian prince.”

“Sir, do you dare to insult me?” cried the secretary of legation,

fiercely.

Zetto smiled. “No, I only wish to notify you that we are aware that

it is through you that Baron von Trenck receives money from a certain

aristocratic lady in Berlin. It is, therefore, most important that the

king should be warned by you of his intended murder--otherwise you might

be thought an accomplice.”

Weingarten appeared not to be in the least disconcerted by this

statement--he seemed not even to have heard it.

“Before I warn the king,” he said, with calm composure, “I must be

convinced of the truth of the story myself, and I acknowledge to you

that I am not convinced, cannot understand your motives for seeking the

destruction of Baron von Trenck.”

“Ah! you search into our motives--you mistrust us,” cried Zetto,

hastily. “Well, we will prove to you that we trust you, by telling you

our secret. You know the story of the inheritance of Trenck?”

“He is the only heir of the pandour chieftain, Franz von Trenck.”

“Correct. And do you know the history of this pandour chieftain Trenck?”

“I have heard a confused and uncertain statement, but nothing definite

or reliable.”

“It is, however, a very interesting and instructive story, and shows how

far a man with a determined will and great energy can reach, when

his thoughts are directed to one end. Baron Trenck wished to be rich,

immensely rich--that was the aim of his life. Seduced by his love of

money, he became the captain of a band of robbers, then a murderer, a

church-robber; from that a brave soldier, and, at last, a holy penitent.

Robbing and plundering every-where, he succeeded in collecting millions.

The pandour chieftain Trenck soon became so rich, that he excited the

envy of the noblest and wealthiest men in the kingdom, so rich that he

was able to lend large sums of money to the powerful and influential

Baron Lowenwalde. You see, baron, it only needs a determined will to

become rich.”

“Oh! the foolish man,” said Weingarten, shrugging his shoulders.

“Lending money to a noble and powerful man, is making an irreconcilable

enemy.”

“You speak like a prophet. It happened, as you say. Lowenwalde became

Trenck’s enemy. He accused him of embezzling the imperial money, of

treachery and faithlessness--and Trenck was imprisoned.”

“His millions obtained his release, did they not?”

“No. His riches reduced him to greater misery. His lands were

sequestered, and a body of commissioners were selected to attend to

them. Baron Waltz and myself belonged to this commission.”

“Ah! I begin to understand,” murmured Weingarten.

Baron Zetto continued, with a smile. “The commissioners made the

discovery that report had greatly exaggerated the riches of Trenck.

He had not many treasures, but many debts. In order to liquidate those

debts, we desired his creditors to announce themselves every day, and

promised them a daily ducat until the end of the process.”

“I hope you two gentlemen were among his creditors,” said Weingarten.

“Certainly, we were, and also Baron Marken.”

“Therefore you have a threefold advantage from Trenck’s imprisonment.

First, your salary as a member of the commission; secondly, as a

creditor--”

“And thirdly--you spoke of a threefold advantage?”

“And thirdly,” said Weingarten, laughing, “in searching for the missing

treasures of Baron Trenck which had disappeared so unfortunately.”

“Ah, sir, you speak like those who suspected us at court, and wished

to make the empress believe that we had enriched ourselves as

commissioners. Soon after this Trenck died, and Frederick von Trenck

hastened from St. Petersburg to receive his inheritance. How great

was his astonishment to find instead of the hoped-for millions a

few mortgaged lands, an income of a hundred thousand guilders, and

sixty-three creditors who claimed the property.”

“He should have become one of the commissioners,” remarked Weingarten,

mockingly. “Perhaps it would have then been easier for him to obtain his

possessions.”

“He attempted it in another way, with the aid of money, bribery, and

persuasion. He has already succeeded in obtaining fifty-four of his

sixty-three processes, and will win the others in a few days.”

“And then he will doubtless cause the commissioners to give in their

accounts, and close their books.”

“Exactly. He has already commenced to do so. He ordered an investigation

to be made against the quartermaster, and the commander of the regiment

to which Franz von Trenck belonged. This man had accused Trenck of

having embezzled eight thousand of the imperial money, and Trenck

succeeded so far, that it was declared that it was not he, but his

accusers, who had committed the crime. The consequence was, that the

quartermaster was deposed, and it would have fared as badly with the

commander, had he not found powerful protection.”

“And now the dangerous Frederick von Trenck will seize the property of

the commissioners.”

“He would do so if we did not know how to prevent him. We must employ

every means to remove him, and, believe me, we are not the only men who

wish for his disappearance. A large and powerful party have the same

desire, and will joyfully pay ten thousand guilders to be freed from his

investigations.”

Weingarten’s eyes sparkled for a moment, and his heart beat quickly,

but he suppressed these joyful emotions, and retained his calm and

indifferent expression.

“Gentlemen,” he said, quietly, “as you are speaking of a real criminal,

one who intends committing so great a crime, I am at your service, and

no money or promises are necessary to buy my assistance.”

“Is he really a man of honor, and have we received false information?”

thought Zetto, who was misled for a moment by the quiet and virtuous

looks of the secretary of legation.

“In the mean while you will not prevent those for whom you are about

to do a great service from showing their gratitude,” said Baron Waltz.

“Every one has a right to give or to receive a present.”

“Gentlemen,” said Baron Weingarten, smilingly, “No one has spoken of

a present, but of a payment, a bribery, and you can readily understand

that this is insulting to a man of honor.”

“Ah, he leaves open a door of escape,” thought Zetto. “He is won, he can

be bought.--You are right, baron,” he said aloud, “and we are wrong to

offer you now that which hereafter will be a debt of gratitude. We will

speak no more of this, but of the danger that threatens the king. You

alone can save him by warning him of his danger.”

“You really believe, then, that Trenck has the intention of murdering

the king?” said Weingarten.

“We will believe it,” said Zetto, with an ambiguous smile.

“We must believe it!” cried Baron Waltz, emphatically. “We must either

believe in his murderous intentions, or be ourselves regarded as

traitors and robbers. You will think it natural that we prefer the first

alternative, and as he resolved to ruin us, we will anticipate him, and

set the trap into which he must fall.”

“Why could you not lay your snares in Austria, gentlemen? Why could you

not accuse him of intending to murder the empress?”

Zetto shrugged his shoulders. “That would not be credible, because

Trenck has no motive for murdering Maria Theresa, while he might very

well thirst to revenge himself upon Frederick. You know that the king

and Trenck are personal enemies. Trenck has boasted of this enmity

often and loud enough to be understood by the whole world, and I do not

believe that this animosity has diminished. Enemies naturally desire to

destroy each other. Trenck would succeed if we did not warn the king,

and enable him to anticipate his enemy.”

“How can this be done? Will the king really go to Konigsberg to be

present at the Austrian festivities?”

“It has been spoken of.”

“Well, Trenck now proposes to go to Dantzic, and he has boasted that

he will enter Konigsberg at the same time with the King of Prussia, who

will not dare to arrest him.”

“We have made a bet with him of a hundred louis d’or on this boast,”

said Baron Waltz, “and for greater security we have put it in writing.”

“Have you it with you?”

“Here it is.”

The baron handed Weingarten a paper, which he seized hastily, unfolded,

and read several times.

“This is indeed written in very ambiguous language, and calculated

to ruin Trenck should it reach the hands of the king,” said Baron

Weingarten with a cruel smile.

Zetto returned this smile. “I wrote the document, and you will naturally

understand that I measured the words very closely.”

“Who copied the letter?” asked Weingarten. “Doubtlessly Baron Trenck was

not magnanimous enough to do that.”

“Baron Waltz is a great adept in imitating handwriting, and he happily

possessed original letters of Trenck’s,” said Zetto, smilingly.

“You will find it most natural that I should try to win my bet,” said

Baron Waltz. “If Trenck is arrested before he goes to Konigsberg, I

have won my bet, and will receive the hundred louis d’ors from the

commissioners.”

All three laughed.

“These commissioners will soon have to pay you ten thousand guilders,”

whispered Zetto. “Here is a bond. On the day that Trenck is a prisoner

of the king of Prussia, this bond is due, and you will then find that

the commissioners are not backward in paying.” Zetto laid the document

upon the table. “You will now have the kindness to receive our

testimony, and, if you desire it, we will add our accusations, or you

can mention that this can be done.”

Weingarten did not answer; a repentant fear tormented his heart, and for

a moment it appeared as if his good and evil genius were struggling for

his soul.

“This involves probably the life of a man,” he said, softly; “it is a

terrible accusation that I must pronounce: if not condemned to

death, the king will imprison him for many long years, and I shall be

responsible for this injustice.”

Councillor Zetto’s attentive ear heard every word; he stood near him

like the evil one, and his piercing eyes rested upon the agitated

countenance of Weingarten and read his thoughts.

“Have you not lived the life of a prisoner for many years?” asked Zetto,

in a low, unnatural voice; “have you not always been a slave of poverty?

Will you now, from weak pity, lose the opportunity of freeing yourself

from this bondage? Ten thousand guilders is no fortune, but it may be

the beginning of one--it may be the thread of Ariadne to lead you from

the labyrinth of poverty to freedom and light; and who will thank you if

you do not seize this thread--who recompense you for your generosity and

magnanimity? If you tell it to the wise and cunning, they will laugh at

you, and if the foolish hear it, they will not understand you. Every one

is the moulder of his own happiness, and woe unto him who neglects to

forge the iron while it is hot!”

Baron Weingarten felt each of these words. He did not know if they were

uttered by human lips, or if they came from the depths of his own base

soul.

“It is true, it is true!” he cried, in a frightened voice, “He is a fool

who does not seize the hand of Fortune when tendered by the laughing

goddess--a fool who does not break his fetters when he has the power

to rend them. Come, gentlemen! We take the testimony, and when that is

done, I will conduct you to our ambassador, Baron Puebla.”

“Not so--when that is done, we shall depart with post-haste; you alone

shall receive thanks and recompense. Now to work!”

CHAPTER VII. THE KING AND WEINGARTEN.

The king paced his room hastily; he was very pale, his lip trembled, and

his eyes sparkled angrily.

He suddenly remained standing before the Austrian secretary of legation,

and gazed long and earnestly into his face, but his glance, before which

so many had trembled, was sustained by the secretary with so quiet and

innocent a countenance that it deceived even the king.

“I see that you are convinced of the truth of what you tell me.”

the king said at last. “You really believe that this madman has the

intention of murdering me?”

“I am convinced of it, sire,” replied Weingarten, humbly, “for I have

the proof of his intention in my hand.”

“The proof--what proof?”

“This paper which I allowed myself to hand to your majesty, and which

you laid upon the table without reading.”

“Ah, it is true! I forgot that in my excitement,” said the king, mildly.

“I beg you to read me the contents of this paper.”

Baron Weingarten received the paper from the king with a respectful bow;

his voice did not tremble in the least as he read the important words

which refined malice and cruel avarice had written there--words which,

if literally interpreted, would fully condemn Trenck.

The words were:

“‘In consequence of a bet, I pledge myself to be in Konigsberg the

same day in which the King Frederick of Prussia, my cruel enemy and

persecutor, shall arrive there. I shall go there to do, in the king’s

presence, that which no one has done before me, and which no one will

do after me. If I do not succeed in accomplishing my purpose, or if I

should be arrested, I have lost my bet, and shall owe Baron Waltz one

hundred louis d’or, which must be paid him by the commissioners of the

Trenck estate.’”

“‘BARON FREDERICK VON TRENCK.’”

“And Trenck wrote this note himself?” said the king.

“If your majesty is acquainted with Trenck’s handwriting, you will

perhaps have the goodness to examine it yourself.”

“I know his handwriting; give me the paper.”

He took the paper and glanced over it searchingly. “It is his

handwriting,” he murmured; “but I will examine it again.”

Speaking thus, he stepped hastily to his escritoire, and took from a

small box several closely written yellow papers, and compared them with

the document which Weingarten had given him.

Ah, how little did Trenck dream, as he wrote those letters, that they

would witness against him, and stamp him as a criminal! They were

already a crime in the king’s eyes, for they were tender letters that

Trenck had dared to write from Vienna to the Princess Amelia. They had

never reached her!

And not those tender epistles of a tearful and unhappy love must bear

witness against the writer, and condemn him for the second time!

“It is his handwriting,” said the king, as he laid the letters again

in the box. “I thank you, Baron Weingarten, you have saved me from a

disagreeable occurrence, for, if I will not even believe that Trenck

intended murder, he was at all events willing to create a scene, if only

to gratify his vanity. It appears that he has now played out his role

at Vienna, as well as in St. Petersburg and Berlin, and the world would

forget him if he did not attract its attention by some mad piece of

folly. How he intended to accomplish this I do not know, but certainly

not by a murder--no, I cannot believe that!”

“Your majesty is always noble and magnanimous, but it appears to me that

these words can have but one meaning. ‘I shall go to Konigsberg,’ writes

Baron Trenck, ‘and there do in the presence of the king what no one has

done before me, and what no one will do after me.’ Does not this make

his intention pretty clear?”

“Only for those who know his intentions or suspect them, for others they

could have any other signification, some romantic threat, nothing more.

Baron Trenck is a known adventurer, a species of Don Quixote, always

fighting against windmills, and believing that warriors and kings honor

him so far as to be his enemies. I punished Trenck when he was in my

service, for insubordination; now he is no longer in my service, and

I have forgotten him, but woe be unto him if he forces me to remember

him!”

“Your majesty will soon see if he is falsely accused. These reliable and

irreproachable men came especially to warn your majesty, through me. You

will discover if they have calumniated Trenck, by giving this testimony.

If he does not go to Dantzic, does not enter Prussia, they have sworn

falsely, and Trenck is innocent.”

“He will not dare to cross the borders of my state, for he knows he will

be court-martialled as a deserter. But I am convinced that he is a bold

adventurer, he has boasted that he will defy me, that is certainly what

no one has done before him, and what no one will do after him, but it

will rest there, you may believe me.”

Baron Weingarten bowed silently. The king continued, with an engaging

smile.

“However, monsieur, I owe you many thanks, and it would please me to

have an opportunity of rewarding you.”

Until this moment, Weingarten had been standing with bowed head, he now

stood erect, and his eye dared to meet that of the king.

“Sire,” he said, with the noble expression of offended innocence, “I

demand and wish no other reward than that you may profit by my warning.

If the fearful danger that threatens your majesty is averted through me,

that will be my all-sufficient recompense. I must decline any other.”

The king smiled approvingly. “You speak emphatically, and it appears

that you really believe in this danger. Well, I thank you only as that

is your desire. I will respect your warning and guard myself from the

danger that you believe threatens me, but to do that, and at the same

time to convince ourselves of Trenck’s evil intentions, we must observe

the most perfect silence in this whole affair, and you must promise me

to speak of it to no one.”

“Sire, secrecy appeared to me so necessary, that I did not even

communicate it to Baron Puebla, but came to your majesty on my own

responsibility.”

“You did well, for now Trenck will fall unwarned into the trap we set

for him. Be silent, therefore, upon the subject. If you should ever

have a favor to ask, come to me with this tabatiere in your hand. I will

remember this hour, and if it is in my power will grant you what you

wish.”

He handed Weingarten his gold, diamond-studded tabatiere, and received

his thanks with approving smiles. After he had dismissed the secretary

of legation, and was alone, the smile faded from his face, and his

countenance was sad and disturbed.

“It has come to this,” he said, as he paced his room, with his hands

folded behind his back. “This man, whom I once loved so warmly, wishes

to murder me. Ah! ye proud princes, who imagine yourselves gods on

earth, you are not even safe from a murderer’s dagger, and you are as

vulnerable as the commonest beggar. Why does he wish my death? Were I a

fantastic, romantic hero, I might say he hoped to claim his sweetheart

over my dead body! But Amelia is no longer a person for whom a man would

risk his life; she is but a faint and sad resemblance of the past--her

rare beauty is tear-stained and turned to ashes, but her heart still

lives; it is young and warm, and belongs to Trenck! And shall I

dissipate this last illusion? Must she now learn that he to whom she

sacrificed so much is but a common murderer? No, I will spare her this

sorrow! I will not give Trenck the opportunity to fulfil his work; even

his intention shall remain doubtful. I shall not go to Konigsberg; and

if, in his presumptuous thirst for notoriety or for vengeance, he

should enter Prussia, he shall be cared for--he shall not escape his

punishment. Let him but try to cross my borders--he will find a snare

spread, a cage from which he cannot escape. Yes, so it shall be. But

neither the world nor Trenck shall suspect why this is done. If my

brothers and envious persons hold him up in future as an example of my

hardness of heart, what do I care for their approval, or the praise

of short-sighted men! I do my duty, and am answerable only to God and

myself. Trenck intends to murder me--I must preserve myself for my

people. My mission is not yet accomplished; and if a poisonous insect

crosses my path, I must crush it.”

CHAPTER VIII. THE UNWILLING BRIDEGROOM.

Prince Henry had again passed eight days in arrest--eight tedious days,

days of powerless anger and painful humiliation. This arrest had been,

by the king’s express orders, so strict, that no one was allowed to

see the prince but Pollnitz, who belonged, as the king said, to the

inventory of the house of Hohenzollern, and, therefore, all doors were

open to him.

Pollnitz alone had, therefore, the pleasure of hearing the complaints,

and reproaches, and bitter accusations of the prince against his

brother. Pollnitz always had an attentive ear for these complaints; and

after listening to the prince with every appearance of real feeling and

warm sympathy, he would hasten to the king, and with drooping eyelids

and rejoicing heart repeat the bitter and hateful words of the

unsuspicious prince--words that were well calculated to increase the

king’s displeasure. The prince still declared that he would not marry,

and the king insisted that he must submit to his will and commands.

Thus the eight days had passed, and Pollnitz came to-day with the joyful

news that his arrest was at an end, and he was now free.

“That means,” said the prince, bitterly, “that I am free to wander

through the stupid streets of Potsdam; appear at his table; that my

clothes may be soiled by his unbearable four-legged friends, and my ears

deafened by the dull, pedantic conversation of his no less unbearable

two-legged friends.”

“Your highness can save yourself from all these small annoyances,” said

Pollnitz; “you have only to marry.”

“Marry, bah! That means to give my poor sister-in-law, Elizabeth

Christine, a companion, that they may sing their sorrows to each other.

No, I have not the bravery of my kingly brother, to make a feeling,

human being unhappy in order to satisfy state politics. No, I possess

not the egotism to purchase my freedom with the life-long misery of

another.”

“But, mon Dieu! my prince,” said Pollnitz, in his cynical way, “you look

at it in too virtuous a manner. All women are not as good and pure as

poor Elizabeth Christine, and know how to compensate themselves in other

quarters for the indifference of their husbands. We are not speaking

here of a common marriage, but of the betrothal of a prince. You do not

marry your heart, but your hand. Truly such a marriage-ceremony is

a protecting talisman, that may be held up to other women as an iron

shield upon which, all their egotistical wishes, all their extravagant

demands must rebound. Moreover, a married man is entirely sans

consequence for all unmarried women, and if they should love such a one,

the happy mortal may be convinced that his love is really a caprice of

the heart, and not a selfish calculation or desire to marry.”

The prince regarded the smiling courtier earnestly, almost angrily. “Do

you know,” he said, “that what you say appears to me very immoral?”

“Immoral?” asked Pollnitz, astonished; “what is that? Your princely

highness knows that I received my education at the French court,

under the protection of the Regent of Orleans and the Princess of the

Palatinate, and there I never heard this word immoral. Perhaps your

highness will have the kindness to explain it to me.”

“That would be preaching to deaf ears,” said the prince, shrugging his

shoulders. “We will not quarrel about the meaning of a word. I only

wish to make you understand that I would not marry at my brother’s bon

plaisir. I will not continue this race of miserable princes, that are

entirely useless, and consequently a burden to the state. Oh! if Heaven

would only give me the opportunity to distinguish myself before this

people, and give to this name that is go small, so unworthy, a splendor,

a color, a signification!”

“Your highness is ambitous,” said Pollnitz, as the prince, now silent,

paced his room with deep emotion.

“Yes, I am ambitious--I thirst for action, renown, and activity. I

despise this monotonous, colorless existence, without end or aim. By

God! how happy I should be, if, instead of a prince, I could be a simple

private man, proprietor of a small landed estate, with a few hundred

subjects, that I should endeavor to make happy! But I am nothing but

a king’s brother, have nothing but my empty title and the star upon my

coat. My income is so small, so pitiful, that it would scarcely suffice

to pay the few servants I have, if, at the same time, they were not paid

by the king as his spies.”

“But all this will cease as soon as you speak the decisive word; as soon

as you declare yourself prepared to marry.”

“And you dare to tell me this?” cried the prince, with flashing

eyes--“you, that know I love a lady who is unfortunately no princess; or

do you believe that a miserable prince has not the heart of a man--that

he does not possess the ardent desire, the painful longing for the woman

he loves?”

“Oh, women do not deserve that we should love them so ardently; they are

all fickle and inconstant, believe me, my prince.”

The prince cast a quick, questioning glance at the smiling countenance

of the courtier.

“Why do you say this to me?” he asked, anxiously.

“Because I am convinced of its truth, your highness; because I believe

no woman has the power to preserve her love when obstacles are placed in

the way, or that she can be faithful for the short space of eight days,

if her lover is absent.”

The prince was startled, and looked terrified at Pollnitz.

“Eight days,” he murmured; “it is eight days--no, it is twelve since I

saw Louise.”

“Ah, twelve days--and your highness has the really heroic belief that

she still loves you?”

The prince sighed, and his brow clouded, but only for a few moments, and

his countenance was again bright and his eyes sparkled.

“Yes, I have this belief; and why should I not have it, as my own heart

had stood the trial? I have not seen her for twelve days, have not heard

of her, and still my love is as great and as ardent as ever. Yes, I

believe that at the thought of her my heart beats more quickly, more

longingly than if I had her in my arms.”

“The reason of this,” said Pollnitz, almost sympathetically, “is that it

is your first love.”

Prince Henry looked at him angrily.

“You are wrong and most unjust to this beautiful woman, who remained

good and pure in the midst of the corrupting and terrible circumstances

in which destiny placed her. She preserved a chaste heart, an unspotted

soul. Her misfortunes only refined her, and therefore I love her,

and believe that God has placed me in her way that, after all her

sufferings, I might make her happy. Oh, precisely because of her

sorrows, the shameful slanders with which she is pursued, and all for

which she is reproached, I love her.”

“Well, my prince,” sighed Pollnitz, with a tragical expression, “I never

saw a bolder hero and a more pious Christian than your highness.”

“What do you mean by that, Pollnitz?”

“That an enormous amount of bravery is necessary, prince, to believe

Madame von Kleist chaste and innocent, and that only a pious Christian

can count himself so entirely among those of whom Christ says, ‘Blessed

are they that have not seen and yet have believed.’ May a good fairy

long preserve you your bravery and your Christianity! But surely your

highness must have important and convincing proofs to believe in the

innocence and faithfulness of this woman. I confess that any other man

would have been discouraged in his godlike belief by facts. It is a fact

that for twelve days Madame von Kleist has sent you no message through

me; it is a fact that she was not at the masked ball; that as often as

I have been to her in these last days, to deliver letters for your

highness, and to obtain hers in return, she has never received me,

always excused herself; and, therefore, I could not receive her letters,

nor deliver those of your highness.”

“And were you not in Berlin early this morning! Did you not go to her as

I ordered you, and tell her she might expect me this evening?”

“I went to her house, but in vain; she was with the queen-mother, and

I was told that she would not return until late in the evening, I

therefore could not deliver the message, your highness.”

The prince stamped his foot impatiently, and walked hastily to and fro;

his brow was clouded, his lips trembled with inward emotion. The sharp

eye of the baron followed with an attentive, pitiless glance every

movement of his face, noted every sigh that came from his anxious heart,

that he might judge whether the seeds of mistrust that he had sown in

the breast of the prince would grow. But Prince Henry was still young,

brave, and hopeful; it was his first love they wished to poison, but

his young, healthy nature withstood the venom, and vanquished its evil

effects. His countenance resumed its quiet, earnest expression, and the

cloud disappeared from his brow.

“Do you know,” he said, standing before Pollnitz, and looking smilingly

into his cunning face--“do you know that you do not descend, as the rest

of mankind, from Adam and Eve, but in a direct line from the celebrated

serpent? And truly you do honor to your ancestor! No paradise is holy

to you, and to do evil gives you pleasure. But you shall not disturb my

paradise; and as much of the old Adam as is still in me, I will not be

foolish enough to eat of the bitter fruit that you offer me. No, you

shall not succeed in making me jealous and distrustful; you shall not

destroy my faith: and see you, those that believe are still in paradise,

notwithstanding your ancestor, the serpent.”

“My prince,” said Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders, “your highness

looks upon me as a kind of Messiah--at least it pleases you to give me

a mother and no father. But oh, my prince! if you are right about my

descent, philosophers are certainly wrong, for they maintain that the

serpent of paradise left gold as a fearful inheritance to mankind. I

shall accuse my great-grandmother the serpent of disinheriting me and

condemning me to live upon the generosity of my friends and patrons.”

He looked at the prince, with a sly, covetous glance, but he had not

understood him; engaged in deep thought, he had stepped to the window,

and was gazing up at the heavens, where the clouds were chasing each

other.

“She will be the entire day with my mother, and I shall not see her,”

he murmured. Then, turning hastily to Pollnitz, he asked, “How is the

queen-mother? Did I not hear that she was suffering?”

“Certainly, your highness, a severe attack of gout confines her to her

chair, and holds her prisoner.”

“Poor mother! it is long since I saw you.”

“It is true, the queen complained of it the last time I spoke with her,”

said Pollnitz, with a perfectly serious face, but with inward rejoicing.

Another pause ensued. The prince appeared to reflect, and to struggle

with his own thoughts and wishes. Pollnitz stood behind him, and noted

every motion, every sigh that he uttered, with his malicious smiles.

“I believe,” said the prince, with still averted face, perhaps to

prevent Pollnitz from seeing his blushes--“I believe it would be proper

for me to inquire to-day personally after my mother’s health; it is not

only my duty to do so, but the desire of my heart.”

“Her majesty will be pleased to see her beloved son again, and this

pleasure will hasten her recovery.”

The prince turned hastily and glanced sharply at Pollnitz, as if he

wished to read his inmost thoughts. But the countenance of the courtier

was earnest and respectful.

“If that is your opinion,” said the prince, with a happy smile, “my

duty as a son demands that I should hasten to the queen, and I will go

immediately to Berlin. But as I am going to my mother, and solely on her

account, I will do it in the proper form. Have, therefore, the

kindness to obtain my leave of the king--bring me my brother’s answer

immediately, I only await it to depart.”

“And I hasten to bring it to your highness,” said Pollnitz, withdrawing.

Prince Henry looked thoughtfully after him.

“I shall see her,” he murmured; “I shall speak with her, and shall learn

why she withdrew herself so long from me. Oh, I know she will be able

to justify herself, and these slanders and evil reports will flee before

her glance as clouds before the rays of the sun.”

In the mean while, Pollnitz hastened to Sans Souci, where he was

immediately received by the king.

“Your majesty,” he said, joyfully, “the young lion has fallen into the

net that we set for him.”

“He goes then to Berlin, to the queen-mother?” asked the king, quickly.

“He begs your majesty’s permission to take this little trip.”

“He really charged you with this commission?”

“Yes, sire: it appears that his obstinacy is beginning to relent, and

that he thinks of submitting.”

The king was silent, and walked thoughtfully to and fro, with clouded

brow, then remained standing before Pollnitz, and looked sharply and

piercingly at him.

“You rejoice,” he said, coldly, “but you only think of your own

advantage. You are indifferent to the sorrow we are preparing for my

brother. You only think that your debts will be paid. Yes, I will pay

them, but I shall never forget that you have betrayed my brother’s

confidence.”

“I only acted according to your majesty’s commands,” said Pollnitz,

confounded. “Certainly, but if you had resisted my commands, I would

have esteemed and prized you the more. Now, I shall pay your debts, but

I shall despise you. No one has reasons for thanking you.”

“Sire, I desire no other thanks. Had I been paid with money for my

services, instead of fine speeches, I would have been as rich as

Croesus.”

“And a beggar in virtue,” said the king, smiling. “But go, I was wrong

to reproach you. I shall now go to Berlin, and when my brother arrives

he shall find me there. Go now, my grand chamberlain, and take the

prince my permission for a three days’ absence.”

CHAPTER IX. THE FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT.

A few hours later the equipage of Prince Henry arrived in the court-yard

of Monbijou, and the prince demanded of his mother, the widowed queen,

permission to pay her his respects.

Sophia Dorothea was suffering greatly. The gout, that slow but fatal

disease, which does not kill at once, but limb by limb, had already

paralyzed the feet of the poor queen, and confined her to her chair.

To-day her sufferings were greater than usual, and she was not able to

leave her bed. Therefore, she could not receive the prince as a queen,

but only as a mother, without ceremony or etiquette. That the meeting

might be entirely without constraint, the maids of honor left the

queen’s room, and as the prince entered, he saw the ladies disappearing

by another door; the last one had just made her farewell bow, and was

kissing respectfully the queen’s hand.

This was Louise von Kleist, for whose sake the prince had come, and for

whom his heart throbbed painfully. He could have cried aloud for joy

as he saw her in her bewildering loveliness, her luxuriant beauty. He

longed to seize her hands and cover them with kisses--to tell her how

much he had suffered, how much he was still suffering for her sake.

But Louise appeared not to have seen him, not to have noticed his

entrance. She had only eyes and ears for the queen, who was just

dismissing her with winning words, telling her to remain in the castle

and return when she desired to see her.

“I shall remain and await your majesty’s commands,” said Louise,

withdrawing hastily.

The queen now greeted the prince as if she had just observed him, and

invited him to be seated on the fauteuil near her couch. The prince

obeyed, but he was absent-minded and restless, and the more the queen

endeavored to engage him in harmless and unconstrained conversation, the

more monosyllabic and preoccupied he became. The poor prince remembered

only that his beloved was so near, that only a door separated them, and

prevented him from gazing on her beauty.

Yes, Louise was really in the next room, in the cabinet of the queen,

sorrowful and exhausted; she had fallen upon the little sofa near the

door, the smile had left her lips, and her brilliant, bewitching eyes

were filled with tears. Louise wept; she wept for her last youthful

dream, her last hope of happiness and virtue, for her sad, shadowed

future and wounded pride; for to-day she had to resign forever the

proud hopes, the brilliant future for which she had striven with so much

energy.

But it was vain to struggle against this hard necessity. The king had

given her his orders and was there to see them carried out. He sat

behind that portiere that led into the grand saloon; he had just left

Louise, and, before going, had said to her, in a stern, commanding tone:

“You will fulfil my commands accurately. You know that Fritz Wendel

still lives, and that I shall be inexorable if you do not act as you

have promised.”

Louise submitted respectfully to the king’s commands; she accepted her

fate, but she wept bitterly, and when she felt that the king’s eyes

were no longer upon her, her tears flowed unceasingly. Perhaps Frederick

still saw her, or suspected her weakness, for the portiere opened

slightly, and his noble, but stern countenance appeared.

“Madame,” he said, “if the prince sees you with tearful eyes, he will

not believe in your happiness.”

Louise smiled painfully. “Ah! sire, he will believe I am weeping for

joy. I have often heard of joyful tears.”

The king did not reply; he felt for her agony, and closed the partiere.

“I will cry no more,” she said; “I have accepted my destiny, and will

fulfil it bravely for the sake of my daughter. It concerns Camilla’s

happiness more than my own. I will deserve the respect of my unfortunate

child.”

In saying this, a smile like a sunbeam illuminated her countenance.

But now she started up, and laid her hand in terror upon her heart.

She heard steps approaching. The door moved, and in a moment the king

appeared and motioned to her.

“Courage, courage!” murmured Louise, and with instinctive fear she flew

away from the door and placed herself in the niche of the last window.

To reach her, the prince must cross the saloon; that would give her a

few moments to recover. The door opened and Prince Henry entered; his

glance flew quickly over the saloon, and found the one he sought.

Louise could have shrieked with agony when she saw the tender smile with

which he greeted her. Never had he appeared so handsome, so noble as at

this moment, when she must resign him forever.

But there was no time to think of this, no time for complaints or

regrets. He was there, he stood before her, offered both his hands, and

greeted her with the tenderest words of love.

Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her heart’s

pleadings.

“Ah, my prince,” she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like

the wail of a lost soul--“ah, my prince, take care! we women are very

credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth.”

“I advise you to do so,” said the prince, happy and unconcerned. “Yes,

Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my jesting words

have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we will dispense

with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a lover--a lover who is

unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that is my weakness; I do

not deny it, I am jealous--jealous of all those who keep you from me,

who prevent my receiving your letters.”

“My letters!” said Louise, astonished; “why should I have written

letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for ladies

to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks since I

received a letter from your highness.”

“Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise: you

were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known that my

thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news and comfort

from you.”

“Non, vraiment, I did not know it,” said Louise, laughingly.

“You did not know it?” asked Henry, wonderingly. “Well, what did you

suppose?”

“I thought,” she said, carelessly--“I thought that Prince Henry had

overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival.”

“And then?”

“Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long sermon

to my foolish eyes--they were misty with tears. Listen, I said to them:

‘You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you should always look

bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. Really,

the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might

have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince

is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of

fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might

have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on

together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have

been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have

saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look

around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly

that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return

with ardor.’ This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when

they grew dim with tears.”

“And was your sermon effective?” said the prince, with pale, trembling

lips. “Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find

another lover?”

“Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves,

and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought.”

“What happiness,” asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed

his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--“what happiness did

your eyes find?”

Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. “The happiness,” she said, and

against her will her voice trembled and faltered--“the happiness that a

true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received joyously into

my heart as a gift from God.”

The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing

expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.

“I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do

you wish to say?”

“They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have

promised to become the wife of the man I love,” said Louise, with forced

gayety.

The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the

one who had wounded him so painfully.

“If this is true,” he said, in a deep, hollow voice--“if this is true,

I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless

coquette.”

“Ah, my prince, you insult me,” cried Louise.

“I insult you!” he said, with a wild laugh; “verily, I believe this

woman has the effrontery to reproach me--I who believed in and defended

her against every accusation--I that had the courage to love and trust,

when all others distrusted and despised her. Yes, madame, I loved you: I

saw in you a goddess, where others saw only a coquette. I adored you as

an innocent sacrifice to envy and malice; I saw a martyr’s crown upon

your brow, and wished to change it for the myrtle-crown of marriage.

And my love and hopes are dust and ashes; it is enough to drive me

mad--enough to stifle me with rage and shame.” Carried away by passion,

the prince ran wildly through the saloon, gasping for air, struggling

for composure, and now and then uttering words of imprecation and

despair.

Louise waited, in silence and resignation, the end of this stormy

crisis. She questioned her heart if this bitter hour was not sufficient

atonement for all her faults and follies; if the agony she now suffered

did not wipe out and extirpate the past.

The prince still paced the room violently. Suddenly, as if a new thought

had seized him, he remained standing in the middle of the saloon, and

looked at Louise with a strangely altered countenance. She had forgotten

for a moment the part she was condemned to play, and leaned, pale and

sad, against the window.

Perhaps he heard her sorrowful sighs--perhaps he saw her tears as they

rolled one by one from her eyes, and fell like pearls upon her small

white hands.

Anger disappeared from his face, his brow cleared, and as he approached

Louise his eyes sparkled with another and milder fire.

“Louise,” he said, softly, and his voice, which had before raged like

a stormy wind, was now mild and tender--“Louise, I have divined your

purpose--I know all now. At first, I did not understand your words; in

my folly and jealousy I misconceived your meaning; you only wished to

try me, to see if my love was armed and strong, if it was as bold and

faithful as I have sworn it to be. Well, I stood the test badly,

was weak and faint-hearted; but forgive me--forgive me, Louise, and

strengthen my heart by confidence and faith in me.”

He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.

“Must I repeat to your highness what I have said before? I do not

understand you. What do you mean?”

“Ah,” said the prince, “you are again my naughty, sportive Louise. Well,

then, I will explain. Did you not say that you now love so truly, that

you have promised to become the wife of the man you love?”

“Yes, I said that, your highness.”

“And I,” said the prince, seizing both her hands and gazing at her

ardently--“I was so short-sighted, so ungrateful, as not to understand

you. The many sorrows and vexations I suffer away from you have dimmed

my eyes and prevented me from seeing what is written with golden letters

upon your smiling lips and beaming eyes. Ah, Louise, I thank you for

your precious words, at last you are captured, at last you have resolved

to become the wife of him who adores you. I thank you, Louise, I thank

you, and I swear that no earthly pomp or power could make me as proud

and happy as this assurance of your love.”

Louise gazed into his beautiful, smiling face with terror.

“Ah, my prince, my words have not the meaning you imagine. I spoke the

simple truth. My heart has made its choice--since yesterday, I am the

betrothed wife of Captain du Trouffle.”

“That is not true,” cried the prince, casting her hands violently from

him. “You are very cruel today; you torture me with your fearful jests.”

“No, your highness, I speak the truth. I am the betrothed of Captain du

Trouffle.”

“Since yesterday you are the betrothed of Captain du Trouffle!” repeated

the prince, staring at her wildly. “And you say you love him, Louise?”

“Yes, your highness, I love him,” said Louise, with a faint smile.

“It is impossible,” cried the prince; “it is not true.”

“And why should I deceive your highness?”

“Why?--ah, I understand all. Oh, Louise, my poor darling, how

short-sighted I have been! Why did I not immediately suspect my

brother?--he has spies to watch all my movements; they have at last

discovered my love for you. Pollnitz, who would do any thing for gold,

has betrayed us to the king, who condemns me to marry according to my

rank, and, to carry out his purpose surely, he now forces you to marry.

Oh, Louise, say that this is so; acknowledge that the power of the king,

and not your own heart, forced you to this engagement. It is impossible,

it cannot be that you have forgotten the vows that we exchanged scarcely

two weeks ago. It cannot be that you look upon the heart that loved

you so deeply, so purely, as an idle plaything, to be thrown away so

lightly! No, no, Louise, I have seen often in your beaming eyes, your

eloquent smiles, I have felt in your soft and tender tones, that you

loved me fondly; and now in your pale, sad face I see that you love

me still, and that it is the king who wishes to separate us. My poor,

lovely child, you have been intimidated; you think that my brother, who

reigns supreme over millions, will yield to no obstacle, that it is vain

to resist him. But you are mistaken, Louise; you have forgotten that

I am Frederick’s brother, that the proud, unconquerable blood of the

Hohenzollerns flows also in my veins. Let my brother try to force me

to his purpose; I shall be no weak tool in his hands. You had not firm

confidence in your lover, Louise; you did not know that I would resign

cheerfully rank and all family ties for your sake; you did not know that

I had sworn to marry only the woman I love. This I must do to satisfy

my heart and my honor, and also to show the king that Prince Henry is

a free man. Now tell me, Louise, if I have not divined all. Is not

this the king’s cruel work? Ah, you do not answer, you are silent. I

understand--the king has made you swear not to betray him. Now look at

me, Louise; make me a sign with your hand, tell me with your eyes, and

I will comprehend you--I will take you in my arms and carry you to

the altar. My God! Louise do you not see that I am waiting for this

sign?--that you are torturing me?”

Louise raised her head, her heart was melting within her; she forgot her

terror, and was ready to resist God, the king, and the whole world, to

grasp the noble and unselfish love that the prince offered her. But her

glance fell involuntarily upon the curtain, behind which the king stood,

and it seemed to her as if she saw the angry, burning eyes of Frederick

threatening to destroy her. She remembered her daughter, Fritz Wendel,

and the world’s mocking laughter, and was overcome.

“You are still silent,” said the prince; “you give me neither sign nor

glance.”

Louise felt as if an iron hand was tearing her heart asunder.

“I really am at a loss what more to say or do,” she said, in a careless

tone, that made her own heart shudder. “It pleases your highness to make

a jest of what I say. I am innocent, my prince, of any double meaning.

Five weeks have passed since I saw you--I believed you had forgotten me;

I did not reproach you, neither was I in despair. I soon found that it

was stupid and dreary to have my heart unoccupied, and I sought for

and soon found a lover, to whom my heart became a willing captive.

Therefore, when Captain Trouffle pleaded earnestly for my hand, I had

not the courage to say no. This is my only crime, your highness. I was

not cruel to myself; I received the happiness that was offered. I have

been called a coquette, my prince; it is time to bind myself in marriage

bonds, and show the world that love can make an honest woman of me. Can

your highness blame me for this?”

The prince listened with breathless attention; gradually his countenance

changed, the color faded from his cheeks, the light from his eyes;

a smile was still on his lips, but it was cold and mocking; his eyes

burned with anger and contempt.

“No, madame,” he said, with calm, proud indifference, “I do not blame

you--I praise, I congratulate you. Captain du Trouffle is a most

fortunate man--he will possess a most beautiful wife. When will this

happy ceremony be performed?”

Madame von Kleist was unable to reply. She gazed with wild terror into

his cold, iron face--she listened with horror to that voice, whose mild,

soft tone had become suddenly so harsh, so stern.

The prince repeated his question, and his tone was harder and more

imperious.

“The day is not fixed,” said Louise; “we must first obtain the king’s

consent to our marriage.”

“I shall take care it does not fail you,” said the prince, quietly.

“I will strengthen your petition to the king. Now, madame, you must

forgive me for leaving you. Many greetings to your betrothed--I shall be

introduced to him to-morrow at the parade. Farewell, madame!”

The prince made a slight bow, and, without glancing at her again, left

the room slowly and proudly.

Louise gazed after him with mournful eyes, but he did not see it; he

did not see how she fell, as if broken, to the floor, as if struck by

lightning; and when the door closed on him she held her hands to Heaven

pleadingly for mercy and forgiveness.

The portiere now opened, and the king entered; his countenance was pale,

his eyes tearful, but they sparkled with anger when he saw Louise upon

the floor. For him she was but a heartless coquette, and he was angry

with her because of the suffering she had caused his brother, for whom

he felt the deepest pity and compassion.

But that was now past; the brother could weep a tear of pity, the king

must be firm and relentless.

As he approached her, she raised herself from the ground and made a

profound and ceremonious bow.

“You have repaired much of the evil you have done, madame,” said the

king, sternly. “You have played a dishonorable game with my brother. You

enticed him to love you.”

“I think I have atoned, sire,” said Louise, faintly; “the prince no

longer loves but despises me. Your commands are fulfilled to the letter,

and I now beg your majesty’s permission to withdraw.”

“Go, madame; you have done your duty to-day, and I will also do mine. I

shall not forget what I promised you when you are Madame du Trouffle. We

will forget all the faults of Madame von Kleist.”

He dismissed her with a slight bow, and gazed after her until she had

disappeared.

At this moment, a heavy fall was heard in the antechamber. The door

opened immediately, and the pale, disturbed face of Pollnitz appeared.

“What is the matter, Pollnitz?” asked the king, hastily.

“Oh, sire, poor Prince Henry has fainted.”

The king was startled, and stepped quickly to the door, but he remained

standing there until his features resumed their calm expression.

“He will recover,” he said--“he will recover, for he is a man; in my

youthful days I often fainted, but I recovered.”

CHAPTER X. THE CONQUERED.

Painful and bitter were the days for Henry that followed his first

disappointment. He passed them in rigid seclusion, in his lonely

chambers; he would see no one, no cheerful word or gay laughter was

allowed in his presence. The servants looked at him sorrowfully;

and when the prince appeared at the parade the day after his painful

interview with Louise, even the king found him so pale and suffering, he

begged him to take a week’s leave and strengthen and improve his health.

The prince smiled painfully at the king’s proposition, but he accepted

his leave of absence, and withdrew to the solitude of his rooms. His

heart was wounded unto death, his soul was agonized. Youth soon laid its

healing balm upon his wounds and closed them; anger and contempt dried

his tears, and soothed the anguish of his heart.

The king was right when he said of his brother, “He is a man, and will

recover.” He did recover, and these days of suffering made a man of him;

his brow, once so clear and youthful, had received its first mark of

sorrow; the lines of his face were harsh and stern, his features sharper

and more decided. He had experienced his first disappointment--it had

nerved and strengthened him.

Before his eight days’ leave of absence had expired, his door was again

open to his circle of friends and confidants.

His first invited guest was the grand chamberlain, Baron Pollnitz. The

prince welcomed him with a bright and cheerful face.

“Do you know why I wished to see you?” he asked. “You must tell me the

chronique scandaleuse of our most honorable and virtuous city. Commence

immediately. What is the on dit of the day?”

“Ah,” sighed Pollnitz, “life is now stupid, dull, and monotonous. As you

say, every one has become most honorable and virtuous. No scandals or

piquant adventures occur; baptisms, marriages, and burials are the only

events. This is really a miserable existence; for as I do not wish to be

baptized or to marry, and as I am not yet ready for burial, I really do

not know why I exist.”

“But those that are married and baptized, doubtless know why they

exist,” said the prince, smiling. “Tell me something of this happy

class. Whose, for example, is the latest marriage?”

“The latest marriage?” said Pollnitz, hesitating--“before answering,

I must allow myself to ask after the condition of your heart. Does it

still suffer?”

“No,” cried the prince, “it does not suffer; it received a heavy shower

of cold water, and was cured instantly.”

“I rejoice to hear it, your highness, and congratulate you on your

recovery, for truly there is no more painful disease than a suffering

heart.”

“I told you that I had recovered fully; tell me, therefore, your news

without hesitation. You spoke of a marriage. Who were the happy lovers?”

“Your highness, Madame von Kleist has married,” murmured Pollnitz.

The prince received this blow without betraying the slightest emotion.

“When did the marriage take place?” he asked, with perfect composure.

“Yesterday; and I assure your highness that I never saw a happier or

more brilliant bride. Love has transformed her into a blushing, timid

maiden.”

Prince Henry pressed his hand upon his heart with a quick, unconscious

movement.

“I can well imagine that she was beautiful,” said he, controlling his

voice with a great effort. “Madame von Kleist is happy, and happiness

always beautifies. And the bridegroom, M. du Trouffle, was he also

handsome and happy?”

“Your highness knows the name of the bride-groom,” said Pollnitz,

appearing astonished.

“Yes, Madame von Kleist told me herself when she announced her

approaching marriage. But I am not acquainted with Du Trouffle--is he

handsome?”

“Handsome and amiable, your highness, and besides, a very good officer.

The king gave him, as a wedding present, a major’s commission.”

“Then the beautiful Louise is now Mrs Major du Trouffle,” said the

prince, with a troubled smile. “Were you present at the wedding?”

“Yes, in the name of the king.”

“Did she speak the decisive Yes, the vow of faith and obedience, with

earnestness and confidence? Did she not blush, or droop her eyelids in

doing so?”

“Oh, no; she smiled as if entranced, and raised her eyes to heaven, as

if praying for God’s blessing upon her vows.”

“One thing more,” said the prince, fixing his large, gray eyes with a

searching expression upon Pollnitz--“what is said of me? Am I regarded

as a rejected lover, or as a faithless one; for doubtless all Berlin

knows of my love for this lady, you having been our confidant.”

“Oh, my prince, that is a hard insinuation,” said Pollnitz, sadly.

“Your highness cannot really believe that--”

“No protestations, I pray you,” interrupted the prince, “I believe I

know you thoroughly, but I am not angry with you nor do I reproach

you: you are a courtier, and one of the best and rarest type; you have

intellect and knowledge, much experience and savoir vivre; I could

desire no better company than yourself; but for one moment cast aside

your character as a courtier, and tell me the truth: what does the world

say of this marriage in regard to me?”

“Your highness desires me to tell you the truth?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Now the important moment has come,” thought Pollnitz. “Now, if I am

adroit, I believe I can obtain the payment of my debts.”

“Well, then, your highness,” said Pollnitz, in answer to the prince, “I

will tell you the truth, even should I incur your displeasure. I fear,

my prince, you are regarded as a rejected lover, and Madame du Trouffle

has succeeded in throwing a holy lustre around her beautiful brow. It is

said that she refused your dishonorable proposals, and preferred being

the virtuous wife of a major, to becoming the mistress of a prince.”

“Go on,” said the prince, hastily, as Pollnitz ceased, and looked

searchingly at him. “What do they say of me?”

“That you are in despair, and that you have retired to your chambers to

weep and mourn over your lost love.”

“Ah, they say that, do they?” cried the prince, with flashing eyes and

darkened brow; “well, I will show this credulous world that they are

mistaken. Is the king in Sans-Souci?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Well, go to him, and announce my visit; I will follow you on foot.”

“We have won the day,” cried Pollnitz, as he approached the king; “the

prince desires to make you a visit. He will be here immediately.”

“Do you know what my brother wishes of me?” asked the king.

“I do not know, but I suspect, sire. I think he wishes to marry, in

order to pique his faithless sweetheart.”

“Go and receive the prince, and conduct him to me; then remain in the

antechamber, and await until I call.”

When Pollnitz left, the king seized his flute hastily aim began to play

a soft, melting adagio. He was still playing, when the door opened, and

the prince was announced. Henry stood in the doorway, and made the king

a ceremonious bow. The king continued to play. The low, pleading notes

of the flute floated softly through the room; they touched the heart of

the prince, and quieted its wild, stormy beating.

Was that the king’s intention, or did he intend to harmonize his own

spirit before speaking to his brother? Perhaps both, for Frederick’s

glance softened, and his face assumed a kind and mild expression.

When the adagio was finished, the king laid his flute aside and

approached the prince.

“Forgive me, brother,” he said, offering his hand--“forgive me for

keeping you waiting, I always like to conclude what I commence. Now, I

am entirely at your service, and as I am unfortunately not accustomed to

receive such friendly visits from you, I must ask you what brings you to

me, and how I can serve you?”

The fierce, violent nature of the prince slumbered but lightly. The

king’s words aroused it, and made his pulse and heart beat stormily.

“How you can serve me, my brother?” he said, hastily. “I will tell you,

and truthfully, sire.”

The king raised his head, and glanced angrily at the burning face of the

prince.

“I am not accustomed to have my words repeated, and all find that out

here to their cost,” he said, sternly.

“Have the goodness, then, to tell me why you have pursued me so long

and unrelentingly? What have I done to deserve your displeasure and such

bitter humiliations?”

“Rather ask me what you have done to deserve my love and confidence,”

said the king, sternly. “I refer you to your own heart for an answer.”

“Ah, your majesty promised to answer my questions, and now you evade

them, but I will reply frankly. I have done nothing to deserve your

love, but also nothing to make me unworthy of it. Why are you, who are

so good and kind to all others, so stern and harsh with me?”

“I will tell you the truth,” said the king, earnestly. “You have

deserved my displeasure, you have desired to be a free man, to cast

aside the yoke that Providence placed upon you, you had the grand

presumption to dare to be the master of your own actions.”

“And does your majesty desire and expect me to resign this most natural

of human rights?” said the prince, angrily.

“Yes, I desire and expect it. I can truthfully say that I have given my

brothers a good example in this particular.”

“But you did not do this willingly. You were cruelly forced to

submission, and you now wish to drive us to an extremity you have,

doubtlessly, long since forgotten. Now, you suffered and struggled

before declaring yourself conquered.”

“No,” said the king, softly, “I have not forgotten. I still feel the

wound in my soul, and at times it burns.”

“And yet, my brother?”

“And yet I will have no pity with you. I say to you, as my father said

to me: ‘You must submit; you are a prince, and I am your king!’ I have

long since acknowledged that my father was right in his conduct to me.

I was not only a disobedient son, but a rebellious subject. I richly

deserved to mount the scaffold with Katte.”

“Ah, my brother, there was a time when you wept for this faithful and

unfortunate friend,” cried the prince, reproachfully.

“The sons of kings have not the right to choose their own path, destiny

has marked it out for them; they must follow it without wavering. I

neither placed the crown upon my head, nor the yoke upon your neck. We

must bear them patiently, as God and Providence have ordained, and wear

them with grace and dignity. You, my brother, have acted like a wild

horse of the desert--I have drawn the reins tight, that is all!”

“You have caught, bound, and tamed me,” said the prince, with a faint

smile; “only I feel that the bit still pains, and that my limbs still

tremble. But I am ready to submit, and I came to tell you so. You desire

me to marry, I consent; but I hold you responsible for the happiness of

this marriage. At God’s throne, I will call you to justify yourself, and

there we will speak as equals, as man to man. What right had you to rob

me of my most holy and beautiful possession? What right have you to lay

a heavy chain on heart and hand, that love will not help me to bear? I

hold you responsible for my miserable life, my shattered hopes. Will you

accept these conditions? Do you still wish me to marry?”

“I accept the conditions,” said the king, solemnly. “I desire you to

marry.”

“I presume your majesty has chosen a bride for me?”

“You are right, mon cher frere. I have selected the Princess Wilhelmina,

daughter of Prince Max, of Hesse-Cassel. She not only brings you a

fortune, but youth, beauty, and amiability.”

“I thank you, sire,” said the prince, coldly and formally. “I would

marry her if she were ugly, old, and unamiable. But is it allowed me to

add one condition?”

“Speak, my brother, I am listening.”

The prince did not answer immediately; he breathed quickly and heavily,

and a glowing red suffused his pale, trembling face.

“Speak, my brother. Name your conditions,” said the king.

“Well, then, so be it. My first condition is that I may be allowed to

have a brilliant wedding. I wish to invite not only the entire court,

but a goodly number of Berliners; I desire all Berlin to take part in

my happiness, and to convince every one, by my gay demeanor and my

entertainment, that I joyfully accept my bride, the princess.”

The king’s eyes rested sorrowfully upon his brother’s countenance. He

fully understood the emotions of his heart, and knew that his brother

wished to wound and humiliate his faithless sweetheart by his marriage;

that Henry only submitted to his wishes because his proud heart

rebelled at the thought of being pitied as a rejected lover. But he was

considerate, and would not let it appear that he understood him.

“I agree to this first proposition,” said the king, after a pause,

“and I hope you will allow me to be present at this beautiful fete,

and convince Berlin that we are in hearty unison. Have you no other

conditions?”

“Yes, one more.”

“What is it?”

“That my marriage shall take place, at the latest, in a month.”

“You will thus fulfil my particular and personal wish,” said the king,

smiling. “I am anxious to have this marriage over, for, after the

gayeties, I wish to leave Berlin. All the arrangements and contracts

are completed, and I think now there is no obstacle in the way of the

marriage. Have you another wish, my brother?”

“No, sire.”

“Then allow me to beg you to grant me a favor. I wish to leave a kind

remembrance of this eventful hour in your heart, and I therefore

give you a small memento of the same. Will you accept my castle of

Rheinsberg, with all its surroundings, as a present from me? Will you

grant me this pleasure, my brother?”

The king offered his hand, with a loving smile, to Henry, and received

with apparent pleasure his ardent thanks.

“I chose Rheinsberg,” he said, kindly, “not because it is my favorite

palace, and I have passed many pleasant and happy days there, but

because none of my other palaces are so appropriate for a prince who is

discontented with his king. I have made that experience myself, and I

give you Rheinsberg, as my father gave it to me. Go to Rheinsberg when

you are angry with me and the world; there you can pass the first months

of your marriage, and God grant it may be a happy one!”

The prince answered him with a cold smile, and begged leave to withdraw,

that he might make the necessary preparations for his wedding. “We

will both make our preparations,” said the king, as he bade the prince

farewell--“you with your major-domo, and I with Baron Pollnitz, whom I

shall send as ambassador to Cassel.”

CHAPTER XI. THE TRAVELLING MUSICIANS.

The feasts, illuminations, and balls given in honor of the newly-married

couple, Henry and his wife, the Princess Wilhelmina, were at an end. The

prince and his followers had withdrawn to Rheinsberg, and many were

the rumors in Berlin of the brilliant feasts with which he welcomed his

beautiful bride. She was truly lovely, and the good Berliners, who

had received her with such hearty greetings when she appeared with

the prince on the balcony, or showed herself to the people in an open

carriage, declared there could be no happier couple than the prince and

his wife; they declared that the large, dark eyes of the princess rested

upon the prince with inexpressible tenderness, and that the prince

always returned her glance with a joyous smile. It was therefore decided

that the prince was a happy husband, and the blessings of the Berliners

followed the charming princess to Rheinsberg, where the young couple

were to pass their honeymoon.

While the prince was giving splendid fetes, and seeking distraction, and

hoping to forget his private griefs, or perhaps wishing to deceive the

world as to his real feelings, the king left Sans-Souci, to commence

one of his customary military inspection trips. But he did not go to

Konigsberg, as was supposed; and if Trenck really had the intention of

murdering him during his sojourn there, it was rendered impossible

by the change in the king’s plans. Frederick made a tour in his Rhine

provinces. At Cleves he dismissed his followers, and they returned to

Berlin.

The king declared he needed rest, and wished to pass a few days in

undisturbed quiet at the castle of Moyland.

No one accompanied him but Colonel Balby, his intimate friend, and his

cabinet-hussar, Deesen. The king was in an uncommonly good humor, and

his eyes sparkled with delight. After a short rest in his chamber, he

desired to see Colonel Balby.

To his great astonishment, the colonel found him searching through a

trunk, which contained a few articles of clothing little calculated to

arrest the attention of a king.

“Balby,” said the king, solemnly, but with a roguish sparkle of the eye,

“I wish to present you this plain brown suit. I owe you a reward for

your hearty friendship and your faithful services. This is a princely

gift. Take it as a mark of my grateful regard. That you may be

convinced, Balby, that I have long been occupied in preparing this

surprise for you, I inform you that these rich articles were made

secretly for you in Berlin, by your tailor; I packed them myself, and

brought them here for you. Accept them, then, my friend, and wear them

in memory of Frederick.”

With a solemn bow, the king offered Balby the clothes.

The colonel received this strange present with an astonished and

somewhat confused countenance.

The king laughed merrily. “What,” he said, pathetically, “are you not

contented with the favor I have shown you?”

Balby knew by the comic manner of the king that the sombre suit hid a

secret, and he thought it wise to allow the king to take his own time

for explanation.

“Sire,” he said, emphatically, “content is not the word to express my

rapture. I am enthusiastic, speechless at this unheard-of favor. I am

filled with profound gratitude to your majesty for having in vented a

new costume for me, whose lovely color will make me appear like a large

coffee-bean, and make all the coffee sisters adore me.”

The king was highly amused. “This dress certainly has the power of

enchantment. When Colonel Balby puts on these clothes he will be

invisible, but he shall not undergo this transformation alone. See,

here is another suit, exactly like yours, and this is mine. When I array

myself in it, I am no longer the king of Prussia, but a free, happy

man.”

“Ah, you are speaking of a disguise,” cried the colonel.

“Yes, we will amuse ourselves by playing the role of common men for

a while, and wander about unnoticed and undisturbed. Are you agreed,

Balby, or do you love your colonel’s uniform better than your freedom?”

“Am I agreed, sire?” cried the colonel; “I am delighted with this genial

thought.”

“Then take your dress, friend, and put it on. But stay. Did you bring

your violin with you, as I told you?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, then, when you are dressed, put your violin in a case, and with

the case under your arm, and a little money in your pocket, go to the

pavilion at the farthest end of the garden; there I will meet you. Now

hasten, friend, we have no time to lose.”

According to the king’s orders, Colonel Balby dressed and went to the

pavilion. He did not find the king, but two strange men there. One of

them had on a brown coat, the color of his own, ornamented with large

buttons of mother-of-pearl; black pantaloons, and shoes with large

buckles, set with dull white stones; the lace on his sleeves and vest

was very coarse. He wore a three-cornered hat, without ornament; from

under the hat fell long, brown, unpowdered hair.

Behind this stranger there stood another, in plain, simple clothes;

under one arm he carried a small bag, and under the other a case that

contained either a yard-stick or a flute. He returned the colonel’s

salutation with a grimace and a profound bow. A short pause ensued, then

the supposed strangers laughed heartily and exclaimed:

“Do you not know us, Balby?”

Their voices started the colonel, and he stepped back.

“Sire, it is yourself.”

“Yes, it is I, Frederick--not the king. Yes, I am Frederick, and this

capital servant is my good Deesen, who has sworn solemnly not to betray

our incognito, and to give no one reason to suspect his high dignity

as royal cabinet-hussar. For love of us he will, for a few days, be the

servant of two simple, untitled musicians, who are travelling around the

world, seeking their fortunes, but who, unfortunately, have no letters

of recommendation.”

“But who will recommend themselves by their talents and

accomplishments.”

The king laughed aloud. “Balby, you forget that you are a poor musician,

chatting with your comrade. Truly your courtly bow suits your dress as

little as a lace veil would a beggar’s attire; you must lay your fine

manners aside for a short time, for, with them, you would appear to

the village beauties we may meet like a monkey, and they would laugh at

instead of kissing you.”

“So we are to meet country beauties,” said Colonel Balby, no longer able

to suppress his curiosity. “Tell me, sire, where are we going, and what

are we going to do? I shall die of curiosity.”

“Make an effort to die,” said the king, gayly; “you will find it is not

so easy to do as you imagine. But I will torture you no longer. You ask

what we are going to do. Well, we are going to amuse ourselves and seek

adventures. You ask where we are going. Ask that question of the sparrow

that sits on the house-top--ask where it is going, and what is the aim

of its journey. It will reply, the next bush, the nearest tree, the

topmost bough of a weeping willow, which stands on a lonely grave; the

mast of a ship, sailing on the wide sea; or the branch of a noble beech,

waving before the window of a beautiful maiden. I am as incapable of

telling you the exact aim and end of our journey, friend, as that little

bird would be. We are as free as the birds of the air. Come! come! let

us fly, for see, the little sparrow has flown--let us follow it.”

And with a beaming smile illuminating his countenance, like a ray of the

morning sun, the king took the arm of his friend, and followed by his

servant and cabinet-hussar, Deesen, left the pavilion.

As they stood at the little gate of the garden, the king said to Deesen,

“You must be for us the angel with the flaming sword, and open the gates

of paradise, but not to cast us out.”

Deesen opened the gate, and our adventurers entered “the wide, wide

world.”

“Let us stand here a few moments,” said the king, as his glance rested

upon the green fields spread far and wide around him. “How great and

beautiful the world appears to-day! Observe Nature’s grand silence, yet

the air is full of a thousand voices, and the white clouds wandering

dreamily in the blue heavens above, are they not the misty veils with

which the gods of Olympus conceal their charms?”

“Ah! sire,” said Balby, with a loving glance at the king’s hand some

face--“ah, sire, my eyes have no time to gaze at Nature’s charms, they

are occupied with yourself. When I look upon you, I feel that man is

indeed made in the image of God.”

“Were I a god, I should not be content to resemble this worn, faded

face. Come, now, let us be off! Give me your instrument, Deesen, I will

carry it. Now I look like a travelling apprentice seeking his fortune.

The world is all before him where to choose his place of rest, and

Providence his guide. I envy him. He is a free man!”

“Truly, these poor apprentices would not believe that a king was envying

them their fate,” said Balby, laughing.

“Still they are to be envied,” said the king, “for they are free. No,

no, at present I envy no one, the world and its sunshine belong to me.

We will go to Amsterdam, and enjoy the galleries and museums.”

“I thank your majesty,” said Balby, laughing, “you have saved my life.

I should have died of curiosity if you had not spoken. Now, I feel

powerful and strong, and can keep pace with your majesty’s wandering

steps.”

Silently they walked on until they reached a sign-post.

“We are now on the border--let us bid farewell to the Prussian colors,

we see them for the last time. Sire, we will greet them with reverence.”

He took off his hat and bowed lowly before the black and white colors of

Prussia, a greeting that Deesen imitated with the fervor of a patriot.

The king did not unite in their enthusiasm; he was writing with his

stick upon the ground.

“Come here, Balby, and read this,” he said, pointing to the lines he had

traced. “Can you read them?”

“Certainly,” said Balby, “the words are, ‘majesty’ and ‘sire.’”

“So they are, friend. I leave these two words on the borders of Prussia;

perhaps on our return we may find and resume them. But as long as we are

on the soil of Holland there must be no majesty, no sire.”

“What, then, must I call my king?”

“You must call him friend, voila tout.”

“And I?” asked Deesen, respectfully. “Will your majesty be so gracious

as to tell me your name?”

“I am Mr. Zoller, travelling musician, and should any one ask you what

I want in Amsterdam, tell them I intend giving a concert. En avant, mes

amis. There lies the first small village of Holland, in an hour we

shall be there, and then we will take the stage and go a little into the

interior. En avant, en avant!”

CHAPTER XII. TRAVELLING ADVENTURES.

The stage stood before the tavern at Grave, and awaited its passengers.

The departure of the stage was an important occurrence to the

inhabitants of the little town--an occurrence that disturbed the

monotony of their lives for a few moments, and showed them at least now

and then a new face, that gave them something to think of, and made them

dream of the far-off city where the envied travellers were going.

Today all Grave was in commotion and excitement. The strangers had

arrived at the post-house, and after partaking of an excellent dinner,

engaged three seats in the stage. The good people of Grave hoped to

see three strange faces looking out of the stage window; many were the

surmises of their destiny and their possible motives for travelling.

They commenced these investigations while the strangers were still with

them.

A man had seen them enter the city, dusty and exhausted, and he declared

that the glance which the two men in brown coats had cast at his young

wife, who had come to the window at his call, was very bold--yes,

even suspicious, and it seemed very remarkable to him that such plain,

ordinary looking wanderers should have a servant, for, doubtless, the

man walking behind them, carrying the very small carpet-bag, was their

servant; but, truly, he appeared to be a proud person, and had the

haughty bearing of a general or a field-marshal, he would not even

return the friendly greetings of the people he passed. His masters could

not be distinguished or rich, for both of them carried a case under

their arms. What could be in those long cases, what secret was hidden

there? Perhaps they held pistols, and the good people of Grave would

have to deal with robbers or murderers. The appearance of the strangers

was wild and bold enough to allow of the worst suspicions.

The whole town, as before mentioned, was in commotion, and all were

anxious to see the three strangers, about whom there was certainly

something mysterious. They had the manners and bearing of noblemen, but

were dressed like common men.

A crowd of idlers had assembled before the post-house, whispering and

staring at the windows of the guests’ rooms. At last their curiosity

was about to be gratified, at last the servant appeared with the little

carpet-bag, and placed it in the stage, and returned for the two cases,

whose contents they would so greedily have known. The postilion blew his

horn, the moment of departure had arrived.

A murmur was heard through the crowd, the strangers appeared, they

approached the stage, and with such haughty and commanding glances that

the men nearest them stepped timidly back.

The postilion sounded his horn again, the strangers were entering the

stage. At the door stood the postmaster, and behind him his wife, the

commanding postmistress.

“Niclas,” she whispered, “I must and will know who these strangers are.

Go and demand their passports.”

The obedient Niclas stepped out and cried in a thundering voice to the

postilion, who was just about to start, to wait. Stepping to the stage,

he opened the door.

“Your passports, gentlemen,” he said, roughly. “You forgot to show me

your passports.”

The curious observers breathed more freely, and nodded encouragingly to

the daring postmaster.

“You rejoice,” murmured his wife, who was still standing in the door,

from whence she saw all that passed, and seemed to divine the thoughts

of her gaping friends--“you rejoice, but you shall know nothing. I shall

not satisfy your curiosity.”

Mr. Niclas still stood at the door of the stage. His demand had not been

attended to; he repeated it for the third time.

“Is it customary here to demand passports of travellers?” asked a

commanding voice from the stage.

Niclas, and taking the two mysterious cases from the stage, he placed

them before the strangers.

“Let us go into the house,” whispered the king to his friends. “We

must make bonne mine a mauvais jeu,” and he approached the door of the

house--there stood the wife of the postmaster, with sparkling eyes and a

malicious grin.

“The postilion is going, and you will lose your money,” she said, “they

never return money when once they have it.”

“Ah! I thought that was only a habit of the church,” said the king,

laughing. “Nevertheless, the postmaster can keep what he has. Will you

have the kindness to show me a room, where I can open my bag at leisure,

and send some coffee and good wine to us?”

There was something so commanding in the king’s voice, so imposing in

his whole appearance, that even the all-conquering Madame Niclas felt

awed, and she silently stepped forward and showed him her best room. The

servant followed with the two cases and the bag, and laid them upon the

table, then placed himself at the door.

“Now, madame, leave us,” ordered the king, “and do as I told you.”

Madame Niclas left, and the gentlemen were once more alone.

“Now, what shall we do?” said the king, smilingly. “I believe there is

danger of our wonderful trip falling through.”

“It is only necessary for your majesty to make yourself known to the

postmaster,” said Colonel Balby.

“And if he will not believe me, this fripon who declares that no

one could tell by my appearance whether I was a rascal or not, this

dull-eyed simpleton, who will not see the royal mark upon my brow, which

my courtiers see so plainly written there? No, no, my friend, that is

not the way. We have undertaken to travel as ordinary men--we must now

see how common men get through the world. It is necessary to show the

police that we are at least honest men. Happily, I believe I have the

means to do so at hand. Open our ominous bag, friend Balby, I think you

will discover my portfolio, and in it a few blank passes, and my state

seal.”

Colonel Balby did as the king ordered, and drew from the bag the

portfolio, with its precious contents.

The king bade Balby sit down and fill up the blanks at his dictation.

The pass was drawn up for the two brothers, Frederick and Henry Zoller,

accompanied by their servant, with the intention of travelling through

Holland.

The king placed his signature under this important document.

“Now, it is only necessary to put the state seal under it, and we shall

be free; but how will we get a light?”

“I cannot tell who is a rascal, you may be one for aught I know.”

Balby uttered an angry exclamation and stepped nearer to the daring

postmaster, while his servant shook his fist threateningly at Niclas.

The king dispelled their anger with a single glance.

“Sir,” he said to Niclas, “God made my face, and it is not my fault if

it does not please you, but concerning our passports, they are lying

well preserved in my carpet-bag. I should think that would suffice you.”

“No, that does not suffice me,” screamed Niclas. “Show me your passports

if I am to believe that you are not vagabonds.”

“You dare to call us vagabonds?” cried the king, whose patience now also

appeared exhausted, and whose clear brow was slightly clouded.

“The police consider everyone criminal until he has proved he is not

so,” said Niclas, emphatically.

The king’s anger was already subdued.

“In the eyes of the police, criminality is then the normal condition of

mankind,” he said, smilingly.

“Sir, you have no right to question the police so pointedly,” said

Niclas, sternly. “You are here to be questioned, and not to question.”

The king laughingly arrested the uplifted arm of his companion.

“Mon Dieu,” he murmured, “do you not see that this is amusing me highly?

Ask, sir, I am ready to answer.”

“Have you a pass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then give it to me to vise.”

“To do so, I should have to open my bag, and that would be very

inconvenient, but, if the law absolutely demands it, I will do it.”

“The law demands it.”

The king motioned to his servant, and ordered him to carry the bag into

the house.

“Why this delay--why this unnecessary loss of time?” asked Niclas.

“The postilion can wait no longer. If he arrives too late at the next

station, he will be fined.”

“I will not wait another minute,” cried the postilion, determinately.

“get in, or I shall start without you.”

“Show me your passports, and then get in,” cried Niclas.

The strangers appeared confused and undecided. Niclas looked

triumphantly at his immense crowd of listeners, who were gazing at him

with amazement, awaiting in breathless stillness the unravelling of this

scene.

“Get in, or I shall start,” repeated the postilion.

“Give me your passports, or I will not let you go!” screamed “We can

demand them if we wish to do so.”

“And why do you wish it now?” said the same voice.

“I wish it simply because I wish it,” was the reply.

A stern face now appeared at the door, looking angrily at the

postmaster.

“Think what you say, sir, and be respectful.”

“Silence!” interrupted the one who had first spoken. “Do not let us

make an unnecessary disturbance, mon ami. Why do you wish to see our

passports, sir?”

“Why?” asked Niclas, who was proud to play so distinguished a part

before his comrades--“you wish to know why I desire to see your

passports? Well, then, because you appear to me to be suspicious

characters.”

A gay laugh was heard from the stage. “Why do you suspect us?”

“Because I never trust people travelling without baggage,” was the

laconic reply.

“Bravo! well answered,” cried the crowd, and even Madame Niclas was

surprised to see her husband show such daring courage.

“We need no baggage. We are travelling musicians, going to Amsterdam.”

“Travelling musicians All the more reason for mistrusting you; no good

was ever heard of wandering musicians.”

“You are becoming impertinent, sir,” and Balby, the tallest and youngest

of the two friends, sprang from the stage, while the servant swung

himself from the box, where he was sitting with the postilion, and with

an enraged countenance placed himself beside his master.

“If you dare to speak another insulting word, you are lost,” cried

Balby.

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice murmured in his ear:

“Do not compromise us.”

The king now also left the stage, and tried to subdue the anger of his

companion.

“Pardon, sir, the violence of my friend,” said the king, with an

ironical smile, as he bowed to the postmaster. “We are not accustomed

to being questioned and suspected in this manner, and I can assure you

that, although we are travelling musicians, as it pleased you to say, we

are honest people, and have played before kings and queens.”

“If you are honest, show me your passports; no honest man travels

without one!”

“It appears to me that no rascal should travel without one,” said the

king. “I will obtain one immediately,” said Balby, hastening to the

door.

The king held him back. “My brother, you are very innocent and

thoughtless. You forget entirely that we are suspected criminals. Should

we demand a light, and immediately appear with our passes, do you not

believe that this dragon of a postmaster would immediately think that we

had written them ourselves, and put a forged seal under them?”

“How, then, are we to get a light?” said Balby, confused.

The king thought a moment, then laughed gayly.

“I have found a way,” he said; “go down into the dining-room, where I

noticed an eternal lamp burning, not to do honor to the Mother of God,

but to smokers; light your cigar and bring it here. I will light the

sealing-wax by it, and we will have the advantage of drowning the smell

of the wax with the smoke.”

Balby flew away, and soon returned with the burning cigar; the king lit

the sealing-wax, and put the seal under the passport.

“This will proclaim us free from all crime. Now, brother Henry, call the

worthy postmaster.”

When Niclas received the passport from the king’s hand his countenance

cleared, and he made the two gentlemen a graceful bow, and begged them

to excuse the severity that his duty made necessary.

“We have now entirely convinced you that we are honest people,” said the

king, smiling, “and you will forgive us that we have so little baggage.”

“Well, I understand,” said Mr. Niclas, confusedly, “musicians are seldom

rich, but live from hand to mouth, and must thank God if their clothes

are good and clean. Yours are entirely new, and you need no baggage.”

The king laughed merrily. “Can we now go?” he asked.

“Yes; but how, sir? You doubtlessly heard that the postilion left as

soon as you entered the house.”

“Consequently we are without a conveyance; we have paid for our places

for nothing, and must remain in this miserable place,” said the king,

impatiently.

Niclas reddened with anger. “Sir, what right have you to call the town

of Grave a miserable place? Believe me, it would be very difficult for

you to become a citizen of this miserable place, for you must prove

that you have means enough to live in a decent manner, and it appears to

me--”

“That we do not possess them,” said the king; “vraiment, you are right,

our means are very insufficient, and as the inhabitants of Grave will

not grant us the rights of citizens, it is better for us to leave

immediately. Have, therefore, the goodness to furnish us with the means

of doing so.”

“There are two ways, an expensive and a cheap one,” said Niclas,

proudly: “extra post, or the drag-boat. The first is for respectable

people, the second for those who have nothing, and are nothing.”

“Then the last is for us,” said the king, laughing. “Is it not so,

brother Henry?--it is best for us to go in the drag-boat.”

“That would be best, brother Frederick.”

“Have the kindness to call our servant to take the bag, and you, Mr.

Niclas, please give us a guide to show us to the canal.”

The king took his box and approached the door.

“And my coffee, and the wine,” asked Mrs. Niclas, just entering with the

drinks.

“We have no time to make use of them, madame,” said the king, as he

passed her, to leave the room.

But Madame Niclas held him back.

“No time to make use of them,” she cried; “but I had to take time to

make the coffee, and bring the wine from the cellar.”

“Mais, mon Dieu, madame,” said the impatient king.

“Mais, mon Dieu, monsieur, vous croyez que je travaillerai pour le roi

de Prusse, c’est-a-dire sans paiement.”

The king broke out into a hearty laugh, and Balby had to join him, but

much against his will.

“Brother Henry,” said the king, laughing, “that is a curious way of

speaking; ‘travailler pour le roi de Prusse,’ means here to work for

nothing. I beg you to convince this good woman that she has not worked

for the King of Prussia, and pay her well. Madame, I have the honor to

bid you farewell, and be assured it will always cheer me to think of

you, and to recall your charming speech.”

The king laughingly took his friend’s arm, and nodded kindly to Madame

Niclas as he went down the steps.

“I tell you what,” said Madame Niclas, as she stood at the door with

her husband, watching the departing strangers, who, in company with the

guide and their servant, were walking down the street that led to the

canal--“I tell you I do not trust those strangers, the little one in

particular; he had a very suspicious look.”

“But his passport was all right.”

“But, nevertheless, all is not right with them. These strangers are

disguised princes or robbers, I am fully convinced.”

CHAPTER XIII. THE DRAG-BOAT.

What a crowd, what noise, what laughing and chatting! How bright and

happy these people are who have nothing and are nothing! How gayly they

laugh and talk together--with what stoical equanimity they regard the

slow motion of the boat! They accept it as an unalterable necessity.

How kindly they assist each other; with what natural politeness the men

leave the best seats for the women!

The boat is very much crowded. There are a great number of those amiable

people who are nothing, and have nothing, moving from place to place

cheerily.

The men on the shore who, with the aid of ropes, are pulling the boat,

those two-legged horses, groan from exertion. The bagpipe player is

making his gayest music, but in vain--he cannot allure the young people

to dance; there is no place for dancing, the large deck of the boat

is covered with human beings. Old men, and even women, are obliged to

stand; the two long benches running down both sides of the boat are

filled.

The king enjoyed the scene immensely. The free life about him, the

entire indifference to his own person, charmed and delighted him. He

leaned against the cabin, by which he was sitting, and regarded the

crowd before him. Suddenly he was touched on the shoulder, and not

in the gentlest manner. Looking up, he met the discontented face of a

peasant, who was speaking violently, but in Dutch, and the king did

not understand him; he therefore slightly shrugged his shoulders and

remained quiet.

The angry peasant continued to gesticulate, and pointed excitedly at

the ting and then at a pale young woman who was standing before him, and

held two children in her arms.

The king still shrugged his shoulders silently, but when the peasant

grasped him for the second time he waved him off, and his eye was

so stern that the terrified and astonished peasant stepped back

involuntarily.

At this moment a displeased murmur was heard among the crowd, and a

number arranged themselves by the side of the peasant, who approached

the king with a determined countenance.

The king remained sitting, and looked surprised at the threatening

countenances of the people, whose angry words he tried in vain to

comprehend.

The still increasing crowd was suddenly separated by two strong arms,

and Balby, who had been sitting at the other end of the boat, now

approached the king, accompanied by a friend, and placed himself at the

king’s side.

“Tell me what these men want, mon ami,” said Frederick, hastily; “I do

not understand Dutch.”

“I understand it, sir,” said the friend who accompanied Balby, “these

people are reproaching you.”

“Reproaching me! And why?”

The stranger turned to the peasant who had first spoken, and who now

began to make himself heard again in loud and angry tones.

“Monsieur,” said the stranger, “these good people are angry with you,

and, it appears to me, not entirely without cause. There is a language

that is understood without words, its vocabulary is in the heart. Here

stands a poor, sick woman, with her twins in her arms. You, monsieur,

are the only man seated. These good people think it would be but proper

for you to resign your seat.”

“This is unheard-of insolence,” exclaimed Balby, placing him self

determinedly before the king; “let any one dare advance a step farther,

and I--”

“Quiet, cher frere, the people are right, and I am ashamed of myself

that I did not understand them at once.”

He rose and passed through the crowd with a calm, kindly face, and, not

appearing to notice them, approached the young woman, who was kneeling,

exhausted, on the floor. With a kind, sympathetic smile, he raised her

and led her to his seat. There was something so noble and winning in

his manner, that those who were so shortly before indignant, were

unconsciously touched. A murmur of approval was heard; the rough faces

beamed with friendly smiles.

The king did not observe this, he was still occupied with the poor

woman, and, while appearing to play with the children, gave each of them

a gold piece. But their little hands were not accustomed to carry such

treasures, and could not hold them securely. The two gold pieces

rolled to the ground, and the ringing noise announced the rich gift of

Frederick. Loud cries of delight were heard, and the men waved their

hats in the air. The king reddened, and looked down in confusion.

The peasant, who had first been so violent toward the king, and at whose

feet the money had fallen, picked it up and gave it to the children;

then, with a loud laugh, he offered his big, rough hand to the king, and

said something in a kindly tone.

“The good man is thanking you, sir,” said the stranger “He thinks you

a clever, good-hearted fellow, and begs you to excuse his uncalled-for

violence.”

The king answered with a silent bow. He who was accustomed to receive

the world’s approval as his just tribute, was confused and ashamed at

the applause of these poor people.

The king was right in saying he left his royalty on Prussian soil;

he really was embarrassed at this publicity, and was glad when Deesen

announced that lunch was prepared for him. He gave Balby a nod to

follow, and withdrew into the cabin.

“Truly, if every-day life had so many adventures, I do not understand

how any one can complain of ennui. Through what varied scenes I have

passed to-day!”

“But our adventures arise from the peculiarity of our situation,” said

Balby. “All these little contretemps are annoying and disagreeable; but

seem only amusing to a king in disguise.”

“But a disguised king learns many things,” said Frederick, smiling;

“from to-day, I shall be no longer surprised to hear the police called a

hateful institution. Vraiment, its authority and power is vexatious, but

necessary. Never speak again of my god-like countenance, or the seal

of greatness which the Creator has put upon the brow of princes to

distinguish them from the rest of mankind. Mons. Niclas saw nothing

great stamped upon my brow; to him I had the face of a criminal--my

passport only made an honest man of me. Come, friends, let us refresh

ourselves.”

While eating, the king chatted pleasantly with Balby of the charming

adventures of the day.

“Truly,” he said, laughing, as the details of the scene on deck were

discussed, “without the interference of that learned Dutchman, the

King of Prussia would have been in dangerous and close contact with the

respectable peasant. Ah, I did not even thank my protecting angel.

Did you speak to him, brother Henry? Where is he from, and what is his

name?”

“I do not know, sir; but from his speech and manner he appeared to me to

be an amiable and cultivated gentleman.”

“Go and invite him to take a piece of pie with us. Tell him Mr. Zoller

wishes to thank him for his assistance, and begs the honor of his

acquaintance. You see, my friend, I am learning how to be polite, to

flatter, and conciliate, as becomes a poor travelling musician. I beg

you, choose your words well. Be civil, or he might refuse to come, and I

thirst for company.”

Balby returned in a few moments, with the stranger.

“Here, my friend,” said Balby. “I bring you our deliverer in time of

need. He will gladly take his share of the pie.”

“And he richly deserves it,” said the king, as he greeted the stranger

politely. “Truly, monsieur, I am very much indebted to you, and this

piece of pie that I have the honor to offer you is but a poor reward

for your services. I believe I never saw larger fists than that

terrible peasant’s; a closer acquaintance with them would have been very

disagreeable. I thank you for preventing it.”

“Travellers make a variety of acquaintances,” said the stranger,

laughing, and seating himself on the bench by the king’s side, with a

familiarity that terrified Balby. “I count you, sir, among the agreeable

ones, and I thank you for this privilege.”

“I hope you will make the acquaintance of this pie, and find it

agreeable,” said the king. “Eat, monsieur, and let us chat in the mean

while--Henry, why are you standing there so grave and respectful, not

daring to be seated? I do not believe this gentleman to be a prince

travelling incognito.”

“No, sir, take your place,” exclaimed the stranger, laughing, “you will

not offend etiquette. I give you my word that I am no concealed prince,

and no worshipper of princes. I am proud to declare this.”

“Ah! you are proud not to be a prince?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“It appears to me,” said Balby, looking at the king, “that a prince has

a great and enviable position.”

“But a position, unfortunately, that but few princes know how to fill

worthily,” said the king, smiling. “Every man who is sufficient for

himself is to be envied.”

“You speak my thoughts exactly, sir,” said the stranger, who had

commenced eating his piece of pie with great zeal. “Only the free are

happy.”

“Are you happy?” asked the king.

“Yes, sir; at least for the moment I am.”

“What countryman are you?”

“I am a Swiss, sir.”

“A worthy and respectable people. From what part of Switzerland do you

come?”

“From the little town of Merges.”

“Not far, then, from Lausanne, and the lonely lake of Geneva, not far

from Ferney, where the great Voltaire resides, and from whence he darts

his scorching, lightning-flashes to-day upon those whom he blessed

yesterday. Are you satisfied with your government? Are not your

patrician families a little too proud? Are not even the citizens of

Berne arrogant and imperious?”

“We have to complain of them, sir, but very rarely.”

“Are you now residing in Holland?”

“No, I am travelling,” answered the stranger, shortly. He had held for

a long time a piece of pie on his fork, trying in vain to put it in his

mouth.

The king had not observed this; he had forgotten that kings and princes

only have the right to carry on a conversation wholly with questions,

and that it did not become Mr. Zoller to be so inquisitive.

“What brought you here?” he asked, hastily.

“To complete my studies, sir,” and, with a clouded brow, the stranger

laid his fork and pie upon his plate.

But the king’s questions flowed on in a continued stream.

“Do you propose to remain here?”

“I believe not, or rather I do not yet know,” answered the stranger,

with a sarcastic smile, that brought Balby to desperation.

“Are not the various forms of government of Switzerland somewhat

confusing in a political point of view?”

“No, for all know that the cantons are free, as they should be.”

“Does that not lead to skepticism and indifference?”

The stranger’s patience was exhausted; without answering the king, he

pushed back his plate and arose from the table.

“Sir, allow me to say that, in consideration of a piece of pie, which

you will not even give me time to eat, you ask too many questions.”

“You are right, and I beg your pardon,” said the king, as he smilingly

nodded at Balby to remain quiet. “We travel to improve ourselves, but

you have just cause of complaint. I will give you time to eat your piece

of pie. Eat, therefore, monsieur, and when you have finished, if it is

agreeable, we will chat awhile longer.”

When the stranger arose to depart, after an animated and interesting

conversation, the king offered him his hand.

“Give me your address,” he said, “that is, I beg of you to do so.

You say you have not yet chosen a profession; perhaps I may have the

opportunity of being useful to you.”

The Swiss gave him his card, with many thanks, and returned to the deck.

The king gazed thoughtfully after him.

“That man pleases me, and when I am no longer a poor musician, I shall

call him to my side.--Well, brother Henry, what do you think of this

man, who, as I see, is named Mr. Le Catt?”

“I find him rather curt,” said Balby, “and he appears to be a great

republican.”

“You mean because he hates princes, and was somewhat rude to me.

Concerning the first, you must excuse it in a republican, and I confess

that were I in his place I would probably do the same as to the last, he

was right to give Mr. Zoller a lesson in manners. Poor Zoller is not yet

acquainted with the customs of the common world, and makes all manner of

mistakes against bon ton. I believe to-day is not the first time he has

been reproved for want of manners.”

“Mr. Zoller is every inch a king,” said Balby, laughing.

[NOTE.--The king’s conversation with Mr. Le Catt is historical (see

Thiebault, vol. 1., p. 218). The king did not forget his travelling

adventure, but on his return to Prussia, called Le Catt to court and

gave him the position of lecturer, and for twenty years he enjoyed the

favor and confidence of the king.]

CHAPTER XIV. IN AMSTERDAM.

Wearied, indeed utterly exhausted, the king and Balby returned to the

hotel of the Black Raven, at that time the most celebrated in

Amsterdam. They had been wandering about the entire day, examining with

never-ceasing interest and delight the treasures of art which the rich

patricians of Amsterdam had collected in their princely homes and the

public museums. No one supposed that this small man in the brown coat,

with dusty shoes and coarse, unadorned hat, could be a king--a king

whose fame resounded throughout the whole of Europe. Frederick had

enjoyed the great happiness of pursuing his journey and his studies

unnoticed and unknown. He had many amusing and romantic adventures; and

the joy of being an independent man, of which he had heretofore only

dreamed, he was now realizing fully.

The king was compelled now to confess that his freedom and manhood were

completely overcome. Hunger had conquered him--hunger! the earthly enemy

of all great ideas and exalted feelings. The king was hungry! He was

obliged to yield to that physical power which even the rulers of this

world must obey, and Balby and himself had returned to the hotel to eat

and refresh themselves.

“Now, friend, see that you order something to rejoice and strengthen

our humanity,” said Frederick, stretching himself comfortably upon the

divan. “It is a real pleasure to rue to be hungry and partake of a good

meal--a pleasure which the King of Prussia will often envy the Messieurs

Zoller. To be hungry and to eat is one of life’s rare enjoyments

generally denied to kings, and yet,” whispered he, thoughtfully, “our

whole life is nothing but a never-ceasing hungering and thirsting

after happiness, content, and rest. The world alas! gives no repose, no

satisfying portion. Brother Henry, let us eat and be joyful; let us even

meditate on a good meal as an ardent maiden consecrates her thoughts to

a love-poem which she will write in her album in honor of her beloved.

Truly there are fools who in the sublimity of their folly wish to appear

indifferent to such earthly pleasures, declaring that they are necessary

evils, most uncomfortable bodily craving, and nothing more. They are

fools who do not understand that eating and drinking is an art, a

science, the soul of the soul, the compass of thought and feeling. Dear

Balby, order us a costly meal. I wish to be gay and free, light-minded

and merry-hearted to-day. In order to promote this we must, before all

other things, take care of these earthly bodies and not oppress them

with common food.”

“We will give them, I hope, the sublimest nourishment which the soil

of Holland produces,” said Balby, laughing. “You are not aware,

M. Frederick Zoller, that we are now in a hotel whose hostess is

worshipped, almost glorified, by the good Hollanders.”

“And is it this sublime piece of flesh which you propose to place before

me?” said the king, with assumed horror. “Will you satisfy the soul of

my soul with this Holland beauty? I do not share the enthusiasm of the

Hollanders. I shall not worship this woman. I shall find her coarse,

old, and ugly.”

“But listen, Zoller. These good Dutchmen worship her not be cause of

her perishable beauty, but because of a famous pie which she alone in

Amsterdam knows how to make.”

“Ah, that is better. I begin now to appreciate the Dutchmen, and if

the pie is good, I will worship at the same shrine. Did you not remark,

brother Henry, that while you stood carried away by your enthusiasm

before Rembrandt’s picture of the ‘Night Watch’--a picture which it

grieves me to say I cannot obtain,” sighed the king--“these proud

Hollanders call it one of their national treasures, and will not sell

it--well, did you not see that I was conversing zealously with three or

four of those thick, rubicund, comfortable looking mynheers? No doubt

you thought we were rapturously discussing the glorious paintings before

which we stood, and for this the good Hollanders were rolling their eyes

in ecstasy. No, sir; no, sir. We spoke of a pie! They recognized me as

a stranger, asked me from whence I came, where we lodged, etc., etc. And

when I mentioned the Black Raven, they went off into ecstatic raptures

over the venison pasty of Madame von Blaken. They then went on to relate

that Madame Blaken was renowned throughout all Holland because of this

venison pasty of which she alone had the recipe, and which she prepared

always alone and with closed doors. Her portrait is to be seen in all

the shop windows, and all the stadtholders dine once a month in the

Black Raven to enjoy this pie. Neither through prayers nor entreaties,

commands, or threatenings, has Madame Blaken been induced to give up her

recipe or even to go to the castle and prepare the pasty. She declares

that this is the richest possession of the Black Raven, and all who

would be so happy as to enjoy it must partake of it at her table. Balby!

Balby! hasten my good fellow, and command the venison pastry,” said

Frederick, eagerly. “Ah! what bliss to lodge in the Black Raven’ Waiter,

I say! fly to this exalted woman!”

Balby rushed out to seek the hostess and have himself announced.

Madame Blaken received him in her boudoir, to which she had withdrawn

to rest a little after the labors of the day. These labors were ever

a victory and added to her fame. There was no better table prepared in

Holland than that of the Black Raven. She was in full toilet, having

just left the dinner table where she had presided at the table d’hote as

lady of the house, and received with dignity the praise of her guests.

These encomiums still resounded in her ears, and she reclined upon the

divan and listened to their pleasing echo. The door opened and the head

waiter announced Mr. Zoller. The countenance of Madame Blaken was dark,

and she was upon the point of declining to receive him, but it was too

late; the daring Zoller had had the boldness to enter just behind the

waiter, and he was now making his most reverential bow to the lady.

Madame Blaken returned this greeting with a slight nod of the head, and

she regarded the stranger in his cheap and simple toilet with a rather

contemptuous smile. She thought to herself that this ordinary man had

surely made a mistake in entering her hotel. Neither his rank, fortune,

nor celebrity could justify his lodging at the Black Raven. She was

resolved to reprove her head waiter for allowing such plain and poor

people to enter the best hotel in Amsterdam.

“Sir,” said she, in a cold and cutting tone, “you come without doubt to

excuse your brother and yourself for not having appeared to-day at

my table d’hote. You certainly know that politeness requires that you

should dine in the hotel where you lodge. Do not distress yourself,

however, sir. I do not feel offended now that I have seen you. I

understand fully why you did not dine with me, but sought your modest

meal elsewhere. The table d’hote in the Black Raven is the most

expensive in Amsterdam, and only wealthy people put their feet under my

table and enjoy my dishes.”

While she thus spoke, her glance wandered searchingly over Balby, who

did not seem to remark it, or to comprehend her significant words.

“Madame,” said he, “allow me to remark that we have not dined. My

brother, whose will is always mine, prefers taking his dinner in his

own apartment, where he has more quiet comfort and can better enjoy your

rare viands. He never dines at a table d’hote. In every direction he has

heard of your wonderful pie, and I come in his name to ask that you will

be so good as to prepare one for his dinner to-day.”

Madame Blaken laughed aloud. “Truly said; that is not a bad idea of your

brother’s. My pasty is celebrated throughout all Holland, and I have

generally one ready in case a rich or renowned guest should desire it.

But this pie is not for every man!”

“My brother wants it for himself--himself alone,” said Balby,

decisively. Even the proud hostess felt his tone imposing.

“Sir,” said she, after a short pause, “forgive me if I speak plainly to

you. You wish to eat one of my renowned pies, and to have it served in

a private room, as the General Stadtholder and other high potentates are

accustomed to do. Well, I have this morning a pasty made with truffles

and Chinese birds’--nests, but you cannot have it! To be frank, it is

enormously dear, and I think neither your brother nor yourself could pay

for it!”

And now it was Balby’s turn to laugh aloud, and he did so with the

free, unembarrassed gayety of a man who is sure of his position, and is

neither confused nor offended.

Madame Blaken was somewhat provoked by this unrestrained merriment.

“You laugh, sir, but I have good reason for supposing you to be poor and

unknown. You came covered with dust and on foot to my hotel, accompanied

by one servant carrying a small carpet-bag. You have neither equipage,

retinue, nor baggage. You receive no visits; and, as it appears,

make none. You are always dressed in your simple, modest, rather

forlorn-looking brown coats. You have never taken a dinner here, but

pass the day abroad, and when you return in the evening you ask for

a cup of tea and a few slices of bread and butter. Rich people do not

travel in this style, and I therefore have the right to ask if you can

afford to pay for my pasty? I do not know who or what you are, nor your

brother’s position In the world.”

“Oh,” cried Balby who was highly amused by the candor of the hostess,

“my brother has a most distinguished position, I assure you--his fame

resounds throughout Germany.”

“Bah!” said Madame Blaken, shrugging her shoulders; “the name is

entirely unknown to us. Pray, what is your brother, and for what is he

celebrated?”

“For his flute,” answered Balby, with solemn gravity. Madame Blaken rose

and glanced scornfully at Balby. “Are you mating sport of me, sir?” said

she, threateningly.

“Not in the least, madame; I am telling you an important truth. My

brother is a renowned virtuoso.”

“A virtuoso?” repeated the hostess; “I do not understand the word. Pray,

what is a virtuoso?”

“A virtuoso, madame, is a musician who makes such music as no other

man can make. He gives concerts, and sells the tickets for an enormous

price, and the world rushes to hear his music. I assure you, madame,

my brother can play so enchantingly that those who hear his flute are

forced to dance in spite of themselves. He receives large sums of gold,

and if he gives a concert here you will see that all your distinguished

people will flock to hear him. You can set your pasty before him without

fear--he is able to pay richly for it.”

Madame Blaken rose without a word and advanced toward the door. “Come,

sir, come. I am going to your brother.” Without waiting for an answer,

she stepped through the corridor and tapped lightly at the stranger’s

door. She was on the point of opening it, but Balby caught her hand

hastily.

“Madame,” said he, “allow me to enter and inquire if you can be

received.” He wished to draw her back from the door, but the hostess of

the Black Raven was not the woman to be withdrawn.

“You wish to ask if I can enter?” repeated she. “I may well claim that

privilege in my own house.”

With a determined hand she knocked once more upon the door, opened it

immediately and entered, followed by Balby, who by signs endeavored to

explain and beg pardon for the intrusion.

Frederick did not regard him, his blue eyes were fixed upon the woman

who, with laughing good-humor, stepped up to him and held out both of

her large, course hands in greeting.

“Sir, I come to convince myself if what your brother said was true.”

“Well, madame, what has my brother said?”

“He declares that you can whistle splendidly, and all the world is

forced to dance after your music.”

“I said play the flute, madame! I said play the flute!” cried Balby,

horrified. “Well, flute or whistle,” said Madame Blaken, proudly, “it’s

the same thing. Be so good, sir, as to whistle me something; I will then

decide as to the pasty.” The king looked at Balby curiously. “Will you

have the goodness, brother, to explain madame’s meaning, and what she

requires of me?”

“Allow me to explain myself,” said the hostess. “This gentleman came

and ordered a rich pie for you; this pasty has given celebrity to my

house. It is true I have one prepared, but I would not send it to you.

Would you know why? This is an enormously expensive dish, and I have no

reason to believe that you are in a condition to pay for it. I said this

to your brother, and I might with truth have told him that I regretted

to see him in my hotel--not that you are in yourselves objectionable,

on the contrary, you appear to me to be harmless and amiable men, but

because of your purses. I fear that you do not know the charges of

first-class hotels, and will be amazed at your bill. Your brother,

however, assures me that you can afford to pay for all you order; that

you make a great deal of money; that you are a virtuoso, give concerts,

and sell tickets at the highest price. Now, I will convince myself if

you are a great musician and can support yourself. Whistle me something,

and I will decide as to the pie.”

The king listened to all this with suppressed merriment, and gave Balby

a significant look.

“Bring my flute, brother; I will convince madame that I am indeed a

virtuoso.”

“Let us hear,” said Madame Blaken, seating herself upon the sofa from

which the king had just arisen.

Frederick made, with indescribable solemnity, a profound bow to the

hostess. He placed the flute to his lips and began to play, but not in

his accustomed masterly style--not in those mild, floating melodies,

those solemn sacred, and exalted strains which it was his custom to

draw from his beloved flute. He played a gay and brilliant solo, full of

double trills and rhapsodies; it was an astounding medley, which

seemed to make a triumphal march over the instrument, overcoming all

difficulties. But those soft tones which touched the soul and roused to

noble thoughts were wanting; in truth, the melody failed, the music was

wanting.

Madame Blaken listened with ever-increasing rapture to this wondrous

exercise; these trills, springing from octave to octave, drew forth her

loudest applause; she trembled with ecstasy, and as the king closed with

a brilliant cadence, she clapped her hands and shouted enthusiastically.

She stood up respectfully before the artiste in the simple brown coat,

and bowing low, said earnestly:

“Your brother was right, you can surely earn much money by your whistle.

You whistle as clearly as my mocking-bird. You shall have the pie--I go

to order it at once,” and she hastened from the room.

“Well,” said the king, laughing, “this was a charming scene, and I thank

you for it, brother Henry. It is a proud and happy feeling to know that

you can stand upon your feet, or walk alone; in other words, that you

can earn a support. Now, if the sun of Prussia sets, I shall not hunger,

for I can earn my bread; Madame Blaken assures me of it. But, Henry, did

I not play eminently?”

“That was the most glittering, dazzling piece for a concert which I

ever heard,” said Balby, “and Mr. Zoller may well be proud of it, but I

counsel him not to play it before the King of Prussia; he would, in his

jealousy, declare it was not music, nothing but sound, and signifying

nothing.”

“Bravo, my friend,” said Frederick, taking his friend’s hand; “yes, he

would say that. Mr. Zoller played like a true virtuoso, that is to say,

without intellect and without soul; he did not make music, only artistic

tones. But here comes the pasty, and I shall relish it wondrous well. It

is the first meat I have ever earned with my flute. Let us eat, brother

Henry.”

CHAPTER XV. THE KING WITHOUT SHOES.

The pie was really worthy of its reputation, and the king enjoyed it

highly. He was gay and talkative, and amused himself in recalling the

varied adventures of the past five days.

“They will soon be tempi passati, these giorni felice,” he said,

sighing. “To-day is the last day of our freedom and happiness; to-morrow

we must take up our yoke, and exchange our simple brown coats for

dashing uniforms.”

“I know one, at least, who is rejoicing,” said Balby, laughing, “the

unhappy Deesen, who has just sworn most solemnly that he would throw

himself in the river if he had to play much longer the part of a servant

without livery--a servant of two unknown musicians; and he told me, with

tears in his eyes, that not a respectable man in the house would speak

to him; that the pretty maids would not even listen to his soft sighs

and tender words.”

“Dress makes the man,” said the king, laughing; “if Deesen wore his

cabinet-hussar livery these proud beauties who now despise, would smile

insidiously. How strangely the world is constituted! But let us enjoy

our freedom while we may. We still have some collections of paintings to

examine--here are some splendid pictures of Rembrandt and Rubens to

be sold. Then, last of all, I have an important piece of business to

transact with the great banker, Witte, on whom I have a draft. You know

that Madame Blaken is expensive, and the picture-dealers will not trust

our honest faces; we must show them hard cash.”

“Does your--Shall I not go to the bankers and draw the money?” said

Balby. “Oh no, I find it pleasant to serve myself, to be my own master

and servant at the same time. Allow me this rare pleasure for a few

hours longer, Balby.” The king took his friend’s arm, and recommenced

his search for paintings and treasures to adorn his gallery at

Sans-Souci. Everywhere he was received kindly and respectfully, for all

recognized them as purchasers, and not idle sight-seers. The dealers

appreciated the difference between idle enthusiasm and well-filled

purses.

The king understood this well, and on leaving the house of the last rich

merchant he breathed more freely, and said:

“I am glad that is over. The rudeness of the postmaster at Grave pleased

me better than the civilities of these people. Come, Balby, we have

bought pictures enough; now we will only admire them, enjoy without

appropriating them. The rich banker, Abramson, is said to have a

beautiful collection; we will examine them, and then have our draft

cashed.”

The banker’s splendid house was soon found, and the brothers entered the

house boldly, and demanded of the richly-dressed, liveried servant to be

conducted to the gallery.

“This is not the regular day,” said the servant, with a contemptuous

shrug of the shoulders, as he measured the two strangers.

“Not the day! What day?” asked the king, sharply.

“Not the day of general exhibition. You must wait until next Tuesday.”

“Impossible, we leave to-morrow. Go to your master and tell him two

strangers wish to see his gallery, and beg it may be opened for them.”

There was something so haughty and irresistible in the stranger’s

manner, that the servant not daring to refuse, and still astonished

at his own compliance, went to inform his master of the request. He

returned in a few moments, and announced that his master would come

himself to receive them.

The door opened immediately, and Mr. Abramson stepped into the hall; his

face, bright and friendly, darkened when his black eyes fell upon the

two strangers standing in the hall.

“You desired to speak to me,” he said, in the arrogant tone that the

rich Jews are accustomed to use when speaking to unknown and poor

people. “What is your wish, sirs?”

The king’s brow darkened, and he looked angrily at the supercilious man

of fortune, who was standing opposite him, with his head proudly thrown

back, and his hands in his pockets. But Frederick’s countenance soon

cleared, and he said, with perfect composure:

“We wish you to show us your picture-gallery, sir.”

The tone in which he spoke was less pleading than commanding, and roused

the anger of the easily enraged parvenu.

“Sir, I have a picture-gallery, arranged for my own pleasure and paid

for with my own money. I am very willing to show it to all who have

not the money to purchase pictures for themselves, and to satisfy the

curiosity of strangers, I have set aside a day in each week on which to

exhibit my gallery.”

“You mean, then, sir, that you will not allow us to enter your museum?”

said the king, smilingly, and laying his hand at the same time softly on

Balby’s arm, to prevent him from speaking.

“I mean that my museum is closed, and--”

A carriage rolled thunderingly to the door; the outer doors of the

hall were hastily opened, a liveried servant entered, and stepping

immediately to Mr. Abramson, he said:

“Lord Middlestone, of Loudon, asks the honor of seeing your gallery.”

The countenance of the Jewish banker beamed with delight.

“Will his excellency have the graciousness to enter? I consider it an

honor to show him my poor treasures. My gallery is closed to-day, but

for Lord Middlestone, I will open it gladly.”

His contemptuous glance met the two poor musicians, who had stepped

aside, and were silent witnesses of this scene.

The outer doors of the court were opened noisily, and a small,

shrivelled human form, assisted by two servants, staggered into the

hall. It was an old man, wrapped in furs; this was his excellency

Lord Middlestone. Mr. Abramson met him with a profound bow, and sprang

forward to the door that led to the gallery.

Every eye was fixed upon this sad picture of earthly pomp and greatness;

all felt the honor to the house of Mr. Abramson. Lord Middlestone, the

ambassador of the King of England, desired to see his collection. This

was an acknowledgment of merit that delighted the heart of the banker,

and added a new splendor to his house.

While the door was being opened to admit his lordship, Balby and the

king left the house unnoticed.

The king was angry, and walked silently along for a time; suddenly

remaining standing, he gazed steadily at Balby, and broke out into a

loud, merry laugh, that startled the passers-by, and made them look

wonderingly after him.

“Balby, my friend,” he said, still laughing, “I will tell you something

amusing. Never in my life did I feel so humble and ashamed as when his

excellency entered the gallery so triumphantly, and we slipped away so

quietly from the house. Truly, I was fool enough to be angry at first,

but I now feel that the scene was irresistibly comic. Oh! oh, Balby! do

laugh with me. Think of us, who imagine ourselves to be such splendidly

handsome men, being shown the door, and that horrid shrunken, diseased

old man being received with such consideration! He smelt like a

salve-box, we are odorous with ambrosia; but all in vain, Abramson

preferred the salve-box.”

“Abramson’s olfactories are not those of a courtier,” said Balby, “or he

would have fainted at the odor of royalty. But truly, this Mr. Abramson

is a disgraceful person, and I beg your majesty to avenge Mr. Zoller.”

“I shall do so. He deserves punishment; he has insulted me as a man; the

king will punish him.” [Footnote: The king kept his word. The Jew heard

afterward that it was the king whom he had treated so disrespectfully,

and here could never obtain his forgiveness. He was not allowed to

negotiate with the Prussian government or banks, and was thus bitterly

punished for his misconduct.]

“And now we will have our check cashed by Mr. Witte. I bet he will not

dismiss us so curtly, for my draft is for ten thousand crowns, and he

will be respectful--if not to us, to our money.”

The worthy and prosperous Madame Witte had just finished dusting and

cleaning her state apartment, and was giving it a last artistic survey.

She smiled contentedly, and acknowledged that there was nothing more to

be done. The mirrors and windows were of transparent brightness--no dust

was seen on the silk furniture or the costly ornaments--it was perfect.

With a sad sigh Madame Witte left the room and locked the door with

almost a feeling of regret. She must deny herself for the next few days

her favorite occupation--there was nothing more to dust or clean in the

apartment and only in this room was her field of operation--only here

did her husband allow her to play the servant. With this exception he

required of her to be the lady of the house--the noble wife of the rich

banker--and this was a role that pleased the good woman but little.

She locked the door with a sigh and drew on her shoes, which she

was accustomed always to leave in the hall before entering her state

apartment, then stepped carefully on the border of the carpet that

covered the hall to another door. At this moment violent ringing was

heard at the front door. Madame Witte moved quickly forward to follow

the bent of her womanly curiosity and see who desired admittance at this

unusual hour. Two strangers had already entered the hall and desired to

see the banker.

“Mr. Witte is not at home, and if your business is not too pressing,

call again early to-morrow morning.”

“But my business is pressing,” said Frederick Zoller, hastily, “I must

speak with Mr. Witte to-day.”

“Can they wish to borrow money from him?” thought Madame Witte, who saw

the two strangers through the half-opened door.

“To borrow, or to ask credit, I am sure that is their business.”

“May I ask the nature of your business?” said the servant. “In order to

bring Mr. Witte from the Casino I must know what you wish of him.”

“I desire to have a draft of ten thousand crowns cashed,” said Frederick

Zoller, sharply.

The door was opened hastily, and Madame Witte stepped forward to greet

the stranger and his companion. “Have the kindness, gentlemen, to step

in and await my husband; he will be here in a quarter of an hour. Go,

Andres, for Mr. Witte.” Andres ran off, and Madame Witte accompanied the

strangers through the hall. Arrived at the door of the state apartment,

she quickly drew off her shoes, and then remained standing, looking

expectantly at the strangers.

“Well, madame,” said the king, “shall we await Mr. Witte before this

door, or will you show us into the next room?”

“Certainly I will; but I am waiting on you.”

“On us? And what do you expect of us?”

“What I have done, sirs--to take your shoes off.”

The king laughed aloud. “Can no one, then, enter that room with shoes

on?”

“Never, sir. It was a custom of my great-grandfather. He had this house

built, and never since then has any one entered it with shoes. Please,

therefore, take them off.”

Balby hastened to comply with her peremptory command. “Madame, it will

suffice you for me to follow this custom of your ancestors--you will

spare my brother this ceremony.”

“And why?” asked Madame Witte, astonished. “His shoes are no cleaner or

finer than yours, or those of other men. Have the kindness to take off

your shoes also.”

“You are right, madame,” said the king, seriously. “We must leave off

the old man altogether; therefore, you ask but little in requiring us to

take off our shoes before entering your state apartment.” He stooped to

undo the buckles of his shoes, and when Balby wished to assist him, he

resisted. “No, no; you shall not loosen my shoes--you are too worthy for

that. Madame Witte might think that I am a very assuming person--that

I tyrannize over my brother. There, madame, the buckles are undone, and

there lie my shoes, and now we are ready to enter your state apartment.”

Madame Witte opened the door with cold gravity, and allowed them to

pass. “To-morrow I can dust again,” she said, gleefully, “for the

strangers’ clothes are very dirty.”

In the mean time, the two strangers awaited the arrival of Mr. Witte.

The king enjoyed his comic situation immensely. Balby looked anxiously

at the bare feet of the king, and said he should never have submitted to

Madame Witte’s caprice. The floor was cold, and the king might be taken

ill.

“Oh, no,” said Frederick, “I do not get sick so easily--my system can

stand severer hardships. We should be thankful that we have come off so

cheaply, for a rich banker like Witte in Amsterdam, is equal to the Pope

in Rome; and I do not think taking off our shoes is paying too dearly to

see the pope of Holland. Just think what King Henry IV. had to lay aside

before he could see the Pope of Rome--not only his shoes and stockings

and a few other articles, but his royalty and majesty. Madame Witte is

really for bearing not to require the same costume of us.”

The door behind them was opened hastily, and the banker Witte stepped

in. He advanced to meet them with a quiet smile, but suddenly checked

himself, and gazed with terror at the king.

“My God! his majesty the King of Prussia!” he stammered. “Oh! your

majesty! what an undeserved favor you are doing my poor house in

honoring it with your presence!”

“You know me, then?” said the king, smiling. “Well, I beg you may not

betray my incognito, and cash for Frederick Zoller this draft of ten

thousand crowns.”

He stepped forward to hand the banker the draft. Mr. Witte uttered a

cry of horror, and, wringing his hands, fell upon his knees. He had just

seen that the king was barefooted.

“Oh! your majesty! Mercy! mercy!” he pleaded. “Pardon my unhappy wife

who could not dream of the crime she was committing. Why did your

majesty consent to her insane demand? Why did you not peremptorily

refuse to take off your shoes?”

“Why? Well, ma foi, because I wished to spare the King of Prussia a

humiliation. I believe Madame Witte would rather have thrown me out of

the house than allowed me to enter this sacred room with my shoes on.”

“No, your majesty, no. She would--”

At this moment the door opened, and Madame Witte, drawn by the loud

voice of her husband, entered the room.

“Wife!” he cried, rising, “come forward; fall on your knees and plead

for forgiveness.”

“What have I done?” she asked, wonderingly.

“You compelled this gentleman to take off his shoes at the door.”

“Well, and what of that?”

“Well,” said Mr. Witte, solemnly, as he laid his arm upon his wife’s

shoulder and tried to force her to her knees, “this is his majesty the

King of Prussia!”

But the all-important words had not the expected effect. Madame Witte

remained quietly standing, and looked first upon her own bare feet and

then curiously at the king.

“Beg the king’s pardon for your most unseemly conduct,” said Witte.

“Why was it unseemly?” asked his better-half. “Do I not take off my

shoes every time I enter this room? The room is mine, and does not

belong to the King of Prussia.”

Witte raised his hands above his head in despair. The king laughed

loudly and heartily.

“You see I was right, sir,” he said. “Only obedience could spare the

King of Prussia a humiliation. [Footnote: The king’s own words. See

Nicolai’s “anecdotes of Frederick the Great, “collection V., P.31] But

let us go to your business room and arrange our moneyed affairs. There,

madame, I suppose you will allow me to put on my shoes.”

Without a word, Mr. Witte rushed from the room for the king’s shoes, and

hastened to put them, not before the king, but before the door that led

into his counting room.

With a gay smile, the king stepped along the border of the carpet to his

shoes, and let Balby put them on for him.

“Madame,” he said, “I see that you are really mistress in your own

house, and that you are obeyed, not from force, but from instinct. God

preserve you your strong will and your good husband!”

“Now,” said the king, after they had received the money and returned

to the hotel, “we must make all our arrangements to return to-morrow

morning early--our incognito is over! Mr. Witte promised not to betray

us, but his wife is not to be trusted; therefore, by to-morrow morning,

the world will know that the King of Prussia is in Amsterdam. Happily,

Mr. Witte does not know where I am stopping. I hope to be undisturbed

to-day, but by to-morrow this will be impossible.”

The king prophesied aright: Madame Witte was zealously engaged in

telling her friends the important news that the King of Prussia had

visited her husband, and was now in Amsterdam.

The news rolled like an avalanche from house to house, from street to

street, and even reached the major’s door, who, in spite of the lateness

of the hour, called a meeting of the magistrates, and sent policemen to

all the hotels to demand a list of the strangers who had arrived during

the last few days. In order to greet the king, they must first find him.

Early the next morning, a simple caleche, with two horses, stood at

the hotel of the “Black Raven.” The brothers Zoller were about to leave

Amsterdam, and, to Madame Blaken’s astonishment, they not only paid

their bill without murmuring, but left a rich douceur for the servants.

The hostess stepped to the door to bid them farewell, and nodded kindly

as they came down the steps. Their servant followed with the little

carpet-bag and the two music-cases.

When Deesen became aware of the presence of the hostess, and the two

head-servants, he advanced near to the king.

“Your majesty, may I now speak?” he murmured.

“Not yet,” said the king, smiling, “wait until we are in the carriage.”

He descended the steps, with a friendly nod to the hostess. Balby and

himself left the house.

“See, my friend, how truly I prophesied,” he said, as he pointed down

the street; “let us get in quickly, it is high time to be off; see the

crowd advancing.”

Frederick was right; from the end of the street there came a long

procession of men, headed by the two mayors, dressed in black robes,

trimmed with broad red bands. They were followed by the senators,

clothed in the same manner. A great number of the rich aristocrats of

the city accompanied them.

Madame Blaken had stepped from the house, and was looking curiously at

the approaching crowd, and while she and her maids were wondering what

this could mean, the two Mr. Zollers entered the carriage, and their

servant had mounted the box. “May I speak now?” said Deesen, turning to

the king.

“Yes, speak,” said the king, “but quickly, or the crowd will take your

secret from you.”

“Hostess!” cried Deesen, from the box, “do you know what that crowd

means?”

“No,” she said, superciliously.

“I will explain; listen, madame. The magistrates are coming to greet the

King of Prussia!”

“The King of Prussia!” shrieked the hostess. “Where is the King of

Prussia?”

“Here!” cried Deesen, with a malicious grin, as he pointed to the king,

“and I am his majesty’s cabinet-hussar! Forward, postilion!--quick,

forward!”

The postilion whipped his horses, and the carriage dashed by the mayors

and senators, who were marching to greet the King of Prussia. They never

dreamed that he had just passed mischievously by them.

Two days later, the king and his companions stood on the Prussian

border, on the spot where, in the beginning of their journey, the king

had written the words “majesty” and “sire.”

“Look!” he said, pointing to the ground, “the two fatal words have

not vanished away; the sun has hardened the ground, and they are still

legible. I must lift them from the sand, and wear them henceforth and

forever. Give me your hand, Balby; the poor musician, Frederick Zoller,

will bid farewell to his friend, and not only to you, Balby, but

farewell also to my youth. This is my last youthful adventure. Now, I

shall grow old and cold gracefully. One thing I wish to say before I

resume my royalty; confidentially, I am not entirely displeased with the

change. It seems to me difficult to fill the role of a common man. Men

do not seem to love and trust each other fully; a man avenges himself

on an innocent party for the wrongs another has committed. Besides, I do

not rightly understand the politenesses of common life, and, therefore,

received many reproaches. I believe, on the whole, it is easier to

bestow than to receive them. Therefore, I take up my crown willingly.”

“Will your majesty allow me a word?” said Deesen, stepping forward.

“Speak, Deesen.”

“I thank Mr. Zoller for saving my life. As true as God lives, I should

have stifled with rage if I had not told that haughty Hollander who Mr.

Zoller was and who I was.”

“Now, forward! Farewell, Frederick Zoller! Now I am on Prussian soil,

the hour of thoughtless happiness is passed. I fear, Balby, that the

solemn duties of life will soon take possession of us. So be it! I

accept my destiny--I am again Frederick of Hohenzollern!”

“And I have the honor to be the first to greet your majesty on your own

domain,” said Balby, as he bowed profoundly before the king.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I. THE UNHAPPY NEWS.

The Princess Amelia was alone in her room. She was stretched upon a

sofa, lost in deep thought; her eyes were raised to heaven, and her

lips trembled; from time to time they murmured a word of complaint or of

entreaty.

Amelia was ill. She had been ill since that unhappy day in which

she intentionally destroyed her beauty to save herself from a hated

marriage.[Footnote: See “Berlin and Sans-Souci.”] Her eyes had never

recovered their glance or early fire; they were always inflamed and

veiled by tears. Her voice had lost its metallic ring and youthful

freshness; it sounded from her aching and hollow chest like sighs from a

lonely grave.

Severe pain from time to time tortured her whole body, and contracted

her limbs with agonizing cramps. She had the appearance of a woman of

sixty years of age, who was tottering to the grave.

In this crushed and trembling body dwelt a strong, powerful, healthy

soul; this shrunken, contracted bosom was animated by a youthful,

ardent, passionate heart. This heart had consecrated itself to the love

of its early years with an obstinate and feverish power.

In wild defiance against her fate, Amelia had sworn never to yield,

never to break faith; to bear all, to suffer all for her love, and to

press onward with unshaken resignation but never-failing courage through

the storms and agonies of a desolate, misunderstood, and wretched

existence. She was a martyr to her birth and her love; she accepted this

martyrdom with defiant self-reliance and joyful resignation.

Years had passed since she had seen Trenck, but she loved him still!

She knew he had not guarded the faith they had mutually sworn with the

constancy that she had religiously maintained; but she loved him

still! She had solemnly sworn to her brother to give up the foolish and

fantastic wish of becoming the wife of Trenck; but she loved him still!

She might not live for him, but she would suffer for him; she could not

give him her hand, but she could consecrate thought and soul to him. In

imagination she was his, only his; he had a holy, an imperishable right

to her. Had she not sworn, in the presence of God, to be his through

life down to the borders of the grave? Truly, no priest had blessed

them; God had been their priest, and had united them. There had been

no mortal witness to their solemn oaths, but the pure stars were

present--with their sparkling, loving eyes they had looked down and

listened to the vows she had exchanged with Trenck. She was therefore

his--his eternally! He had a sacred claim upon her constancy, her love,

her forbearance, and her forgiveness. If Trenck had wandered from his

faith, she dared not follow his example; she must be ever ready to

listen to his call, and give him the aid he required.

Amelia’s love was her religion, her life’s strength, her life’s object;

it was a talisman to protect and give strength in time of need. She

would have died without it; she lived and struggled with her grief only

for his sake.

This was a wretched, joyless existence--a never-ending martyrdom, a

never-ceasing contest. Amelia stood alone and unloved in her family,

feared and avoided by all the merry, thoughtless, pleasure seeking

circle. In her sad presence they shuddered involuntarily and felt

chilled, as by a blast from the grave. She was an object of distrust and

weariness to her companions and servants, an object of love and frank

affection to no one.

Mademoiselle Ernestine von Haak had alone remained true to her; but she

had married, and gone far away with her husband. Princess Amelia was

now alone; there was no one to whom she could express her sorrow and her

fears; no one who understood her suppressed agony, or who spoke one word

of consolation or sympathy to her broken heart.

She was alone in the world, and the consciousness of this steeled her

strength, and made an impenetrable shield for her wearied soul. She gave

herself up entirety to her thoughts and dreams. She lived a strange,

enchanted, double life and twofold existence. Outwardly, she was

old, crushed, ill; her interior life was young, fresh, glowing, and

energetic, endowed with unshaken power, and tempered in the fire of

her great grief. Amelia lay upon the divan and looked dreamily toward

heaven. A strange and unaccountable presentiment was upon her; she

trembled with mysterious forebodings. She had always felt thus when any

new misfortunes were about to befall Trenck. It seemed as if her soul

was bound to his, and by means of an electric current she felt the blow

in the same moment that it fell upon him.

The princess believed in these presentiments. She had faith in dreams

and prophecies, as do all those unhappy beings to whom fate has

denied real happiness, and who seek wildly in fantastic visions for

compensation. She loved, therefore, to look into the future through

fortune-tellers and dark oracles, and thus prepare herself for the sad

events which lay before her. The day before, the renowned astrologer

Pfannenstein had warned her of approaching peril; he declared that a

cloud of tears was in the act of bursting upon her! Princess Amelia

believed in his words, and waited with a bold, resolved spirit for the

breaking of the cloud, whose gray veil she already felt to be round

about her.

These sad thoughts were interrupted by a light knock upon the door,

and her maid entered and announced that the master of ceremonies, Baron

Pollnitz, craved an audience.

Amelia shuddered, but roused herself quickly. “Let him enter!” she said,

hastily. The short moment of expectation seemed an eternity of anguish.

She pressed her hands upon her heart, to still its stormy beatings;

she looked with staring, wide-opened eyes toward the door through

which Pollnitz must enter, and she shuddered as she looked upon the

ever-smiling, immovable face of the courtier, who now entered her

boudoir, with Mademoiselle von Marwitz at his side.

“Do you know, Pollnitz,” said she, in a rough, imperious tone--“do you

know I believe your face is not flesh and blood, but hewn from stone;

or, at least, one day it was petrified? Perhaps the fatal hour struck

one day, just as you were laughing over some of your villainies, and

your smile was turned to stone as a judgment. I shall know this look as

long as I live; it is ever most clearly marked upon your visage, when

you have some misfortune to announce.”

“Then this stony smile must have but little expression to-day, for I do

not come as a messenger of evil tidings; but if your royal highness will

allow me to say so, as a sort of postillon d’amour.”

Amelia shrank back for a moment, gave one glance toward Mademoiselle von

Marwitz, whom she knew full well to be the watchful spy of her mother,

and whose daily duty it was to relate to the queen-mother every thing

which took place in the apartment of the princess. She knew that every

word and look of Pollnitz was examined with the strictest attention.

Pollnitz, however, spoke on with cool self-possession:

“You look astonished, princess; it perhaps appears to you that this

impassive face is little suited to the role of postillon d’amour, and

yet that is my position, and I ask your highness’s permission to make

known my errand.”

“I refuse your request,” said Amelia, roughly; “I have nothing to do

with Love, and find his godship as old and dull as the messenger he has

sent me. Go back, then, to your blind god, and tell him that my ears

are deaf to his love greeting, and the screeching of the raven is more

melodious than the tenderest words a Pollnitz can utter.”

The princess said this in her most repulsive tone. She was accustomed

to shield herself in this rude manner from all approach or contact, and,

indeed, she attained her object. She was feared and avoided. Her witty

bon mots and stinging jests were repeated and merrily laughed over, but

the world knew that she scattered her sarcasms far and wide, in order

to secure her isolation; to banish every one from her presence, so that

none might hear her sighs, or read her sad history in her countenance.

“And yet, princess, I must still implore a hearing,” said he, with

imperturbable good-humor; “if my voice is rough as the raven’s, your

royal highness must feed me with sugar, and it will become soft and

tender as an innocent maiden’s.”

“I think a few ducats would be better for your case,” said Amelia; “a

Pollnitz is not to be won with sweets, but for gold he would follow the

devil to the lower regions.”

“You are right, princess; I do not wish to go to heaven, but be low;

there I am certain to find the best and most interesting society. The

genial people are all born devils, and your highness has ever confessed

that I am genial. Then let it be so! I will accept the ducats which your

royal highness think good for me, and now allow me to discharge my

duty. I come as the messenger of Prince Henry: He sends his heart-felt

greetings to his royal sister, and begs that she will do him the honor

to attend fete at Rheinsberg, which will take place in eight days.”

“Has the master of ceremonies of the king become the fourrier of Prince

Henry?” said Amelia.

“No, princess; I occasionally and accidentally perform the function of a

fourrier. This invitation was not my principal object to-day.”

“I knew it,” said Amelia, ironically. “My brother Henry does not love me

well enough to invite me to this fete, if he had not some other object

to attain. Well, what does Prince Henry wish?”

“A small favor, your royal highness; he wishes, on the birthday of his

wife, to have Voltaire’s ‘Rome Sauvee’ given by the French tragedians.

Some years since your highness had a great triumph in this piece. The

prince remembers that Voltaire prepared the role of Aurelia especially

for you, with changes and additions, and he entreats you, through me,

the temporary Directeur des spectacles de Rheinsberg, to lend him this

role for the use of his performer.”

“Why does not my brother rather entreat me to take this part myself?”

said Amelia, in cruel mockery over herself. “It appears to me I could

look the part of Aurelia, and my soft, flute-like voice would make a

powerful impression upon the public. It is cruel of Prince Henry to

demand this role of me; it might be inferred that he thought I had

become old and ugly.”

“Not so, your highness; the tragedy is to be performed on this occasion

by public actors, and not by amateurs.”

“You are right,” said Amelia, suddenly becoming grave; “at that time

we were amateurs, lovers of the drama; our dreams are over--we live in

realities now.”

“Mademoiselle von Marwitz, have the goodness to bring the manuscript my

brother wishes; it is partly written by Voltaire’s own hand. You will

find it in the bureau in my dressing-room.”

Mademoiselle Marwitz withdrew to get the manuscript; as she left the

room, she looked back suspiciously at Pollnitz and, as if by accident,

left the door open which led to the dressing-room.

Mademoiselle Marwitz had scarcely disappeared, before Pollnitz sprang

forward, with youthful agility, and closed the door.

“Princess, this commission of Prince Henry’s was only a pretext. I took

this order from the princess’s maitre d’hotel in order to approach your

highness unnoticed, and to get rid of the watchful eyes of your Marwitz.

Now listen well; Weingarten, the Austrian secretary of Legation, was

with me to-day.”

“Ah, Weingarten,” murmured the princess, tremblingly; “he gave you a

letter for me; quick, quick, give it to me.”

“No, he gave me no letter; it appears that he, who formerly sent

letters, is no longer in the condition to do so.”

“He is dead!” cried Amelia with horror, and sank back as if struck by

lightning.

“No, princess, he is not dead, but in great danger. It appears that

Weingarten is in great need of money; for a hundred louis d’or, which

I promised him, he confided to me that Trenck’s enemies had excited the

suspicions of the king against him, and declared that Trenck had designs

against the life of Frederick.”

“The miserable liars and slanderers!” cried Amelia, contemptuously.

“The king, as it appears, believes in these charges; he has written to

his resident minister to demand of the senate of Dantzic the delivery of

Trenck.”

“Trenck is not in Dantzic, but in Vienna.”

“He is in Dantzic--or, rather, he was there.”

“And now?”

“Now,” said Pollnitz, solemnly, “he is on the way to Konigsberg;

from that point he will be transported to some other fortress; first,

however, he will be brought to Berlin.”

The unhappy princess uttered a shriek, which sounded like a wild

death-cry. “He is, then, a prisoner?”

“Yes; but, on his way to prison, so long as he does not cross the

threshold of the fortress, it is possible to deliver him. Weingarten,

who, it appears to me, is much devoted to your highness, has drawn for

me the plan of the route, Trenck is to take. Here it is.” He handed the

princess a small piece of paper, which she seized with trembling hands,

and read hastily.

“He comes through Coslin,” said she, joyfully; “that gives a chance

of safety in Coslin! The Duke of Wurtemberg, the friend of my youthful

days, is in Coslin; he will assist me. Pollnitz, quick, quick, find me a

courier who will carry a letter to the duke for me without delay.”

“That will be difficult, if not impossible,” said Pollnitz,

thoughtfully.

Amelia sprang from her seat; her eyes had the old fire, her features

their youthful expression and elasticity.

The power and ardor of her soul overcame the weakness of her body; it

found energy and strength.

“Well, then,” said she, decisively, and even her voice was firm and

soft, “I will go myself; and woe to him who dares withhold me! I have

been ordered to take sea-baths. I will go this hour to Coslin for that

purpose! but no, no, I cannot travel so rashly. Pollnitz, you must find

me a courier.”

“I will try,” said Pollnitz. “One can buy all the glories of this world

for gold; and, I think, your highness will not regard a few louis d’or,

more or less.”

“Find me a messenger, and I will pay every hour of his journey with a

gold piece.”

“I will send my own servant, in half an hour he shall be ready.”

“God be thanked! it will then, be possible to save him. Let me write

this letter at once, and hasten your messenger. Let him fly as if he

had wings--as if the wild winds of heaven bore him onward. The sooner he

brings me the answer of the duke, the greater shall be his reward. Oh,

I will reward him as if I were a rich queen, and not a poor, forsaken,

sorrowful princess.”

“Write, princess, write,” cried Pollnitz, eagerly: “but not have the

goodness to give me the hundred louis d’or before Mademoiselle Marwitz

returns. I promised them to Weingarten for his news; you can add to them

the ducats you were graciously pleased to bestow upon me.”

Amelia did not reply; she stepped to the table and wrote a few lines,

which she handed to Pollnitz.

“Take this,” said she, almost contemptuously; “it is a draft upon my

banker, Orguelin. I thank you for allowing your services to be paid

for; it relieves me from all call to gratitude. Serve me faithfully in

future, and you shall ever find my hand open and my purse full. And now

give me time to write to the duke, and--”

“Princess, I hear Mademoiselle Marwitz returning!”

Amelia left the writing-table hastily, and advanced to the door through

which Mademoiselle Marwitz must enter.

“Ah, you are come at last,” said she, as the door opened. “I was about

to seek you. I feared you could not find the paper.”

“It was very difficult to find amongst such a mass of letters and

papers,” said Mademoiselle Marwitz, whose suspicious glance was now

wandering round the room. “I succeeded, however, at last; here is the

manuscript, your highness.”

The princess took it and examined it carefully. “Ah, I thought so,” she

said. “A monologue which Voltaire wrote for me, is missing. I gave it

to the king, and I sec he has not returned it. I think my memory is the

only faculty which retains its power. It is my misfortune that I cannot

forget! I will test it to-day and try to write this monologue from

memory. I must be alone, however. I pray you, mademoiselle, to go

into the saloon with Pollnitz; he can entertain you with the Chronique

Scandaleuse of our most virtuous court, while I am writing.--And now,”

said she, when she found herself alone, “may God give me power to reach

the heart of the duke, and win him to my purpose!”

With a firm hand she wrote:

“Because you are happy, duke, you will have pity for the wretched. For a

few days past, you have had your young and lovely wife at your side,

and experienced the pure bliss of a happy union; you will therefore

comprehend the despair of those who love as fondly, and can never be

united. And now, I would remind you of a day on which it was in my power

to obtain for you a great favor from my brother the king. At that time

you promised me to return this service tenfold, should it ever be in

your power, and you made me promise, if I should ever need assistance,

to turn to you alone! My hour has come! I need your help; not for

myself! God and death alone can help me. I demand your aid for a man who

is chained with me to the galleys. You know him--have mercy upon him!

Perhaps he will arrive at your court in the same hour with my letter.

Duke, will you be the jailer of the wretched and the powerless, who is

imprisoned only because I am the daughter of a king? Are your officers

constables? will you allow them to cast into an eternal prison him for

whom I have wept night and day for many long years?”

“Oh, my God! My God! you have given wings to the birds of the air; you

have given to the horse his fiery speed; you have declared that man is

the king of creation; you have marked upon his brow the seal of freedom,

and this is his holiest possession. Oh, friend, will you consent that a

noble gentleman, who has nothing left but his freedom, shall be unjustly

deprived of it! Duke, I call upon you! Be a providence for my unhappy

friend, and set him at liberty. And through my whole life long I will

bless and honor you! AMELIA.”

“If he does not listen to this outcry of my soul,” she whispered, as she

folded and sealed the letter--“if he has the cruelty to let me plead in

vain, then in my death-hour I will curse him, and charge him with being

the murderer of my last hope!”

The princess called Pollnitz, and, with an expressive glance, she handed

him the letter.

“Truly, my memory has not failed me,” she said to Mademoiselle Marwitz,

who entered behind Pollnitz, and whose sharp eyes were fixed upon

the letter in the baron’s hand. “I have been able to write the whole

monologue. Give this paper to my brother, Pollnitz; I have added a

few friendly lines, and excused myself for declining the invitation. I

cannot see this drama.”

“Well, it seems to me I have made a lucrative affair of this,” said

Pollnitz to himself, as he left the princess. “I promised Weingarten

only fifty louis d’or, so fifty remain over for myself, without counting

the ducats which the princess intends for me. Besides, I shall be no

such fool as to give my servant, who steals from me every day, the

reward the princess has set apart for him; and if I give him outside

work to do, it is my opportunity; he is my slave, and the reward is

properly mine.”

“Listen, John!” Said Pollnitz to his servant, as he entered his

apartment. Poor John was, at the same time, body-servant, jockey, and

coachman. “Listen; do you know exactly how much you have loaned me?”

“To a copper, your excellency,” said John, joyfully. Poor John

thought that the hour of settlement had come. “Your excellency owes me

fifty-three thalers, four groschen, and five pennies.”

“Common soul,” cried Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously,

“to be able to keep in remembrance such pitiful things as groschen and

coppers. Well, I have a most pressing and important commission for

you. You must saddle your horse immediately, and hasten to deliver this

letter to the Duke of Wurtemberg. You must ride night and day and not

rest till you arrive and deliver this packet into the duke’s own hands.

I will then allow you a day’s rest for yourself and horse; your return

must be equally rapid. If you are here again in eight days, I will

reward you royally.”

“That is to say, your excellency--” said John, in breathless

expectation.

“That is to say, I will pay you half the sum I owe you, if you are here

in eight days; if you are absent longer, you will get only a third.”

“And if I return a day earlier?” Said John, sighing.

“I will give you a few extra thalers as a reward,” said Pollnitz.

“But your excellency will, besides this, give me money for the journey,”

said John, timidly.

“Miserable, shameless beggar!” Cried Pollnitz; “always demanding more

than one is willing to accord you. Learn from your noble master that

there is nothing more pitiful, more sordid than gold, and that those

only are truly noble, who serve others for honor’s sake, and give no

thought to reward.”

“But, your grace, I have already the honor to have lent you all my

money. I have not even a groschen to buy food for myself and horse on

our journey.”

“As for your money, sir, it is, under all circumstances, much safer with

me than with you. You would surely spend it foolishly, while I will

keep it together. Besides this, there is no other way to make servants

faithful and submissive but to bind them to you by the miserable bond of

selfishness. You would have left me a hundred times, if you had not been

tied down by your own pitiful interests. You know well that if you leave

me without my permission, the law allows me to punish you, by giving the

money I owe you to the poor. But enough of foolish talking! Make ready

for the journey; in half an hour you must leave Berlin behind you. I

will give you a few thalers to buy food. Now, hasten! Remember, if you

remain away longer than eight days, I will give you only a third of the

money I am keeping for you.”

This terrible threat had its effect upon poor John.

In eight days Pollnitz sought the princess, and with a triumphant

glance, slipped a letter into her hand, which read thus:

“I thank you, princess, that you have remembered me, and given me an

opportunity to aid the unhappy. You are right. God made man to be free.

I am no jailer, and my officers are not constables. They have, indeed,

the duty to conduct the unhappy man who has been for three days the

guest of my house, farther on toward the fortress, but his feet and his

hands shall be free, and if he takes a lesson from the bird in velocity,

and from the wild horse in speed, his present escape will cost him less

than his flight from Glatz. My officers cannot be always on the watch,

and God’s world is large; it is impossible to guard every point. My

soldiers accompany him to the brook Coslin. I commend the officer who

will be discharged for neglect of duty to your highness. FERDINAND.”

“He will have my help and my eternal gratitude,” whispered Amelia; she

then pressed the letter of the duke passionately to her lips. “Oh, my

God! I feel to-day what I have never before thought possible, that one

can be happy without happiness. If fate will be merciful, and not thwart

the noble purpose of Duke Ferdinand, from this time onward I will never

murmur--never complain. I will demand nothing of the future; never more

to see him, never more to hear from him, only that he may be free and

happy.”

In the joy of her heart she not only fulfilled her promise to give the

messenger a gold piece for every hour of his journey, but she added a

costly diamond pin for Pollnitz, which the experienced baron, even while

receiving it from the trembling hand of the princess, valued at fifty

louis d’or.

The baron returned with a well-filled purse and a diamond pin to his

dwelling, and with imposing solemnity he called John into his boudoir.

“John,” said he, “I am content with you. You have promptly fulfilled

my commands. You returned the seventh day, and have earned the extra

thalers. As for your money, how much do I owe you?”

“Fifty-three thalers, four groschen, and five pennies.”

“And the half of this is--”

“Twenty-seven thalers, fourteen groschen, two and a half pennies,” said

John, with a loudly beating heart and an expectant smile. He saw that

the purse was well filled, and that his master was taking out the gold

pieces.

“I will give you, including your extra guldens, twenty-eight thalers,

fourteen groschen, two and a half pennies.” said Pollnitz, laying

some gold pieces on the table. “Here are six louis d’or, or thirty-six

thalers in gold to reckon up; the fractions you claim are beneath my

dignity. Take them, John, they are yours.”

John uttered a cry of rapture, and sprang forward with outstretched

hands to seize his gold. He had succeeded in gathering up three louis

d’or, when the powerful hand of the baron seized him and held him back.

“John,” said he, “I read in your wild, disordered countenance that you

are a spendthrift, and this gold, which you have earned honestly,

will soon be wasted in boundless follies. It is my duty, as your

conscientious master and friend, to prevent this. I cannot allow you to

take all of this money--only one-half; only three louis d’or. I will put

the other three with the sum which I still hold, and take care of it for

you.”

With an appearance of firm principle and piety, he grasped the three

louis d’or upon which the sighing John fixed his tearful eyes.

“And now, what is the amount,” said Pollnitz, gravely, “which you have

placed in my hands for safe-keeping?”

“Thirty-two thalers, fourteen groschen, and five pennies,” said John;

“and then the fractions from the three louis d’ors makes a thaler and

eight groschen.”

“Pitiful miser! You dare to reckon fractions against your master,

who, in his magnanimity, has just presented, you with gold! This is a

meanness which merits exemplary punishment.”

CHAPTER II. TRENCK ON HIS WAY TO PRISON.

Before the palace of the Duke of Wurtemberg, in Coslin, stood the light,

open carriage in which the duke was accustomed to make excursions, when

inclined to carry the reins himself, and enjoy freedom and the pure,

fresh air, without etiquette and ceremony.

To-day, however, the carriage was not intended for an ordinary

excursion, but to transport a prisoner. This prisoner was no other than

the unhappy Frederick Trenck, whom the cowardly republic of Dantzic,

terrified at the menaces of the king, had delivered up to the Prussian

police.

The intelligence of his unhappy fate flew like a herald before him.

He was guarded by twelve hussars, and the sad procession was received

everywhere throughout the journey with kindly sympathy. All exerted

themselves to give undoubted proofs of pity and consideration. Even

the officers in command, who sat by him in the carriage, and who were

changed at every station, treated him as a loved comrade in arms, and

not as a state prisoner.

But while all sighed and trembled for him, Trenck alone was gay; his

countenance alone was calm and courageous. Not one moment, during the

three days he passed in the palace of the duke, was his youthful and

handsome face clouded by a single shadow. Not one moment did that happy,

cheerful manner, by which he won all hearts, desert him. At the table,

he was the brightest and wittiest; his amusing narratives, anecdotes,

and droll ideas made not only the duke, but the duchess and her maids,

laugh merrily. In the afternoons, in the saloon of the duchess, he

astonished and enraptured the whole court circle by improvising upon any

given theme, and by the tasteful and artistic manner in which he sang

the national ballads he had learned on his journeys through Italy,

Germany, and Russia. At other times, he conversed with the duke upon

philosophy and state policy; and he was amazed at the varied information

and wisdom of this young man, who seemed an experienced soldier and an

adroit diplomat, a profound statesman, and a learned historian. By his

dazzling talents, he not only interested but enchained his listeners.

The duke felt sadly that it was not possible to retain the prisoner

longer in Coslin. Three days of rest was the utmost that could be

granted Trenck, without exciting suspicion. He sighed, as he told Trenck

that his duty required of him to send him further on his dark journey.

Trenck received this announcement with perfect composure, with calm

self-possession. He took leave of the duke and duchess, and thanked them

gayly for their gracious reception.

“I hope that my imprisonment will be of short duration, and then your

highness will, I trust, allow me to return to you, and offer the thanks

of a free man.”

“May we soon meet again!” said the duke, and he looked searchingly upon

Trenck, as if he wished to read his innermost thoughts. “As soon as

you are free, come to me. I will not forsake you, no matter under what

circumstances you obtain your freedom.”

Had Trenck observed the last emphatic words of the duke, and did he

understand their meaning? The duke did not know. No wink of the eyelid,

not the slightest sign, gave evidence that Trenck had noticed their

significance. He bowed smilingly, left the room with a firm step, and

entered the carriage.

The duke called back the ordnance officer who was to conduct him to the

next station.

“You have not forgotten my command?” said he.

“No, your highness, I have not forgotten; and obedience is a joyful

duty, which I will perform punctually.”

“You will repeat this command, in my name, to the officer at the next

station, and commission him to have it repeated at every station where

my regiments are quartered. Every one shall give Trenck an opportunity

to escape, but silently; no word must be spoken to him on the subject.

It must depend upon him to make use of the most favorable moment. My

intentions toward him must be understood by him without explanations.

He who is so unfortunate as to allow the prisoner to escape, can only

be blamed for carelessness in duty. Upon me alone will rest the

responsibility to the King of Prussia. You shall proceed but five or six

miles each day; at this rate of travel it will take four days to reach

the last barracks of my soldiers, and almost the entire journey lies

through dark, thick woods, and solitary highways. Now go, and may God be

with you!”

The duke stepped to the window to see Trenck depart, and to give him a

last greeting.

“Well, if he is not at liberty in the next few days, it will surely

not be my fault,” murmured Duke Ferdinand, “and Princess Amelia cannot

reproach me.”

As Trenck drove from the gate, Duke Ferdinand turned thoughtfully away.

He was, against his will, oppressed by sad presentiments. For Trenck,

this journey over the highways in the light, open carriage, was actual

enjoyment. He inhaled joyfully the pure, warm, summer air--his eyes

rested with rapture upon the waving corn-fields, and the blooming,

fragrant meadows through which they passed. With gay shouts and songs

he seemed to rival the lark as she winged her way into the clouds above

him. He was innocent, careless, and happy as a child. The world of

Nature had been shut out from him in the dark, close carriage which

had brought him to Coslin; she greeted him now with glad smiles and

gay adorning. It seemed as if she were decorated for him with her most

odorous blossoms and most glorious sunshine--as if she sent her softest

breeze to kiss his cheek and whisper love--greetings in his ear. With

upturned, dreamy glance, he followed the graceful movements of the pure,

white clouds, and the rapid flight of the birds. Trenck was so happy in

even this appearance of freedom, that he mistook it for liberty.

The carriage rolled slowly over the sandy highways, and now entered a

wood. The sweet odor of the fir-trees drew from Trenck a cry of rapture.

He had felt the heat of the sun to be oppressive, and he now laid

his head back under the shadow of the thick trees with a feeling of

gladness.

“It will take us some hours to get through this forest,” said the

ordnance officer, “It is one of the thickest woods in this region,

and the terror of the police. The escaped prisoner who succeeds in

concealing himself here, may defy discovery. It is impossible to pursue

him in these dark, tangled woods, and a few hours conduct him to the

sea-shore, where there are ever small fishing-boats ready to receive

the fugitive and place him safely upon some passing ship. But excuse

me, sir! the sun has been blazing down so hotly upon my head that I feel

thoroughly wearied, and will follow the example of my coachman. Look!

he is fast asleep, and the horses are moving on of their own good-will.

Good-night, Baron Trenck.”

He closed his eyes, and in a short time his loud snores and the nodding

of his head from side to side gave assurance that he, also, was locked

in slumber.

Profound stillness reigned around. Trenck gave himself wholly to

the enjoyment of the moment. The peaceful stillness of the forest,

interrupted only at intervals by the snorting of the horses, the

sleepy chatter of the birds among the dark green branches, and the soft

rustling and whispering of the trees, filled him with delight.

“It is clear,” he said to himself, “that this arrest in Dantzic was

only a manoeuvre to terrify me. I rejected the proposal of the Prussian

ambassador in Vienna, to return to Berlin and enter again the Prussian

service, so the king wishes to punish and frighten me. This is a jest--a

comedy!--which the king is carrying on at my expense. If I were really

regarded as a deserter, as a prisoner for the crime of high treason, no

officer would dare to guard me so carelessly. In the beginning, I was

harshly treated, in order to alarm and deceive me, and truly those

twelve silent hussars, continually surrounding the closed carriage, had

rather a melancholy aspect, and I confess I was imposed upon. But the

mask has fallen, and I see behind the smiling, good-humored face of the

king. He loved me truly once, and was as kind as a father. The old love

has awakened and spoken in my favor. Frederick wishes to have me again

in Berlin--that is all; and he knows well that I can be of service to

him. He who has his spies everywhere, knows that no one else can give

him such definite information as to the intentions and plans of Russia

as I can--that no one knows so certainly what the preparations for war,

now going on throughout the whole of Russia, signify. Yes, yes: so it

is! Frederick will have me again in his service; he knows of my

intimacy with the all-powerful wife of Bestuchef; that I am in constant

correspondence with her, and in this way informed of all the plans

of the Russian government. [Footnote: Frederick Trenck’s “Memoirs.”]

Possibly, the king intends to send me as a secret ambassador to St.

Petersburg! That would, indeed, open a career to me, and bring me

exalted honor, and perhaps make that event possible which has heretofore

only floated before my dazzled sight like a dream-picture. Oh, Amelia!

noblest, most constant of women! could the dreams of our youth be

realized? If fate, softened by your tears and your heroic courage, would

at last unite you with him you have so fondly and so truly loved! Misled

by youth, presumption, and levity, I have sometimes trifled with my most

holy remembrances, sometimes seemed unfaithful; but my love to you has

never failed; I have worn it as a talisman about my heart. I have ever

worshipped you, I have ever hoped in you, and I will believe in you

always, if I doubt and despair of all others. Oh, Amelia! protecting

angel of my life! perhaps I may now return to you. I shall see you

again, look once more into your beauteous eyes, kneel humbly before you,

and receive absolution for my sins. They were but sins of the flesh, my

soul had no part in them. I will return to you, and live free, honored,

and happy by your side. I know this by the gracious reception of the

duke; I know it by the careless manner in which I am guarded. Before

the officer went to sleep he told me how securely a fugitive could hide

himself in these woods. I, however, have no necessity to hide myself; no

misfortune hovers over me, honor and gladness beckon me on. I will not

be so foolish as to fly; life opens to me new and flowery paths, greets

me with laughing hopes.” [Footnote: “Frederick Trenck’s Memoirs.”]

Wholly occupied with these thoughts, Trenck leaned back in the carriage

and gave himself up to bright dreams of the future. Slowly the horses

moved through the deep, white sand, which made the roll of the wheels

noiseless, and effaced instantaneously the footprints of men. The

officer still slept, the coachman had dropped the reins, and nodded

here and there as if intoxicated. The wood was drear and empty; no

human dwelling, no human face was seen. Had Trenck wished to escape,

one spring from the low, open carriage; a hundred hasty steps would have

brought him to a thicket where discovery was impossible; the carriage

would have rolled on quietly, and when the sleepers aroused themselves,

they would have had no idea of the direction Trenck had taken. The

loose and rolling sand would not have retained his footprints, and the

whispering trees would not have betrayed him.

Trenck would not fly; he was full of romance, faith, and hope; his

sanguine temper painted his future in enchanting colors. No, he would

not flee, he had faith in his star. Life’s earnest tragedy had yet for

him a smiling face, and life’s bitter truths seemed alluring visions.

No, the king only wished to try him; he wished to see if he could

frighten him into an effort to escape; he gave him the opportunity for

flight, but if he made use of it, he would be lost forever in the

eyes of Frederick, and his prospects utterly destroyed. If he bravely

suffered the chance of escape to pass by, and arrived in Berlin, to

all appearance a prisoner, the king would have the agreeable task of

undeceiving him, and Trenck would have shown conclusively that he had

faith in the king’s magnanimity, and gave himself up to him without

fear. He would have proved also that his conscience was clear, and that,

without flattering, he could yield himself to the judgment of the king.

No, Trenck would not fly. In Berlin, liberty, love, and Amelia awaited

him; he would lose all this by flight; it would all remain his if he did

not allow himself to be enticed by the flattering goddess, opportunity,

who now beckoned and nodded smilingly from behind every tree and every

thicket. Trenck withstood these enticements during three long days; with

careless indifference he passed slowly on through this lonely region;

in his arrogant blindness and self-confidence he did not observe the

careworn and anxious looks of the officers who conducted him; he did not

hear or understand the low, hesitating insinuations they dared to speak.

“This is your last resting-point,” said the officer who had conducted

him from the last station. “You will remain here this afternoon, and

early to-morrow morning the cavalry officer Von Halber will conduct you

to Berlin, where the last barracks of our regiment are to be found;

from that point the infantry garrison will take charge of your further

transportation.”

“I shall not make their duties difficult,” said Trenck, gayly. “You see

I am a good-natured prisoner; no Argus eyes are necessary, as I have no

intention to flee.”

The officer gazed into his calm, smiling face with amazement, and then

stepped out with the officer Von Halber, into whose house they had now

entered, to make known his doubts and apprehensions.

“Perhaps the opportunities which have been offered him have not been

sufficiently manifest,” said Von Halber. “Perhaps he has not regarded

them as safe, and he fears a failure. In that he is right; a vain

attempt at flight would be much more prejudicial to him than to yield

himself without opposition. Well, I will see that he has now a sure

chance to escape, and you may believe he will be cunning enough to take

advantage of it. You may say this much to his highness the duke.”

“But do not forget that the duke commanded us not to betray his

intention to prepare these opportunities by a single word. This course

would compromise the duke and all of us.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Von Halber; “I will speak eloquently by

deeds, and not with words.”

True to this intention, Von Halber, after having partaken of a gay

dinner with Trenck and several officers, left his house, accompanied by

all his servants.

“The horses must be exercised,” said he; and, as he was unmarried, no

one remained in the house but Trenck.

“You will be my house-guard for several hours,” said the officer to

Trenck, who was standing at the door as he drove off. “I hope no one

will come to disturb your solitude. My officers all accompany me, and I

have no acquaintance in this little village. You will be entirely alone,

and if, on my return, I find that you have disappeared in mist and

fog, I shall believe that ennui has extinguished you--reduced you to a

bodiless nothing.”

“Well, I think he must have understood that,” said Von Halber, as he

dashed down the street, followed by his staff. “He must be blind and

deaf if he does not flee from the fate before him.”

Trenck, alas, had not understood. He believed in no danger, and did not,

therefore, see the necessity for flight. He found this quiet, lonely

house inexpressibly wearisome. He wandered through the rooms, seeking

some object of interest, or some book which would enable him to pass

the tedious hours. The cavalry officer was a gallant and experienced

soldier, but he was no scholar, and had nothing to do with books.

Trenck’s search was in vain. Discontented and restless, he wandered

about, and at last entered the little court which led to the stable. A

welcome sound fell on his ears, and made his heart beat joyfully; with

rapid steps he entered the stable. Two splendid horses stood in

the stalls, snorting and stamping impatiently; they were evidently

riding-horses, for near them hung saddles and bridles. Their nostrils

dilated proudly as they threw their heads back to breathe the fresh

air which rushed in at the open door. It appeared to Trenck that their

flashing eyes were pleading to him for liberty and action.

“Poor beasts,” said he, stepping forward, and patting and caressing

them--“poor beasts, you also pine for liberty, and hope for my

assistance; but I cannot, I dare not aid you. Like you, I also am a

prisoner, and like you also, a prisoner to my will. If you would use

your strength, one movement of your powerful muscles would tear your

bonds asunder, and your feet would bear you swiftly like wings through

the air. If I would use the present opportunity, which beckons and

smiles upon me, it would be only necessary to spring upon your back and

dash off into God’s fair and lovely world. We would reach our goal, we

would be free, but we would both be lost; we would be recaptured, and

would bitterly repent our short dream of self-acquired freedom. It is

better for us both that we remain as we are; bound, not with chains laid

upon our bodies, but by wisdom and discretion.”

So saying, he smoothed tenderly the glossy throat of the gallant steed,

whose joyful neigh filled his heart with an inexplicable melancholy.

“I must leave you,” murmured he, shudderingly; “your lusty neighing

intoxicates my senses, and reminds me of green fields and fragrant

meadows; of the broad highways, and the glad feeling of liberty which

one enjoys when flying through the world on the back of a gallant steed.

No! No! I dare no longer look upon you; all my wisdom and discretion

might melt away, and I might be allured to seek for myself that freedom

which I must receive alone at the hands of the king, in Berlin.”

With hasty steps Trenck left the stable and returned to the house, where

he stretched himself upon the sofa, and gave himself up to dreamland. It

was twilight when Halber returned from his long ride.

“All is quiet and peaceful,” said he, as he entered the house. “The bird

has flown, this time; he found the opportunity favorable.”

With a contented smile, he entered his room, but his expression changed

suddenly, and his trembling lips muttered a soldier’s curse. There lay

Trenck in peaceful slumber; his handsome, youthful face was bright and

free from care, and those must be sweet dreams which floated around him,

for he smiled in his sleep.

“Poor fellow!” said Von Halber, shaking his head; “he must be mad, or

struck with blindness, and cannot see the yawning abyss at his feet.”

He awakened Trenck, and asked him how he had amused himself, during the

long hours of solitude.

“I looked through all your house, and then entered the stables and

gladdened my heart by the sight of your beautiful horses.”

“Thunder and lightning! You have then seen my horses,” cried Halber,

thoroughly provoked. “Did no wish arise in your heart to mount one and

seek your liberty?”

Frederick Trenck smiled. “The wish, indeed, arose in my heart, but I

suppressed it manfully. Do you not see, dear Halber, that it would be

unthankful and unknightly to reward in this cowardly and contemptible

way the magnanimous confidence you have shown me.”

“Truly, you are an honorable gentleman,” cried Halber, greatly touched;

“I had not thought of that. It would not have been well to flee from my

house.”

“To-morrow he will fly,” thought the good-natured soldier, “when once

more alone--to-morrow, and the opportunity shall not be wanting.”

Von Halber left his house early in the morning to conduct his prisoner

to Berlin. No one accompanied them; no one but the coachman, who sat

upon the box and never looked behind him.

Their path led through a thick wood. Von Halber entertained the prisoner

as the lieutenant had done who conducted Trenck the day he left Coslin.

He called his attention to the denseness of the forest, and spoke of

the many fugitives who had concealed themselves there till pursuit was

abandoned. He then invited Trenck to get down and walk with him, near

the carriage.

As Trenck accepted the invitation, and strolled along by his side in

careless indifference, Von Halber suddenly observed that the ground was

covered with mushrooms.

“Let us gather a few,” said he; “the young wife of one of my friends

understands how to make a glorious dish of them, and if I take her a

large collection, she will consider it a kind attention. Let us take our

hats and handkerchiefs, and fill them. You will take the right path into

the wood, and I the left. In one hour we will meet here again.”

Without waiting for an answer, the good Halber turned to the left in

the wood, and was lost in the thicket. In an hour he returned to the

carriage, and found Trenck smilingly awaiting him.

He turned pale, and with an expression of exasperation, he exclaimed:

“You have not then lost yourself in the woods?”

“I have not lost myself,” said Trenck, quietly; “and I have gathered a

quantity of beautiful mushrooms.”

Trenck handed him his handkerchief, filled with small, round mushrooms.

Halber threw them with a sort of despair into the carriage, and then,

without saying one word, he mounted and nodded to Trenck to follow him.

“And now let us be off,” said he, shortly. “Coachman, drive on!”

He leaned back in the carriage, and with frowning brow he gazed up into

the heavens.

Slowly the carriage rolled through the sand, and it seemed as if the

panting, creeping horses shrank back from reaching their goal, the

boundary-line of the Wurtembergian dragoons. Trenck had followed his

companion’s example, and leaned back in the carriage. Halber was gloomy

and filled with dark forebodings. Trenck was gay and unembarrassed; not

the slightest trace of care or mistrust could be read in his features.

They moved onward silently. The air was fresh and pure, the heavens

clear; but a dark cloud was round about the path of this dazzled,

blinded young officer. The birds sang of it on the green boughs, hut

Trenck would not understand them. They sang of liberty and gladness;

they called to him to follow their example, and fly far from the haunts

of men! The dark wood echoed Fly! fly! in powerful organ-tones, but

Trenck took them for the holy hymns of God’s peaceful, sleeping world.

He heard not the trees, as with warning voices they bowed down and

murmured, Flee! flee! Come under our shadow, we will conceal you till

the danger be overpast’ Flee! flee! Misfortune, like a cruel vulture,

is floating over you--already her fangs are extended to grasp you. The

desert winds, in wild haste rushed by and covering this poor child of

sorrow with clouds of dust, whispered in his ear, Fly! fly!--follow my

example and rush madly backward! Misfortune advances to meet you, and a

river of tears flows down the path you are blindly following. Turn

your head and flee, before this broad, deep stream overtakes you. The

creaking wheels seemed to sob out. Fly! fly! we are rolling you onward

to a dark and eternal prison! Do you not hear the clashing of chains? Do

you not see the open grave at your feet? These are your chains!--that is

your grave, already prepared for the living, glowing heart! Fly! then,

fly! You are yet free to choose. The clouds which swayed on over the

heavens, traced in purple and gold the warning words, Fly! fly! or you

look upon us for the last time! Upon the anxious face of Von Halber was

also to be seen, Fly now, it is high time! I see the end of the wood!--I

see the first houses of Boslin. Fly! then, fly!--it is high time! Alas,

Trenck’s eyes were blinded, and his ears were filled with dust.

“Those whom demons will destroy, they first strike with blindness.”

Trenck’s evil genius had blinded his eyes--his destruction was sure.

There remained no hope of escape. The carriage had reached the end of

the wood and rolled now over the chausse to Boslin.

But what means this great crowd before the stately house which is

decorated with the Prussian arms? What means this troop of soldiers

who with stern, frowning brows, surround the dark coach with the closed

windows?

“We are in Boslin,” said Von Halber, pointing toward the group of

soldiers. “That is the post-house, and, as you see, we are expected.”

For the first time Trenck was pale, and horror was written in his face.

“I am lost!” stammered he, completely overcome, and sinking back into

the carriage he cast a wild, despairing glance around him, and seized

the arm of Halber with a powerful hand.

“Be merciful, sir! oh, be merciful! Let us move more slowly. Turn back,

oh, turn back! just to the entrance of the wood--only to the entrance of

the street!”

“You see that is impossible,” said Von Halber, sadly. “We are

recognized; if we turn back now, they will welcome us with bullets.”

“It were far better for me to die,” murmured Trenck, “than to enter that

dark prison--that open grave!”

“Alas! you would not fly--you would not understand me. I gave you many

opportunities, but you would not avail yourself of them.”

“I was mad, mad!” cried Trenck. “I had confidence in myself--I had faith

in my good star--but the curse of my evil genius has overtaken me. Oh,

my God! I am lost, lost! All my hopes were deceptive--the king is my

irreconcilable enemy, and he will revenge my past life on my future! I

have this knowledge too late. Oh, Halber! go slowly, slowly; I must give

you my last testament. Mark well what I say--these are the last words

of a man who is more to be pitied than the dying. It is a small service

which I ask of you, but my existence depends upon it: Go quickly to the

Duke of Wurtemberg and say this to him: ‘Frederick von Trenck sends Duke

Ferdinand his last greeting! He is a prisoner, and in death’s extremity.

Will the duke take pity on him, and convey this news to her whom he

knows to be Trenck’s friend? Tell her Trenck is a prisoner, and hopes

only in her!’ Will you swear to me to do this?”

“I swear it,” said Von Halber, deeply moved.

The carriage stopped. Von Halber sprang down and greeted the officer

who was to take charge of Trenck. The soldiers placed themselves on

both sides of the coach, and the door was opened. Trenck cast a

last despairing, imploring glance to heaven, then, with a firm step,

approached the open coach. In the act of entering, he turned once more

to the officer Von Halber, whose friendly eyes were darkened with tears.

“You will not forget, sir!”

These simply, sadly-spoken words, breaking the solemn, imposing silence,

made an impression upon the hearts of even the stern soldiers around

them.

“I will not forget,” said Von Halber, solemnly.

Trenck bowed and entered the coach. The officer followed him and closed

the door. Slowly, like a funeral procession, the coach moved on. Von

Halber gazed after him sadly.

“He is right, he is more to be pitied than the dying. I will hasten to

fulfil his last testament.”

Eight days later, the Princess Amelia received through the hands of

Pollnitz a letter from Duke Ferdinand. As she read it, she uttered a

cry of anguish, and sank insensible upon the floor. The duke’s letter

contained these words:

“All my efforts were in vain; he would not fly, would not believe in his

danger. In the casemates of Magdeburg sits a poor prisoner, whose last

words directed to me were these: ‘Say to her whom you know that I am a

prisoner, and hope only in her.’”

CHAPTER III. PRINCE HENRY AND HIS WIFE.

Prince Henry walked restlessly backward and forward in his study; his

brow was stern, and a strange fire flamed in his eye. He felt greatly

agitated and oppressed, and scarcely knew the cause himself. Nothing

had happened to disturb his equanimity and give occasion for his wayward

mood. The outside world wore its accustomed gay and festal aspect.

To-day, as indeed almost every day since the prince resided at

Rheinsberg, preparations were being made for a gay entertainment. A

country fete was to be given in the woods near the palace, and all the

guests were to appear as shepherds and shepherdesses.

Prince Henry had withdrawn to his own room to assume the tasteful

costume which had been prepared for him; but he seemed to have entirely

forgotten his purpose. The tailor and the friseur awaited him in vain

in his dressing-room; he forgot their existence. He paced his room with

rapid steps, and his tightly-compressed lips opened from time to time to

utter a few broken, disconnected words.

Of what was the prince thinking? He did not know, or he would not

confess it to himself. Perhaps he dared not look down deep into

his heart and comprehend the new feelings and new wishes which were

struggling there.

At times he stood still, and looked with a wild, rapt expression into

the heavens, as if they alone could answer the mysterious questions his

soul was whispering to him; then passed on with his hand pressed on his

brow to control or restrain the thoughts which agitated him. He did not

hear a light tap upon the door, he did not see it open, and his most

intimate and dearest friend, Count Kalkreuth enter, dressed in the full

costume of a shepherd.

Count Kalkreuth stood still, and did nothing to call the attention of

the prince to his presence. He remained at the door; his face was also

dark and troubled, and the glance which he fixed upon Prince Henry was

almost one of hatred.

The prince turned, and the count’s expression changed instantly; he

stepped gayly forward and said:

“Your royal highness sees my astonishment at finding you lost in such

deep thought, and your toilet not even commenced. I stand like Lot’s

blessed wife, turned to stone upon your threshold! Have you forgotten,

my prince, that you commanded us all to be ready punctually at four

o’clock? The castle clock is at this moment striking four. The ladies

and gentlemen will now assemble in the music-saloon, as you directed,

and you, prince, are not yet in costume.”

“It is true,” said Prince Henry, somewhat embarrassed, “I had forgotten;

but I will hasten to make good my fault.”

He stepped slowly, and with head bowed down, toward his dressing-room;

at the door, he stood and looked back at the count.

“You are already in costume, my friend,” said he, noticing for the first

time the fantastic dress of the count. “Truly, this style becomes

you marvellously; your bright-colored satin jacket shows your fine

proportions as advantageously as your captain’s uniform. But what means

this scarf which you wear upon your shoulder?”

“These are the colors of my shepherdess,” said the count, with a

constrained smile.

“Who is your shepherdess?”

“Your highness asks that, when you yourself selected her!” said

Kalkreuth, astonished.

“Yes it is true; I forgot,” said the prince. “The princess, my wife, is

your shepherdess. Well, I sincerely hope you may find her highness more

gay and gracious than she was to me this morning, and that you may see

the rare beauty of this fair rose, of which I only feel the thorns!”

While the prince was speaking, the count became deathly pale, and looked

at him with painful distrust.

“It is true,” he replied, “the princess is cold and reserved toward her

husband. Without doubt, this is the result of a determination to meet

your wishes fully, and to remain clearly within the boundary which your

highness at the time of your marriage, more than a year ago, plainly

marked out for her. The princess knows, perhaps too well, that her

husband is wholly indifferent to her beauty and her expression, and

therefore feels herself at liberty to yield to each changeful mood

without ceremony in your presence.”

“You are right,” said Prince Henry, sadly, “she is wholly indifferent to

me, and I have told her so. We will speak no more of it. What,

indeed, are the moods of the princess to me? I will dress, go to the

music-saloon, and ask for forgiveness in my name for my delay. I will

soon be ready; I will seek the princess in her apartments, and we will

join you in a few moments.”

The prince bowed and left the room. Kalkreuth gazed after him

thoughtfully and anxious.

“His manner is unaccountably strange to-day,” whispered he. “Has he,

perhaps, any suspicion; and these apparently artless questions

and remarks this distraction and forgetfulness--But no, no! it is

impossible, he can know nothing--no one has betrayed me. It is the

anguish of my conscience which makes me fearful; this suffering I must

bear, it is the penalty I pay for my great happiness.” The count sighed

deeply and withdrew.

The prince completed his toilet, and sought the princess in her

apartment, in the other wing of the castle. With hasty steps he passed

through the corridors; his countenance was anxious and expectant, his

eyes were glowing and impatient, haste marked every movement; he held

in his hand a costly bouquet of white camelias. When he reached the

anteroom of the princess he became pallid, and leaned for a moment,

trembling and gasping for breath, against the wall; he soon, however, by

a strong effort, controlled himself, entered, and commanded the servant

to announce him.

The Princess Wilhelmina received her husband with a stiff, ceremonious

courtesy, which, in its courtly etiquette, did not correspond with the

costume she had assumed. The proud and stately princess was transformed

into an enchanting, lovely shepherdess. It was, indeed, difficult to

decide if the princess were more beautiful in her splendid court toilet,

adorned with diamonds, and wearing on her high, clear brow a sparkling

diadem, proud and conscious of her beauty and her triumphs; or now,

in this artistic costume, in which she was less imposing, but more

enchanting and more gracious.

Wilhelmina wore an under-skirt of white satin, a red tunic, gayly

embroidered and festooned with white roses; a white satin bodice,

embroidered with silver, defined her full but pliant form, and displayed

her luxurious bust in its rare proportions; a bouquet of red roses

was fastened upon each shoulder, and held the silvery veil which half

concealed the lovely throat and bosom. The long, black, unpowdered hair

fell in graceful ringlets about her fair neck, and formed a dark frame

for the beautiful face, glowing with health, youth, and intellect. In

her hair she wore a wreath of red and white roses, and a bouquet of the

same in her bosom.

She was, indeed, dazzling in her beauty, and was, perhaps, conscious of

her power; her eyes sparkled, and a ravishing smile played upon her lips

as she looked up at the prince, who stood dumb and embarrassed before

her, and could find no words to express his admiration.

“If it is agreeable to your highness, let us join your company,” said

the princess, at last, anxious to put an end to this interview. She

extended her hand coolly to her husband; he grasped it, and held it

fast, but still stood silently looking upon her.

“Madame,” said he, at last, in low and hesitating tones--“madame, I have

a request to make of you.”

“Command me, my husband,” said she, coldly; “what shall I do?”

“I do not wish to command, but to entreat,” said the prince.

“Well, then, Prince Henry, speak your request.”

The prince gave the bouquet of white camelias to his wife, and said, in

a faltering, pleading voice, “I beg you to accept this bouquet from me,

and to wear it to-day in your bosom, although it is not your shepherd

who offers it!”

“No, not my shepherd, but my husband,” said the princess, removing

angrily the bouquet of roses from her bodice. “I must, of course, wear

the flowers he gives me.”

Without giving one glance at the flowers, she fastened them in her

bosom.

“If you will not look upon them for my sake,” said the prince,

earnestly, “I pray you, give them one glance for the flowers’ sake. You

will at least feel assured that no other shepherdess is adorned with

such a bouquet.”

“Yes,” said Wilhelmina, “these are not white roses; indeed, they seem to

be artificial flowers; their leaves are hard and thick like alabaster,

and dazzlingly white like snow. What flowers are these, my prince?”

“They are camelias. I recently heard you speak of these rare flowers,

which had just been imported to Europe. I hoped to please you by placing

them in your hands.”

“Certainly; but I did not know that these new exotics were blooming in

our land.”

“And they are not,” said Prince Henry. “This bouquet comes from

Schwetzingen; there, only, in Germany, in the celebrated green-houses of

the Margravine of Baden can they be seen.”

“How, then, did you get them?” said the princess, astonished.

“I sent a courier to Schwetzingen; the blossoms were wrapped in moist,

green moss, and are so well preserved, that they look as fresh as when

they were gathered six days since.”

“And you sent for them for me?” said Wilhelmina.

“Did you not express a wish to see them?” replied the prince; and his

glance rested upon her with such ardent passion that, blushing, she cast

her eyes to the ground, and stood still and ashamed before him.

“And you have not one little word of thanks?” said the prince, after a

long pause. “Will you not fasten these pure flowers on your bosom, and

allow them to die a happy death there? Alas! you are hard and cruel with

me, princess; it seems to me that your husband dare claim from you more

of kindliness and friendship.”

“My husband!” cried she, in a mocking tone. She turned her eyes,

searchingly, in every direction around the room. “It appears to me that

we are alone and wholly unobserved, and that it is here unnecessary

for us to play this comedy and call ourselves by those names which we

adopted to deceive the world, and which you taught me to regard as empty

titles. It is, indeed, possible that a wife should be more friendly and

affectionate to her husband; but I do not believe that a lady dare

give more encouragement to a cavalier than I manifest to your royal

highness.”

“You are more friendly to all the world than to me, Wilhelmina,” said

the prince, angrily. “You have a kindly word, a magic glance, a gracious

reception for all others who approach you. To me alone are you cold

and stern; your countenance darkens as soon as I draw near; the smile

vanishes from your lips; your brow is clouded and your eyes are fixed

upon me with almost an expression of contempt. I see, madame, that you

hate me! Well, then, hate me; but I do not deserve your contempt, and I

will not endure it! It is enough that you martyr me to death with your

cutting coldness, your crushing indifference. The world, at least,

should not know that you hate me, and I will not be publicly humiliated

by you. What did I do this morning, for example? Why were you so cold

and scornful? Wherefore did you check your gay laugh as I entered the

room? wherefore did you refuse me the little flower you held in your

hand, and then throw it carelessly upon the floor?”

The princess looked at him with flashing eyes.

“You ask many questions, sir, and on many points,” said she, sharply.

“I do not think it necessary to reply to them. Let us join our company.”

She bowed proudly and advanced, but the prince held her back.

“Do not go,” said he, entreatingly, “do not go. Say first that you

pardon me, that you are no longer angry. Oh, Wilhelmina, you do not know

what I suffer; you can never know the anguish which tortures my soul.”

“I know it well; on the day of our marriage your highness explained

all. It was not necessary to return to this bitter subject. I have not

forgotten one word spoken on that festive occasion.”

“What do you mean, Wilhelmina? How could I, on our wedding-day, have

made known to you the tortures which I now suffer, from which I was then

wholly free, and in whose possibility I did not believe?”

“It is possible that your sufferings have become more intolerable,” said

the princess, coldly; “but you confided them to me fully and frankly at

that time. It was, indeed, the only time since our marriage we had any

thing to confide. Our only secret is that we do not love and never can

love each other; that only in the eyes of the world are we married.

There is no union of hearts.”

“Oh, princess, your words are death!” And completely overcome, he sank

upon a chair.

Wilhelmina looked at him coldly, without one trace of emotion.

“Death?” said she, “why should I slay you? We murder only those whom we

love or hate. I neither love nor hate you.”

“You are only, then, entirely indifferent to me,” asked the prince.

“I think, your highness, this is what you asked of me, on our

wedding-day. I have endeavored to meet your wishes, and thereby, at

least, to prove to you that I had the virtue of obedience. Oh, I can

never forget that hour,” cried the princess. “I came a stranger, alone,

ill from home-sickness and anguish of heart, to Berlin. I was betrothed

according to the fate of princesses. I was not consulted! I did not

know--I had never seen the man to whom I must swear eternal love and

faith. This was also your sad fate, my prince. We had never met. We

saw each other for the first time as we stood before God’s altar, and

exchanged our vows to the sound of merry wedding-bells, and the roar of

cannon. I am always thinking that the bells ring and the cannon thunders

at royal marriages, to drown the timid, trembling yes, forced from

pallid, unwilling lips, which rings in the ears of God and men like a

discord--like the snap of a harp-string. The bells chimed melodiously.

No man heard the yes at which our poor hearts rebelled! We alone heard

and understood! You were noble, prince; you had been forced to swear a

falsehood before the altar; but in the evening, when we were alone in

our apartment, you told me the frank and honest truth. State policy

united us; we did not and could never love each other! You were amiable

enough to ask me to be your friend--your sister; and to give me an

immediate proof of a brother’s confidence, you confessed to me that,

with all the ardor and ecstasy of your youthful heart, you had loved a

woman who betrayed you, and thus extinguished forever all power to

love. I, my prince, could not follow your frank example, and give a like

confidence. I had nothing to relate. I had not loved! I loved you not!

I was therefore grateful when you asked no love from me. You only asked

that, with calm indifference, we should remain side by side, and greet

each other, before the world, with the empty titles of wife and husband.

I accepted this proposal joyfully, to remain an object of absolute

indifference to you, and to regard you in the same light. I cannot,

therefore, comprehend why you now reproach me.”

“Yes! yes! I said and did all that,” said Prince Henry, pale and

trembling with emotion. “I was a madman! More than that, I was a

blasphemer! Love is as God--holy, invisible, and eternal; and he who

does not believe in her immortality, her omnipresence, is like the

heathen, who has faith only in his gods of wood and stone, and whose

dull eyes cannot behold the invisible glory of the Godhead. My heart had

at that time received its first wound, and because it bled and pained me

fearfully, I believed it to be dead, and I covered it up with bitter

and cruel remembrances, as in an iron coffin, from which all escape was

impossible. An angel drew near, and laid her soft, fine hand upon my

coffin, my wounds were healed, my youth revived, and I dared hope in

happiness and a future. At first, I would not confess this to myself. At

first, I thought to smother this new birth of my heart in the mourning

veil of my past experience; but my heart was like a giant in his first

manhood, and cast off all restraint; like Hercules in his cradle, he

strangled the serpents which were hissing around him. It was indeed a

painful happiness to know that I had again a heart, that I was capable

of feeling the rapture and the pain, the longing, the hopes and fears,

the enthusiasm and exaltation, the doubt and the despair which make the

passion of love, and I have to thank you, Wilhelmina--you alone, you, my

wife, for this new birth. You turn away your head, Wilhelmina! You smile

derisively! It is true I have not the right to call you my wife. You are

free to spurn me from you, to banish me forever into that cold, desert

region to which I fled in the madness and blindness of my despair. But

think well, princess; if you do this, you cast a shadow over my life.

It is my whole future which I lay at your feet, a future for which fate

perhaps intends great duties and greater deeds. I cannot fulfil these

duties, I can perform no heroic deed, unless you, princess, grant me the

blessing of happiness. I shall be a silent, unknown, and useless prince,

the sad and pitiful hanger-on of a throne, despised and unloved, a

burden only to my people, unless you give freedom and strength to my

sick soul, which lies a prisoner at your feet. Wilhelmina, put an end

to the tortures of the last few months, release me from the curse which

binds my whole life in chains; speak but one word, and I shall have

strength to govern the world, and prove to you that I am worthy of you.

I will force the stars from heaven, and place them as a diadem upon your

brow. Say only that you will try to love me, and I will thank you for

happiness and fame.”

Prince Henry was so filled with his passion and enthusiasm, that he did

not remark the deadly pallor of Wilhelmina’s face--that he did not see

the look of anguish and horror with which her eyes rested for one moment

upon him, then shrank blushingly and ashamed upon the floor. He seized

her cold, nerveless hands, and pressed them to his heart; she submitted

quietly. She seemed turned to stone.

“Be merciful, Wilhelmina; say that you forgive me--that you will try to

love me.”

The princess shuddered, and glanced up at him. “I must say that,”

murmured she, “and you have not once said that you love me.”

The prince shouted with rapture, and, falling upon his knees, he

exclaimed, “I love you! I adore you! I want nothing, will accept

nothing, but you alone; you are my love, my hope, my future. Wilhelmina,

if you do not intend me to die at your feet, say that you do not spurn

me--open your arms and clasp me to your heart.”

The princess stood immovable for a moment, trembling and swaying from

side to side; her lips opened as if to utter a wild, mad cry--pain was

written on every feature. The prince saw nothing of this--his lips were

pressed upon her hand, and he did not look up--he did not see his

wife press her pale lips tightly together to force back her cries of

despair--he did not see that her eyes were raised in unspeakable agony

to heaven.

The battle was over; the princess bowed over her husband, and her hands

softly raised him from his knees. “Stand up, prince--I dare not see you

lying at my feet. You have a right to my love--you are my husband.”

Prince Henry clasped her closely, passionately in his arms.

CHAPTER IV. THE FETE IN THE WOODS.

No fete was ever brighter and gayer than that of Rheinsberg. It is true,

the courtly circle waited a long time before the beginning of their

merry sports. Hours passed before the princely pair joined their guests

in the music-saloon.

The sun of royalty came at last, shedding light and gladness. Never had

the princess looked more beautiful--more rosy. She seemed, indeed, to

blush at the consciousness of her own attractions. Never had Prince

Henry appeared so happy, so triumphant, as to-day. His flashing eyes

seemed to challenge the whole world to compete with his happiness; joy

and hope danced in his eyes; never had he given so gracious, so kindly a

greeting to every guest, as to-day.

The whole assembly was bright and animated and gave themselves up

heartily to the beautiful idyl for which they had met together under the

shadow of the noble trees in the fragrant woods of Rheinsberg. No gayer,

lovelier shepherds and shepherdesses were ever seen in Arcadia, than

those of Rheinsberg to-day. They laughed, and jested, and performed

little comedies, and rejoiced in the innocent sports of the happy

moment. Here wandered a shepherd and his shepherdess, chatting merrily;

there, under the shadow of a mighty oak, lay a forlorn shepherd singing,

accompanied by his zitter, a love-lorn ditty to his cruel shepherdess,

who was leading two white lambs decked with ribbons, in a meadow near

by, and replied to his tender pleading with mocking irony. Upon the

little lake, in the neighborhood of which they had assembled, the

snow-white swans swam majestically to and fro. The lovely shepherdesses

stood upon the borders and enticed the swans around them, and laughed

derisively at the shepherds who had embarked in the little boats, and

were now driven sportively back in every direction, and could find no

place to land.

Prince Henry loved this sort of fete, and often gave such at Rheinsberg,

but never had he seemed to enjoy himself so thoroughly as to-day. His

guests generally sympathized in his happiness, but there was one

who looked upon his joyous face with bitterness. This was Louise du

Trouffle, once Louise von Kleist, once the beloved of the prince.

She was married, and her handsome, amiable, and intelligent husband was

ever by her side; but the old wounds still burned, and her pride bled

at the contempt of the prince. She knew he was ignorant of the great

sacrifice she had been forced to make--that he despised, in place of

admiring and pitying her.

The prince, in order to show his utter indifference, had invited her

husband and herself to court. In the pride of his sick and wounded

heart, he resolved to convince the world that the beautiful Louise

von Kleist had not scorned and rejected his love. In her presence he

resolved to show his young wife the most lover-like attentions, and

prove to his false mistress that he neither sought nor fled from

her--that he had utterly forgotten her.

But Louise was not deceived by this acting. She understood him

thoroughly, and knew better than the prince himself, that his

indifference was assumed, and his contempt and scorn was a veil thrown

over his betrayed and quivering heart to conceal his sufferings from

her. Louise had the courage to accept Prince Henry’s invitations, and to

take part in all the festivities with which he ostentatiously celebrated

his happiness. She had the courage to receive his cutting coldness, his

cruel sarcasm, his contempt, with calm composure and sweet submission.

With the smile of a stoic, she offered her defenceless breast to his

poisoned arrows, and even the tortures she endured were precious in

her sight. She was convinced that the prince had not relinquished or

forgotten her--that his indifference and contempt was assumed to hide

his living, breathing love. For some time past the change in the manners

and bearing of the prince had not escaped the sharp, searching glance

of the experienced coquette. For a long time he appeared not to see

her--now she felt that he did not see her. He had been wont to say the

most indifferent things to her in a fierce, excited tone--now he was

self-possessed, and spoke to her softly and kindly.

“The wound has healed,” said Louise du Trouffle to herself. “He no

longer scorns because he no longer loves me.” But she did not know that

he had not only ceased to love her, but loved another passionately.

This suspicion was excited, however, for the first time to-day. In the

flashing eye, the glad smile, the proud glance which he fixed upon his

fair young wife, Louise discovered that Henry had buried the old love

and a new one had risen from its ashes. This knowledge tortured her

heart in a wild storm of jealousy. She forgot all considerations

of prudence, all fear, even of the king. She had been compelled to

relinquish the hand of the prince, but she would not lose him wholly.

Perhaps he would return to her when he knew what a fearful offering she

had made to him. He would recognize her innocence, and mourn over the

tortures he had inflicted during the last year. She would try this! She

would play her last trump, and dare all with the hope of winning.

There stood the prince under the shadow of a large tree, gazing dreamily

at his wife, who, with other shepherdesses, and her shepherd, Count

Kalkreuth, was feeding the swans on the border of the lake. The prince

was alone, and Louise rashly resolved to approach him. He greeted her

with a slight nod, and turning his eyes again upon his wife, he said,

carelessly, “Are you also here, Madame du Trouffle?”

“Your royal highness did me the honor to invite me--I am accustomed to

obey your wishes, and I am here.”

“That is kind,” said the prince, abstractedly, still glancing at the

princess.

Louise sighed deeply, and stepping nearer, she said, “Are you still

angry with me, my prince? Have you never forgiven me?”

“What?” said the prince, quietly; “I do not remember that I have any

thing to forgive.”

“Ah, I see! you despise me still,” said Louise, excitedly; “but I

will bear this no longer! I will no longer creep about like a culprit,

burdened with your curse and your scorn. You shall at least know what it

cost me to earn your contempt--what a tearful sacrifice I was compelled

to make to secure your supposed personal happiness. I gave up for you

the happiness of my life, but I can and will no longer fill a place of

shame in your memory. If, from time to time, your highness thinks of me,

you shall do me justice!”

“I think no longer of you in anger,” said the prince, smiling. “That

sorrow has long since passed away.”

“From your heart, prince, but not from mine! My heart bleeds, and will

bleed eternally! You must not only forgive--you must do me justice.

Listen, then: and so truly as there is a God above us, I will speak the

truth. I did not betray you--I was not faithless. My heart and my soul

I laid gladly at your feet, and thanked God for the fulness of my

happiness. My thoughts, my existence, my future, was chained to you.

I had no other will, no other wish, no other hope. I was your slave--I

wanted nothing but your love.”

“Ah, and then came this Monsieur du Trouffle, and broke your

fetters--gave your heart liberty and wings for a new flight,” said

Prince Henry.

“No, then came the king and commanded me to give you up,” murmured

Louise; “then came the king, and forced me to offer up myself and my

great love to your future welfare. Oh, my prince! recall that terrible

hour in which we separated. I said to you that I had betrothed myself to

Captain du Trouffle--that of my own free choice, and influenced by love

alone, I gave myself to him.”

“I remember that hour.”

“Well, then, in that hour we were not alone. The king was concealed

behind the portiere, and listened to my words. He dictated them!--he

threatened me with destruction if I betrayed his presence by look or

word; if I gave you reason to suspect that I did not, of my own choice

and lovingly, give myself to this unloved, yes, this hated man! I

yielded only after the most fearful contest with the king, to whom, upon

my knees and bathed in tears, I pleaded for pity.”

“What means could the king use, what threats could he utter, which

forced you to such a step?” said the prince, incredulously. “Did he

threaten you with death if you did not obey? When one truly loves, death

has no terrors! Did he say he would murder me if you did not release me?

You knew I had a strong arm and a stronger will; you should have trusted

both. You placed your fate in my hands; you should have obeyed no other

commands than mine. And now shall I speak the whole truth? I do not

believe in this sacrifice on your part; it would have required more than

mortal strength, and it would have been cruel in the extreme. You saw

what I suffered. My heart was torn with anguish! No, madame, no; you did

not make this sacrifice, or, if you did, you loved me not. If you had

loved me, you could not have seen me suffer so cruelly, you would have

told the truth, even in the presence of the king. No earthly power can

control true love; she is self-sustained and makes her own laws. No! no!

I do not believe in this offering; and you make this excuse either to

heal my sick heart, or because your pride is mortified at my want of

consideration; you wish to recover my good opinion.”

“Alas! alas! he does not believe me,” cried Louise.

“No, I do not believe you,” said the prince, kindly; “and yet you must

not think that I am still angry. I not only forgive, but I thank you.

It is to you, indeed, Louise, that I owe my present happiness, all those

noble and pure joys which a true love bestows. I thank you for this--you

and the king. It was wise in the king to deny me that which I then

thought essential to my happiness, but which would, at last, have

brought us both to shame and to despair. The love, which must shun the

light of day and hide itself in obscurity, pales, and withers, and dies.

Happy love must have the sunlight of heaven and God’s blessing upon it!

All this failed in our case, and it was a blessing for us both that you

saw it clearly, and resigned a doubtful happiness at my side for surer

peace with Monsieur du Trouffle. From my soul I thank you, Louise. See

what a costly treasure has bloomed for me from the grave of my betrayed

love. Look at that lovely young woman who, although disguised as a

shepherdess, stands out in the midst of all other women, an imperial

queen! a queen of beauty, grace, and fascination! This charming,

innocent, and modest young woman belongs to me; she is my wife; and I

have your inconstancy to thank you for this rare gem. Oh, madame, I have

indeed reason to forgive you for the past, to be grateful to you as

long as I live. But for you I should never have married the Princess

Wilhelmina. What no menaces, no entreaties, no commands of the king

could accomplish, your faithlessness effected. I married! God, in his

goodness, chose you to be a mediator between me and my fate; it was

His will that, from your hand, I should receive my life’s blessing.

You cured me of a wandering and unworthy passion, that I might feel the

truth and enjoy the blessing of a pure love, and a love which now fills

my heart and soul, my thoughts, my existence for my darling wife.”

“Ah, you are very cruel,” said Louise, scarcely able to suppress her

tears of rage.

“I am only true, madame,” said the prince, smiling. “You wished to know

of me if I were still angry with you, and I reply that I have not only

forgiven, but I bless your inconstancy. And now, I pray you let us end

this conversation, which I will never renew. Let the past die and be

buried! We have both of us commenced a new life under the sunshine of a

new love; we will not allow any cloud of remembrances to cast a shadow

upon it. Look, the beautiful shepherdesses are seeking flowers in the

meadows, and my wife stands alone upon the borders of the lake. Allow me

to join her, if only to see if the clear waters of the lake reflect back

her image as lovely and enchanting as the reality.”

The prince bowed, and with hasty steps took the path that led to the

lake.

Louise looked at him scornfully. “He despises me and he loves her

fondly; but she--does the princess love him?--not so! her glance is

cold, icy, when she looks upon him; and to-day I saw her turn pale as

the prince approached her. No, she loves him not; but who then--who? she

is young, ardent, and, it appears to me, impressible; she cannot

live without love. I will find out; a day will come when I will take

vengeance for this hour. I await that day!”

While Louise forced herself to appear gay, in order to meet her husband

without embarrassment, and the prince walked hastily onward, the

princess stood separated from her ladies, on the borders of the lake,

with the Count Kalkreuth at her side. The count had been appointed her

cavalier for the day, by the prince her husband; she seemed to give

her undivided attention to the swans, who were floating before her, and

stretching out their graceful necks to receive food from her hands. As

she bowed down to feed the swans, she whispered lightly, “Listen, count,

to what I have to say to you. If possible, laugh merrily, that my ladies

may hear; let your countenance be gay, for I see the prince approaching.

In ten minutes he will be with us; do you understand my low tones?”

“I understand you, princess; alas! I fear I understand without words; I

have read my sentence in the eyes of your husband. The prince suspects

me.”

“No,” said she, sadly bowing down and plucking a few violets, which she

threw to the swans; “he has no suspicion, but he loves me.”

The count sprang back as if wounded. “He loves you!” he cried, in a

loud, almost threatening tone. “For pity’s sake speak low,” said the

princess. “Look, the ladies turn toward us, and are listening curiously,

and you have frightened the swans from the shore. Laugh, I pray you;

speak a few loud and jesting words, count, I implore you.”

“I cannot,” said the count. “Command me to throw myself into the lake

and I will obey you joyfully, and in dying I will call your name and

bless it; but do not ask me to smile when you tell me that the prince

loves you.”

“Yes, he loves me; he confessed it to-day,” said the princess,

shuddering. “Oh, it was a moment of inexpressible horror; a moment in

which that became a sin which, until then, had been pure and innocent.

So long as my husband did not love me, or ask my love, I was free to

bestow it where I would and when I would; so soon as he loves me, and

demands my love, I am a culprit if I refuse it.”

“And I false to my friend,” murmured Kalkreuth.

“We must instantly separate,” whispered she. “We must bury our love

out of our sight, which until now has lived purely and modestly in our

hearts, and this must be its funeral procession. You see I have already

begun to deck the grave with flowers, and that tears are consecrating

them.” She pointed with her jewelled hand to the bouquet of white

camelias which adorned her bosom.

“It was cruel not to wear my flowers,” said the count. “Was it not

enough to crush me?--must you also trample my poor flowers, consecrated

with my kisses and my whispers, under your feet?”

“The red roses which you gave me,” said she, lightly, “I will keep as a

remembrance of the beautiful and glorious dream which the rude

reality of life has dissipated. These camelias are superb, but without

fragrance, and colorless as my sad features. I must wear them, for my

husband gave them to me, and in so doing I decorate the grave of my

love. Farewell!--hereafter I will live for my duties; as I cannot accept

your love, I will merit your highest respect. Farewell, and if from this

time onward we are cold and strange, never forget that our souls belong

to each other, and when I dare no longer think of the past, I will pray

for you.”

“You never loved me,” whispered the count, with pallid, trembling lips,

“or you could not give me up so rashly; you would not have the cruel

courage to spurn me from you. You are weary of me, and since the prince

loves you, you despise the poor humble heart which laid itself at your

feet. Yes, yes, I cannot compete with this man, who is a prince and the

brother of a king; who--”

“Who is my husband,” cried she, proudly, “and who, while he loves me,

dares ask that I shall accept his love.”

“Ah, now you are angry with me,” stammered the count; “you--”

“Hush!” whispered she, “do you not see the prince? Do laugh! Bow down

and give the swans these flowers!”

The count took the flowers, and as he gave them to the swans, he

whispered:

“Give me at least a sign that you are not angry, and that you do not

love the prince. Throw this hated bouquet, which has taken the place of

mine, into the water; it is like a poisoned arrow in my heart.”

“Hush!” whispered the princess. She turned and gave the prince a

friendly welcome.

Prince Henry was so happy in her presence, and so dazzled by her beauty,

that he did not remark the melancholy of the count, and spoke with him

gayly and jestingly, while the count mastered himself, and replied in

the same spirit.

The princess bowed down to the swans, whom she enticed once more with

caresses to the borders of the lake. Suddenly she uttered a loud cry,

and called to the two gentlemen for help. The great white swan had torn

the camelias from the bosom of the princess, and sailed off proudly upon

the clear waters of the lake.

CHAPTER V. INTRIGUES.

While Prince Henry celebrated Arcadian fetes at Rheinsberg, and

gave himself up to love and joy, King Frederick lived in philosophic

retirement at Sans-Souci. He came to Berlin only to visit the

queen-mother, now dangerously ill, or to attend the meetings of his

cabinet ministers. Never had the king lived so quietly, never had he

received so few guests at Sans-Souci, and, above all, never had the

world so little cause to speak of the King of Prussia. He appeared

content with the laurels which the two Silesian wars had placed upon his

heroic brow, and he only indulged the wish that Europe, exhausted by

her long and varied wars, would allow him that rest and peace which the

world at large seemed to enjoy. Those who were honored with invitations

to Sans-Souci, and had opportunities to see the king, could only speak

of that earthly paradise; of the peaceful stillness which reigned

there, and which was reflected in every countenance; of Frederick’s calm

cheerfulness and innocent enjoyment.

“The king thinks no more of politics,” said the frolicsome Berliners;

“he is absorbed in the arts and sciences, and, above all other things,

he lives to promote the peaceful prosperity of his people.” The balance

of power and foreign relations troubled him no longer; he wished for no

conquests, and thought not of war. In the morning he was occupied

with scientific works, wrote in his “Histoire de mon Temps,” or to his

friends, and took part in the daily-recurring duties of the government.

The remainder of the day was passed in the garden of Sans-Souci, in

pleasant walks and animated conversation, closing always with music.

Concerts took place every evening in the apartments of the king, in

which he took part, and he practised difficult pieces of his own or

Quantz’s composition, under Quantz’s direction. From time to time he was

much occupied with his picture-gallery, and sent Gotzkowsky to Italy to

purchase the paintings of the celebrated masters.

King Frederick appeared to have reached his goal; at least, that which,

during the storm of war, he had often called his ideal; he could devote

his life to philosophy and art in the enchanting retirement of his

beloved Sans-Souci. The tumult and discord of the world did not trouble

him; in fact, the whole world seemed to be at peace, and all Europe was

glad and happy.

Maria Theresa was completely bound by the last peace contract at

Dresden; besides, the two Silesian wars had weakened and impoverished

Austria, and time was necessary to heal her wounds before she dared make

a new attempt to reconquer the noble jewel of Silesia, which Frederick

had torn from her crown. Notwithstanding her pious and Christian

pretensions, she hated Frederick with her whole heart.

England had allied herself with Russia. France was at the moment too

much occupied with the pageants which the lovely Marquise de Pompadour

celebrated at Versailles, not to be in peace and harmony with all the

world; yes, even with her natural enemy, Austria. Count Kaunitz, her

ambassador at Paris, had, by his wise and adroit conduct, banished the

cloud of mistrust which had so long lowered between these two powers.

This was the state of things at the close of the year 1775. Then was the

general quiet interrupted by the distant echo of a cannon. Europe was

startled, and rose up from her comfortable siesta to listen and inquire

after the cause of this significant thunderbolt. This roar of cannon,

whose echo only had been heard, had its birth far, far away in America.

The cannon, however, had been fired by a European power--by England,

always distinguished for her calculating selfishness, which she wished

the world to consider praiseworthy and honorable policy. England

considered her mercantile interests in America endangered by France, and

she thirsted with desire to have not only an East India but a West India

company. The French colonies in America had long excited the envy and

covetousness of England, and as a sufficient cause for war had utterly

failed, she was bold enough to take the initiative without excuse!

In the midst of a general peace, and without any declaration of war,

she seized upon a country lying on the borders of the Ohio River,

and belonging to French Canada, made an attack upon some hundred

merchant-ships, which were navigating the Ohio, under the protection of

the ships-of-war, and took them as prizes. [Footnote: “Characteristics

of the Important Events of the Seven Years’ War,” by Retson.]

That was the cannon-shot which roused all Europe from her comfortable

slumber and dreamy rest.

The Empress of Austria began to make warlike preparations in Bohemia,

and to assemble her troops on the borders of Saxony and Bohemia. The

Empress of Russia discontinued instantaneously her luxurious feasts

and wild orgies, armed her soldiers, and placed them on the borders of

Courland. She formed an immediate alliance with England, by which she

bound herself to protect the territory of George II. in Germany, if

attacked by France, in retaliation for the French merchant-ships

taken by England on the Ohio River. Hanover, however, was excepted, as

Frederick of Prussia might possibly give her his aid. For this promised

aid, Russia received from England the sum of 150,000 pounds sterling,

which was truly welcome to the powerful Bestuchef, from, the extravagant

and pomp-loving minister of the queen.

Saxony also prepared for war, and placed her army on the borders of

Prussia, for which she received a subsidy from Austria. This was as

gladly welcomed by Count Bruhl, the luxurious minister of King Augustus

the Third of Poland and Saxony, as the English subsidy was by Bestuchef.

The King of France appeared to stand alone; even as completely alone as

Frederick of Prussia. Every eye therefore was naturally fixed upon

these two powers, who seemed thus forced by fate to extend the hand of

fellowship to each other, and form such an alliance as England had done

with Russia, and Austria with Saxony.

This contract between Prussia and France would have been the signal

for a general war, for which all the powers of Europe were now arming

themselves. But France did not extend her hand soon enough to obtain

the friendship of Prussia. France distrusted Prussia, even as Austria,

England, Russia, and Saxony distrusted and feared the adroit young

adventurer, who in the last fifty years had placed himself firmly

amongst the great powers of Europe, and was bold, brave, and wise enough

to hold a powerful and self-sustained position in their circle.

France--that is to say, Louis the Fifteenth--France--that is to say, the

Marquise de Pompadour, hated the King of Prussia manfully. By his bold

wit he had often brought the French court and its immoralities into

ridicule and contempt.

Austria and her minister Kaunitz and Maria Theresa hated Frederick of

Prussia, because of his conquest of Silesia.

Russia--that is to say, Elizabeth and Bestuchef--hated the King of

Prussia for the same reason with France. Frederick’s cutting wit had

scourged the manners of the Russian court, as it had humiliated and

exposed the court of France.

Saxony--that is to say, Augustus the Third, and his minister, Count

Bruhl--hated Frederick from instinct, from envy, from resentment. This

insignificant and small neighbor had spread her wings and made so bold a

flight, that Saxony was completely over-shadowed.

England hated no one, but she feared Prussia and France, and this fear

led her to master the old-rooted national hatred to Russia, and form an

alliance with her for mutual protection. But the English people did not

share the fears of their king; they murmured over this Russian ally, and

this discontent, which found expression in Parliament, rang so loudly,

that Frederick might well have heard it, and formed his own conclusions

as to the result. But did he hear it? Was the sound of his flute so

loud? Was his study hermetically sealed, so that no echo from the

outside world could reach his ears?

There was no interruption to his quiet, peaceful life; he hated nobody,

made no warlike preparations; his soldiers exercised no more than

formerly. Truly they exercised; and at the first call to battle, 150,000

men would be under arms.

But Frederick seemed not inclined to give this call; not inclined to

exchange the calm pleasures of Sans-Souci for the rude noises of tents

and battle-fields. He seemed to be in peaceful harmony with all nations.

He was particularly friendly and conciliating toward the Austrian

embassy; and not only was the ambassador, Count Peubla invited often

to the royal table, but his secretary, Baron Weingarten came also

to Potsdam and Sans-Souci. The king appeared attached to him, and

encouraged him to come often, to walk in the royal gardens.

Frederick was gracious and kind toward the officials of all the German

powers. On one occasion, when the wife of Councillor Reichart, attached

to the Saxon embassy, was confined, at Frederick’s earnest wish, his

private secretary, Eichel, stood as god-father to the child. [Footnote:

“Characteristics of the Important Events of the Seven Years’ War.”]

In order to promote good feeling in Saxony, the king sent Count

Mattzahn, one of the most eloquent cavaliers of the day, to the Dresden

court; and so well supplied was he, that he dared compete in pomp and

splendor with Count Bruhl.

Frederick appeared to attach special importance to the friendship of

Saxony, and with none of his foreign ambassadors was he engaged in so

active a correspondence as with Mattzahn. It was said that these letters

were of a harmless and innocent nature, relating wholly to paintings,

which the count was to purchase from the Saxon galleries, or to music,

which Frederick wished to obtain from amongst the collection of the dead

Hesse, or to an Italian singer Frederick wished to entice to Berlin.

The world no longer favored Frederick’s retirement. The less disposed he

was to mingle in politics, the more Maria Theresa, Elizabeth of Russia,

Augustus of Saxony, and the Marquise de Pompadour agitated the subject.

France had not forgotten that the contract between herself and Prussia

was about to expire. She knew also that the subsidy money between

England and Russia had not yet been voted by Parliament. It was

therefore possible to reap some advantages from this point. With this

view, France sent the Duke de Nivernois as special ambassador to Berlin,

to treat with the king as to the renewal of the old alliance.

The Duke de Nivernois came with a glittering suite to Berlin, and was

received at the Prussian court with all the consideration which his rank

and official character demanded. The grand master of ceremonies, Baron

von Pollnitz, was sent forward to meet him, and to invite him, in the

name of the king, to occupy one of the royal palaces in Berlin.

Every room of the palace was splendidly decorated for the reception of

the duke, and as soon as he arrived, two guards were placed before the

house--a mark of consideration which the king had only heretofore given

to reigning princes.

The duke accepted these distinguished attentions with lively gratitude,

and pleaded for an immediate audience, in order to present his

credentials.

Pollnitz was commissioned to make all necessary arrangements, and agree

with the duke as to the day and hour of the ceremony.

The king, who wished to give the French duke a proof of his

consideration, intended that the presentation should be as imposing as

possible, and all Berlin was to be witness of the friendship existing

between the French and Prussian courts.

Upon the appointed day, a dazzling assemblage of equipages stood

before the palace of the Duke de Nivernois. These were the royal festal

carriages, intended for the members of the French embassy. Then followed

a long line of carriages, occupied by the distinguished members of

the Prussian court. Slowly and solemnly this pompous procession moved

through the streets, and was received at the portal of the king’s palace

by the royal guard. Richly-dressed pages, in advance of whom stood the

grand master of ceremonies with his golden staff, conducted the French

ambassador to the White saloon, where the king, in all his royal pomp,

and surrounded by the princes of his house, received him.

The solemn ceremony began; the duke drew near the throne, and, bowing

his knee, handed his credentials to the king, who received them with a

gracious smile.

The duke commenced his address; it was filled with flowery phrases,

suited to the great occasion. Frederick listened with the most earnest

attention, and his reply was kind, but dignified and laconic.

The public ceremony was over, and now came the important part of the

audience, the confidential conversation. To this point the duke had

looked with lively impatience; for this, indeed, had he been sent to

Berlin.

The king descended from the throne, and laying aside all the solemnity

of court etiquette, he approached the duke in the most gracious and

genial manner, welcomed him heartily, and expressed his sincere delight

at his arrival.

“Ah, sire,” said the duke, with animation, “how happy will my king be

to learn that his ambassador has been so graciously received by your

majesty!”

The king smiled. “I thought the ceremony was all over,” said he,

“and that I no longer spoke with the ambassador, but with the Duke de

Nivernois, whom I know and love, and whose intellectual conversation

will afford me a rare pleasure. Let us, therefore, chat together

innocently, and forget the stiff ceremonies with which, I think, we

have both been sufficiently burdened today. Tell me something of Paris,

monsieur, of that lovely, enchanting, but overbold coquette, Paris, whom

the world adores while it ridicules, and imitates while it blames.”

“Ah, sire, if I must speak of Paris, I must first tell you of my

king--of my king, who wishes nothing more ardently than the renewal

of the bond of friendship between your majesty and himself, and the

assurance of its long continuance, who--”

“That is most kind of his majesty,” said Frederick, interrupting him,

“and I certainly share the friendly wishes of my exalted brother of

France. But tell me now something of your learned men. How goes it with

the Academy? Do they still refuse Voltaire a seat, while so many unknown

men have become academicians?”

“Yes, sire these academicians are obstinate in their conclusions, and,

as the Academy is a sort of republic, the king has no power to control

them If that were not so, my exalted master, King Louis, in order to be

agreeable to your majesty, would exert all his influence, and--”

“Ah, sir,” interrupted the king, “it is just and beautiful that the

Academy is a free republic, which will not yield to the power and

influence of the king. Art and science need for their blossom and growth

freedom of thought and speech. Fate ordained that I should be born

a king, but when alone in my study, alone with my books, I am fully

content to be republican in the kingdom of letters. I confess the truth

to you when, as a wise republican, I read thoughtfully in the pages of

history, I sometimes come to the conclusion that kings and princes are

unnecessary articles of luxury, and I shrug my shoulders at them rather

contemptuously.”

“And yet, sire, the arts need the protection of princes; that the

republic of letters blooms and flourishes in a monarchy is shown in

Prussia, where a royal republican and a republican king governs his

people, and at the same time gives freedom of thought and speech to

science. France should be proud and happy that your majesty has adopted

so many of her sons into your republic of letters; we dare, therefore,

come to the conclusion that your majesty will not confine your interest

wholly to them, but that this alliance between France and Prussia, which

my king so earnestly desires and--”

“Unhappily,” said the king, interrupting him eagerly, “the distinguished

Frenchmen who have become my allies, are exactly those whom their

strong-minded, fanatical mother, La France, has cast out from her bosom

as dishonored sons. Voltaire lives in Ferney. Jean Jacques Rousseau,

whom I admire but do not love, lives in Geneva, where he has been

obliged to take refuge. I have also been told that the pension which, in

a favorable moment, was granted to D’Alembert, has been withdrawn.

Have I been falsely informed? has my friend D’Alembert not fallen

into disgrace? is not my friend the encyclopaedian, regarded as a

transgressor, and a high traitor because he uses the undoubted right of

free thought, does not blindly believe, but looks abroad with open eyes

and a clear intellect?”

The duke replied by a few confused and disconnected words, and a shadow

fell upon his clear countenance; three times had Frederick interrupted

him when he sought to speak of the King of France and his friendship for

his brother of Prussia. The duke did not dare choose this theme for the

fourth time, which was so evidently distasteful to the king; he must,

therefore, submit and follow the lead of his majesty, and in lieu of

alliances and state questions discuss philosophy and the arts. So soon

as the duke came to this conclusion, he smoothed his brow, and, with all

his amiability, animation, and intelligence, he replied to the questions

of the king, and the conversation was carried on in an unbroken stream

of wit and gayety.

“At the next audience I will surely find an opportunity to speak of

politics,” said the duke to himself. “The king cannot always be an

immovable as to-day.”

But the second and the third audience came, and the king was as

inexplicable as the first time; he conversed with the duke kindly and

freely showed him the most marked attention and personal confidence; but

so often as the duke sought to introduce the subject of politics and the

public interests which had brought him to Berlin, the king interrupted

him and led the conversation to indifferent subjects. This lasted two

weeks, and the French court looked with painful anxiety for intelligence

from the Duke de Nivernois that the old alliance was renewed and fully

ratified, and she had, therefore, nothing to fear from Prussia. This

uncertainty was no longer to be borne, and the duke determined to end it

by a coup d’etat.

He wrote, therefore, to the king, and asked for a private audience. To

his great joy his request was granted; the king invited him to come the

next day to Sans-Souci. “At last! at last!” said the duke, drawing a

long breath; and with proud, French assurance, he added, “To-morrow,

then, we will renew this contract which binds the hands of Prussia, and

gives France liberty of action.”

CHAPTER VI. THE PRIVATE AUDIENCE.

The king received the French ambassador without ceremony. There were no

guards, no pages, no swarms of curious listening courtiers, only a few

of his trusty friends, who welcomed the duke and conversed with him,

while Pollnitz entered the adjoining room and informed the king of his

arrival.

“His majesty entreats the duke to enter.” said Pollnitz, opening the

door of the library. The king advanced. He was dressed simply; even the

golden star, which was seldom absent from his coat, was now missing.

“Come, duke,” said the king, pleasantly, “come into my tusculum.” He

then entered the library, quickly followed by the duke.

“Well, sir,” said the king, “we are now in that room in which I lately

told you I was but a republican. You have crossed the threshold of the

republic of letters!”

“But I see a king before me,” said the duke, bowing reverentially;

“a king who has vanquished his republic, and surpassed all the great

spirits that have gone before him.”

The king’s glance rested upon the shelves filled with books, on whose

back glittered in golden letters the most distinguished names of all

ages.

“Homer, Tacitus, Livy, Petrarch!--ye great spirits of my republic! hear

how this traitor slanders you.”

“How I honor you, sire, for truly it is a great honor to be subdued and

vanquished by such a king as Frederick the Second.”

The king looked at him fixedly. “You wish to bewilder me with flattery,

duke,” said he, “well knowing that it is a sweet opiate, acceptable to

princes, generally causing their ruin. But in this chamber, duke, I am

safe from this danger, and here in my republic we will both enjoy the

Spartan soup of truth. Believe me, sir, it is at times a wholesome

dish, though to the pampered stomach it is bitter and distasteful. I can

digest it, and as you have come to visit me, you will have to partake of

it.”

“And I crave it, sire--crave it as a man who has fasted for two weeks.”

“For two weeks?” said the king, laughing. “Ah, it is true you have been

here just that time.”

“For two long weeks has your majesty kept me fasting and longing for

this precious soup,” said the duke, reproachfully.

“My broth was not ready,” said the king, gayly; “it was still bubbling

in the pot. It is now done, and we will consume it together. Let us be

seated, duke.”

If Frederick had turned at this moment, he would have seen the grand

chamberlain Pollnitz advancing on tiptoe to the open door, in order to

listen to the conversation. But the king was looking earnestly at the

ambassador. After a few moments of silence, he turned to the duke.

“Is my soup still too hot for you?” said he, laughingly.

“No, sire,” said the duke, bowing. “But I waited for your majesty to

take the first spoonful. Would it not be better to close that door?”

“No,” said the king, hastily; “I left it open, intentionally, so that

your eyes, when wearied with the gloom of my republic, could refresh

themselves on the glittering costumes of my courtiers.”

“He left it open,” thought the duke, “for these courtiers to hear all

that is said. He wishes the whole world to know how he rejected the

friendship of France.”

“Well,” said the king, “I will take my spoonful. We will commence

without further delay. Duke de Nivernois, you are here because the

contract made between France and Prussia is at an end, and because

France wishes me to fancy that she is anxious for a renewal of this

treaty, and for the friendship of Prussia.”

“France wishes to convince you of this, sire,” said the duke.

“Convince me?” said the king, ironically. “And how?”

“King Louis of France not only proposes to renew this contract, she, who

he wishes to draw the bonds of friendship much closer between France and

Prussia.”

“And to what end?” said the king. “For you well know, duke, that in

politics personal inclinations must not be considered. Were it not so, I

would, without further delay, grasp the friendly hand that my brother of

France extends toward me, for the whole world knows that I love

France, and am proud of the friendship of her great spirits. But as,

unfortunately, there is no talk here of personal inclinations but of

politics, I repeat my question. To what end does France desire the

friendship of Prussia? What am I to pay for it? You see, duke, I am a

bad diplomatist--I make no digression, but go to the point at once.”

“And that, perhaps, is the nicest diplomacy,” said the duke, sighing.

“But, duke, do tell me, why is France so anxious for the friendship of

Prussia?”

“To have an ally in you and be your ally. By the first, France will have

a trusty and powerful friend in Germany when her lands are attacked by

the King of England; by the last, your majesty will have a trusty and

powerful friend when Prussia is attacked by Russia or Austria.”

“We will now speak of the first,” said the king, quietly. “France, then,

thinks to transplant this war with England to German ground?”

“Everywhere, sire, that the English colors predominate. England alone

will be accountable for this war.”

“It is true England has been hard upon you, but still it seems to me you

have revenged yourselves sufficiently. When England made herself supreme

ruler of the Ohio, France, by the conquest of the Isle of Minorca,

obtained dominion over the Mediterranean Sea, thereby wounding England

so deeply, that in her despair she turned her weapons against herself.

Admiral Byng, having been overcome by your admiral Marquis de la

Gallissionaire, paid for it with his life. I think France should be

satisfied with this expiation.”

“France will wash off her insults in English blood, and Minorca is no

compensation for Canada and Ohio. England owes us satisfaction, and we

will obtain it in Hanover.”

“In Hanover?” repeated the king, angrily.

“Hanover will be ours, sire, though we had no such ally as Germany; but

it will be ours the sooner if we have that help which you can give us.

Standing between two fires, England will have to succumb, there will be

no escape for her. That is another advantage, sire, that France expects

from the treaty with Prussia. But I will now speak of the advantages

which your majesty may expect from this alliance. You are aware that

Prussia is surrounded by threatening enemies; that Austria and Russia

are approaching her borders with evil intentions, and that a day may

soon come when Maria Theresa may wish to reconquer this Silesia which,

in her heart, she still calls her own. When this time comes, your

majesty will not be alone; your ally, France, will be at your side;

she will repay with faithful, active assistance the services which your

majesty rendered her in Hanover. She will not only render her all the

assistance in her power, but she will also allow her to partake of the

advantages of this victory. Hanover is a rich land, not rich only in

products, but in many other treasures. The Electors of Hanover have in

their residences not only their chests filled with gold and precious

jewels, but also the most magnificent paintings. It is but natural that

we should pay ourselves in Hanover for the expenses of this war of which

England is the cause. You, then, will share with us these treasures. And

still this is not all. France is grateful; she offers you, therefore,

one of her colonies, the Isle of Tobago, as a pledge of friendship and

love.”

“Where is this isle?” said the king, quietly.

“In the West Indies, sire.”

“And where is Hanover?”

The duke looked at the king in amazement, and remained silent.

The king repeated his question.

“Well,” said the duke, hesitatingly, “Hanover is in Germany.”

“And for this German land which, with my aid, France is to conquer, I

am to receive as a reward the little Isle of Tobago in the West Indies!

Have you finished, dyke, or have you other propositions to make?”

“Sire, I have finished, and await your answer.”

“And this answer, duke, shall be clearer and franker than your

questions. I will begin by answering the latter part of your speech.

Small and insignificant as the King of Prussia may appear in your eyes,

I would have you know he is no robber, no highwayman; he leaves these

brilliant amusements without envy to France. And now, my dear duke, I

must inform you, that since this morning it has been placed out of my

power to accept this alliance; for this morning a treaty was signed, by

which I became the ally of England!”

“It is impossible, sire,” cried the duke; “this cannot be!”

“Not possible, sir!” said the king, “and still it is true. I have formed

a treaty with England--this matter is settled! I have been an ally of

Louis XV.; I have nothing to complain of in him. I love him; well, am I

now his enemy? I hope that there may be a time when I may again approach

the King of France. Pray tell him how anxiously I look forward to this

time. Tell him I am much attached to him.”

“Ah, sire,” said the duke, sighing, “it is a great misfortune. I dare

not go to my monarch with this sad, unexpected news; my monarch who

loves you so tenderly, whose most earnest wish it is for France to be

allied to Prussia.”

“Ah, duke,” said Frederick, laughing, “France wishes for ships as

allies. I have none to offer--England has. With her help I shall keep

the Russians from Prussia, and with the aid she will keep the French

from Hanover.”

“We are to be enemies, then?” said the duke, sadly.

“It is a necessary evil, for which there is no remedy. But Louis XV. can

form other alliances,” said Frederick, ironically. “It may be for his

interest to unite with the house of Austria!”

The duke was much embarrassed.

“Your majesty is not in earnest,” said he, anxiously.

“Why not, duke?” said Frederick; “an alliance between France and

Austria--it sounds very natural. If I were in your place, I would

propose this to my court.”

He now rose, which was a sign to the duke that the audience was at an

end.

“I must now send a courier at once to my court,” said the duke, “and

I will not fail to state that your majesty advises us to unite with

Austria.”

“You will do well; that is,” said the king, with a meaning smile--“that

is, if you think your court is in need of such advice, and has not

already acted without it. When do you leave, duke?”

“To-morrow morning, sire.”

“Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my heart I am the friend of

France, though we meet as enemies on the battle-field.”

The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing deeply, left the royal

library, “the republic of letters,” to hasten to Berlin.

The king looked after him thoughtfully.

“The die is cast,” said he, softly. “There will be war. Our days of

peace and quietude are over, and the days of danger are approaching!”

CHAPTER VII. THE TRAITOR.

The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the garden

of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering dew-drops.

All was quiet--Nature alone was up and doing; no one was to be seen,

no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and the chirping of

birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if the sound of human

misery and passion could not reach this spot. There was something so

holy in this garden, that you could but believe it to be a part

of paradise in which the serpent had not yet exercised his arts of

seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he

is sleeping; he is still resting from the toils and sorrows of the past

day. Man is here--he is coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature

with his sorrows and complaints.

The little gate at the farthest end of that shady walk is opened, and

a man enters. The dream is at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but a

beautiful garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated by the

foot of man. He hastens up the path leading to the palace; he hurries

forward, panting and gasping. His face is colorless, his long hair is

fluttering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed and glaring; his

clothes are covered with dust, and his head is bare.

There is something terrifying in the sudden appearance of this man.

Nature seems to smile no more since he came; the trees have stopped

their whispering, the birds cannot continue their melodious songs since

they have seen his wild, anxious look. The peacefulness of Nature is

broken. For man--that is to say, misery, misfortune; for man--that is

to say, sin, guilt, and meanness--is there, pouring destroying drops of

poison in the golden chalice of creation.

Breathlessly he hurries on, looking neither to right nor left. He

has now reached the terrace, and now he stops for a moment to recover

breath. He sees not the glorious panorama lying at his feet; he is blind

to all but himself. He is alone in the world--alone with his misery, his

pain. Now he hastens on to the back of the palace. The sentinels walking

before the back and the front of the castle know him, know where he is

going, and they barely glance at him as he knocks long and loudly at

that little side window.

It is opened, and a young girl appears, who, when perceiving this pale,

anxious countenance, which is striving in vain to smile at her, cries

out loudly, and folds her hands as if in prayer.

“Hush!” said he, roughly; “hush! let me in.”

“Some misfortune has happened!” said she, terrified.

“Yes, Rosa, a great misfortune, but let me in, if you do not wish to

ruin me.”

The young girl disappears, and the man hastens to the side door of the

castle. It is opened, and he slips in.

Perfect peace reigns once more in the garden of Sans-Souci. Nature is

now smiling, for she is alone with her innocence. Man is not there! But

now, in the castle, in the dwelling of the castle warder, and in the

room of his lovely daughter Rosa, all is alive. There is whispering, and

weeping, and sighing, and praying; there is Rosa, fearful and trembling,

her face covered with tears, and opposite her, her pale, woe-begone

lover.

“I have been walking all night,” said he, with a faint and hollow voice.

“I did not know that Berlin was so far from Potsdam, and had I known it,

I would not have dared to take a wagon or a horse; I had to slip away

very quietly. While by Count Puebla’s order my room was guarded, and

I thought to be in it, I descended into the garden by the grape-vine,

which reached up to my window. The gardener had no suspicion of how

I came there, when I required him to unlock the door, but laughed

cunningly, thinking I was bound to some rendezvous. And so I wandered

on in fear and pain, in despair and anger, and it seemed to me as if the

road would never come to an end. At times I stopped, thinking I heard

behind me wild cries and curses, the stamping of horses, and the rolling

of wheels; but it was imagination. Ah! it was a frightful road; but it

is past. But now I will be strong, for this concerns my name, my life,

my honor. Why do you laugh, Rosa?” said he, angrily; “do you dare to

laugh, because I speak of my name--my honor?”

“I did not laugh,” said Rosa, looking with terror at the disturbed

countenance of her lover.

“Yes, you laughed, and you were right to laugh, when I spoke of my

honor; I who have no honor; I who have shamed my name; I upon whose brow

is the sign of murder: for I am guilty of the ruin of a man, and the

chains on his hands are cursing my name.”

“My God! He is mad,” murmured Rosa.

“No, I am not mad,” said he, with a heart-breaking smile. “I know all,

all! Were I mad, I would not be so unhappy. Were I unconscious, I would

suffer less. But, no, I remember all. I know how this evil commenced,

how it grew and poisoned my heart. The evil was my poverty, my

covetousness, and perhaps also my ambition. I was not content to

bear forever the chains of bondage; I wished to be free from want.

I determined it should no more be said that the sisters of Count

Weingarten had to earn their bread by their needlework, while he feasted

sumptuously at the royal table. This it was that caused my ruin.

These frightful words buzzed in my ears so long, that in my despair I

determined to stop them at any price, and so I committed my first crime,

and received a golden reward for my treason. My sisters did not work

now; I bought a small house for them, and gave them all that I received.

I shuddered at the sight of this money; I would keep none of it. I was

again the poor secretary Weingarten, but my family was not helpless;

they had nothing to fear.”

To whom was he telling all this? Certainly not to that young girl

standing before him, pale and trembling. He had forgotten himself; he

had forgotten her whom in other days he had called his heart’s darling.

As she sank at his feet and covered his hands with her tears, he rose

hastily from his seat; he now remembered that he was not alone.

“What have I said?” cried he, wildly. “Why do you weep?”

“I weep because you have forgotten me,” said she, softly; “I weep

because, in accusing yourself, you make no excuse for your crime; not

even your love for your poor Rosa.”

“It is true,” said he, sadly, “I had forgotten our love. And still it is

the only excuse that I have for my second crime. I had determined to be

a good man, and to expiate my one crime throughout my whole life. But

when I saw you, your beauty fascinated me, and you drew me on. I went

with open eyes into the net which you prepared for me, Rosa. I allowed

myself to be allured by your beauty, knowing well that it would draw me

into a frightful abyss.”

“Ah,” said Rosa, groaning, “how cruelly you speak of our love!”

“Of our love!” repeated he, shrugging his shoulders. “Child, in this

hour we will be true to each other. Ours was no true love. You were in

love with my noble name and position--I with your youth, your beauty,

your coquettish ways. Our souls were not in unison. You gave yourself

to me, not because you loved me, but because you wished to deceive me.

I allowed myself to be deceived because of your loveliness and because I

saw the golden reward which your deceitful love would bring me.”

“You are cruel and unjust,” said Rosa, sadly. “It may be true that you

never loved me, but I loved you truly. I gave you my whole heart.”

“Yes, and in giving it,” said he, harshly--“in giving it you had the

presence of mind to keep the aim of your tenderness always in view.

While your arms were around me, your little hand which seemed to rest

upon my heart, sought for the key which I always kept in my vest-pocket,

and which I had lately told you belonged to the desk in which the

important papers of the embassy were placed. You found this key, Rosa,

and I knew it, but I only laughed, and pressed you closer to my heart.”

“Terrible! terrible!” said Rosa, trembling. “He knew all, and still he

let me do it!”

“Yes I allowed you to do it--I did not wish to be better than the girl

I loved: and, as she desired to deceive me, I let myself be deceived. I

allowed it, because the demon of gold had taken possession of me. I took

the important papers out of my desk, to which you had stolen the key,

and hid them. Then the tempters came and whispered of golden rewards, of

eternal gratitude, of fortune, honor; and these fiendish whispers misled

my soul. I sold my honor and became a traitor, and all this for the sake

of gold! So I became what I now am. I do not reproach you Rosa, for most

likely it would have happened without you.”

“But what danger threatens you now?” asked Rosa.

“The just punishment for a traitor,” said he, hoarsely. “Give me some

wine, Rosa, so that I can gain strength to go to the king at once.”

“To the king at this early hour?”

“And why not? Have I not been with him often at this hour, when I had

important news or dispatches to give him? So give me the wine, Rosa.”

Rosa left the room, but returned almost instantly. He took the bottle

from her and filled a glass hastily.

“Now,” said he, breathing deeply, “I feel that I live again. My blood

flows freely through my veins, and my heart is beating loudly. Now to

the king!”

He stood before a glass for a moment to arrange his hair; then pressed

a cold kiss upon Rosa’s pale, trembling lips, and left the room. With

a firm, sure tread, he hurried through the halls and chambers. No one

stopped him, for no one was there to see him. In the king’s antechamber

sat Deesen taking his breakfast.

“Is the king up?” asked Weingarten.

“The sun has been up for hours, and so of course the king is up,” said

Deesen, proudly.

“Announce me to his majesty; I have some important news for him.”

He entered the king’s chamber, and returned in a few moments for

Weingarten.

The king was sitting in an arm-chair by a window, which he had opened to

breathe the fresh summer air. His white greyhound, Amalthea, lay at his

feet, looking up at him with his soft black eyes. In his right hand the

king held his flute.

“You are early, sir,” said he, turning to Weingarten. “You must have

very important news.”

“Yes, sire, very important,” said Weingarten, approaching nearer.

The king reached out his hand. “Give them to me,” said he.

“Sire, I have no dispatches.”

“A verbal message, then. Speak.”

“Sire, all is lost; Count Puebla suspects me.”

The king was startled for a moment, but collected himself immediately.

“He suspects, but he is certain of nothing?”

“No, sire; but his suspicion amounts almost to certainty. Yesterday I

was copying a dispatch which was to go that evening, and which was of

the highest importance to your majesty, when I suddenly perceived

Count Puebla standing beside me at my desk. He had entered my room very

quietly, which showed that he had his suspicions, and was watching me.

He snatched my copy from the desk and read it. ‘For whom is this?’ said

he, in a threatening tone. I stammered forth some excuses; said that I

intended writing a history, and that I took a copy of all dispatches for

my work. He would not listen to me. ‘You are a traitor!’ said he, in

a thundering voice. ‘I have suspected you for some time; I am now

convinced of your treachery. You shall have an examination tomorrow;

for to-night you will remain a prisoner in your room.’ He then locked my

desk, put the key in his pocket, and, taking with him the dispatch and

my copy, left the room. I heard him lock it and bolt my door. I was a

prisoner.”

“How did you get out?” said the king.

“By the window, sire. And I flew here to throw myself at your majesty’s

feet, and to beg for mercy and protection.”

“I promised you protection and help in case of your detection--I will

fulfil my promise. What are your wishes. Let us see if they can be

realized.”

“Will your majesty give me some sure place of refuge where Count

Puebla’s threats cannot harm me?”

“You will remain here in the dwelling of the castle-warder until a

suitable residence can be found for you. What next? What plans have you

made for the future?”

“I would humbly beseech your majesty to give me some position in your

land worthy of my station, such as your highness promised me.”

“You remember too many of my promises,” said the king, shrugging his

shoulders.

“Your majesty will not grant me the promised position?” said Count

Weingarten, tremblingly.

“I remember no such promise,” said Frederick. “Men of your stamp are

paid, but not rewarded. I have made use of your treachery; but you are,

nevertheless, in my eyes a traitor, and I will have none such in my

service.”

“Then I am lost!” said Weingarten. “My honor, my good name, my future

are annihilated.”

“Your honor has been weighed with gold,” said the king, sternly, “and I

think I have already paid more for it than it was worth. Your good name,

it is true, will be from now changed into a bad one; and your mother

will have to blush when she uses it. Therefore I advise you to let it

go; to take another name; to begin a new existence, and to found a new

future.”

“A future without honor, without name, without position!” sighed

Weingarten, despairingly.

“So are men!” said the king, softly; “insolent and stubborn when they

think themselves secure; cowardly and uncertain when they are in danger.

So you were rash enough to think that your treacherous deeds would

always remain a secret? You did not think of a possible detection, or

prepare yourself for it. In treading the road which you have trodden,

every step should be considered. This, it seems to me, you have

not done. You wish to enjoy the fruits of your treachery in perfect

security; but you have not the courage to stand before the world as a

traitor. Do away with this name, which will cause you many dangers and

insults. Fly from this place, where you and your deeds are known. Under

a different name look for an asylum in another part of my land.

Money shall not fail you; and if what you have earned from me is not

sufficient, turn to me, and I will lend you still more. I will not

forget that to me your treachery has been of great use, and therefore

I will not desert you, though I shall despise the traitor. And now,

farewell! This is our last meeting. Call this afternoon upon my

treasurer; he will pay you two hundred louis d’or. And now go.” And

with a scornful look at Weingarten’s pale countenance, he turned to the

window.

Weingarten hurried past the halls and chambers, and entered Rosa’s room.

She read in his pale, sad face that he had no good news to tell her.

“Has it all been in vain?” said she, breathlessly.

“In vain?” cried he, with a scornful smile. “No, not in vain. The king

rewarded me well; much better than Judas Iscariot was rewarded. I have

earned a large sum of money, and am still to receive a thousand crowns.

Quiet yourself, Rosa; we will be very happy, for we will have money.

Only I must ask if the proud daughter of the royal castle-warder will

give her hand to a man who can offer her no name, no position. Rosa, I

warn you, think well of what you do. You loved me because I was a count,

and had position to offer you. From to-day, I have no position, no name,

no honor, no family. Like Ahasuerus, I will wander wearily through the

world, happy and thanking God if I can find a quiet spot where I am

not known, and my name was never heard. There I will rest, and trust to

chance for a name. Rosa, will you share with me this existence, without

sunshine, without honor, without a name?”

She was trembling so, that she could barely speak.

“I have no choice,” stammered she, at last; “I must follow you, for my

honor demands that I should be your wife. I must go with you; fate wills

it.”

With a loud shriek she fainted by his side. Weingarten did not raise

her; he glanced wildly at the pale, lifeless woman at his feet.

“We are both condemned,” murmured he, “we have both lost our honor. And

with this Cain’s mark upon our foreheads we will wander wearily through

the world.” [Footnote: Count Weingarten escaped from all his troubles

happily. He married his sweetheart, the daughter of the castle-warder,

and went to Altmark, where, under the name of Veis, he lived happily for

many years.]

The king, in the mean while, after Weingarten had left him, walked

thoughtfully up and down his room. At times he raised his head and gazed

with a proud, questioning glance at the sky. Great thoughts were at work

within him. Now Frederick throws back his head proudly, and his eyes

sparkle.

“The time has come,” said he, in a loud, full voice. “The hour for delay

is past; now the sword must decide between me and my enemies.” He rang

a bell hastily, and ordered a valet to send a courier at once to Berlin,

to call General Winterfeldt, General Retzow, and also Marshal Schwerin,

to Sans-Souci.

CHAPTER VIII. DECLARATION OF WAR.

A few hours after the departure of the courier, the heavy movement

of wheels in the court below announced to the king, who was standing

impatiently at his window, the arrival of the expected generals. In the

same moment, his chamberlain, opening wide the library door, ushered

them into his presence.

“Ah!” said the king, welcoming them pleasantly, “I see I am not so

entirely without friends as my enemies think. I have but to call,

and Marshal Schwerin, that is, wisdom and victory, is at my side; and

Generals Winterfeldt and Retzow, that is, youth and courage, boldness

and bravery, are ready to give me all the assistance in their power.

Sirs, I thank you for coming to me at once. Let us be seated; listen to

what I have to say, and upon what earnest important subjects I wish your

advice.”

And in a few words the king first showed them the situation of Europe

and of his own states, so as to prepare them for the more important

subjects he had to introduce before them.

“You will now understand,” said he, “why I was so willing to make this

contract with England. I hoped thereby to gain Russia, who is allied to

England, to my side. But these hopes have been destroyed. Russia,

angry with Britain for having allied herself to Prussia, has broken her

contract. Bestuchef, it is true, wavered for a moment between his love

of English guineas and his hatred of me, but hate carried the day.”

“But, sire,” said Retzow, hastily, “if your majesty can succeed in

making a reconciliation between France and England, you may become the

ally of these two powerful nations. Then let Austria, Russia, and Saxony

come upon us all at once, we can confront them.”

“We can do that, I hope, even without the assistance of France,” said

the king, impetuously. “We must renounce all idea of help from France;

she is allied to Austria. What Kaunitz commenced with his wisdom, Maria

Theresa carried out with her flattery. All my enemies have determined to

attack me at once. But I am ready for them, weapons in hand. I have been

hard at work; all is arranged, every preparation for the march of our

army is finished. And now I have called you together to counsel me as to

where we can commence our attack advantageously.”

Frederick stopped speaking, and gazed earnestly at his generals,

endeavoring to divine their thoughts. Marshal Schwerin was looking

silently before him; a dark cloud rested upon General Retzow’s brow; but

the young, handsome face of Winterfeldt was sparkling with delight at

the thought of war.

“Well, marshal,” said the king, impatiently, “what is your advice?”

“My advice, sire,” said the old marshal, sighing; “I see my king

surrounded by threatening and powerful foes; I see him alone in the

midst of all these allied enemies. For England may, perchance, send us

money, but she has no soldiers for us, and moreover, we must assist her

to defend Hanover. I cannot counsel this war, for mighty enemies are

around us, and Prussia stands alone.”

“No,” said Frederick, solemnly, “Prussia stands not alone!--a good cause

and a good sword are her allies, and with them she will conquer. And

now, General Retzow, let us have your opinion.”

“I agree entirely with Marshal Schwerin,” said Retzow. “Like him, I

think Prussia should not venture into this strife, because she is too

weak to withstand such powerful adversaries.”

“You speak prudently,” said Frederick, scornfully. “And now,

Winterfeldt, are you also against this war?”

“No, sire,” cried Winterfeldt, “I am for the attack, and never were

circumstances more favorable than at present. Austria has as yet made no

preparations for war; her armies are scattered, and her finances are in

disorder; and now it will be an easy task to attack her and subdue her

surprised army.”

The king looked at him pleasantly, and turning to the other generals,

said quietly.

“We must not be carried away by the brave daring of this youth; he is

the youngest among us, and is, perhaps, misled by enthusiasm. But we old

ones must reflect; and I wished to convince you that I had not failed to

do this. But all has been in vain.”

“Now is the time,” said Winterfeldt, with sparkling eyes, “to convince

the crippled, unwieldy Austrian eagle that the young eagle of Prussia

has spread her wings, and that her claws are strong enough to grasp all

her enemies and hurl them into an abyss.”

“And if the young eagle, in spite of his daring, should have to succumb

to the superiority of numbers,” said Marshal Schwerin, sadly. “If the

balls of his enemies should break his wings, thereby preventing his

flight for the future? Were it not better to avoid this possibility,

and not to allow the whole world to say that Prussia, out of love of

conquest, began a fearful war, which she could have avoided?”

“There is no reason in this war,” said General Retzow; “for, though

Austria, Saxony, and Russia are not our friends, they have not shown

as yet by any open act that they are our enemies; and though Austria’s

alliance with France surprised the world, so also did Prussia’s alliance

with England. Our soldiers will hardly know why they are going to

battle, and they will be wanting in that inspiration which is necessary

to excite an army to heroic deeds.”

“Inspiration shall not be wanting, and my army as well as yourselves

shall know the many causes we have for this war. The reasons I have

given you as yet have not satisfied you? Well, then, I will give

you others; and, by Heaven, you will be content with them! You think

Austria’s unkindly feelings to Prussia have not been shown by any overt

act. I will now prove to you that she is on the point of acting.” And

Frederick, lifting up some papers from his desk, continued: “These

papers will prove to you, what you seem determined not to believe,

namely, that Saxony, Russia, and, France are prepared to attack Prussia

with their combined forces, and to turn the kingdom of Prussia into a

margraviate once more. These papers are authentic proofs of the dangers

which hover over us. I will now inform you how I came by them, so

that you may be convinced of their genuineness. For some time I have

suspected that there was, amongst my enemies, an alliance against me,

and that they had formed a contract in which they had sworn to do all

in their power to destroy Prussia. I only needed to have my suspicions

confirmed, and to have the proofs of this contract in my hands. There

proofs were in the Saxon archives, and in the dispatches of the Austrian

embassy. It was therefore necessary to get the key of these archives,

and to have copies of these dispatches. I succeeded in doing both,

Chance, or if you prefer it, a kind Providence, came to my aid. The

Saxon chancellor, Reinitz, a former servant of General Winterfeldt, came

from Dresden to Potsdam to look for Winterfeldt and to confide to him

that a friend of his, Chancellor Minzel of Dresden, had informed him

that the state papers interchanged between the court of Vienna and

Dresden were kept in the Dresden archives, of which he had the key.

Winterfeldt brought me this important message. Reinitz conducted the

first negotiations with Menzel, which I then delivered into the hands of

my ambassador in Dresden, Count Mattzahn. Menzel was poor and covetous.

He was therefore easily to be bribed. For three years Mattzahn has

received copies of every dispatch that passed between the three courts.

I am quite as well informed of all negotiations between Austria and

France, for the secretary of the Austrian legation of this place,

a Count Weingarten, gave me, for promises and gold, copies of all

dispatches that came from Vienna and were forwarded to France. You see

the corruption of man has borne me good fruit, and that gold is a magic

wand which reveals all secrets. And now let us cast a hasty glance over

these papers which I have obtained by the aid of treachery and bribery.”

He took one of the papers and spread it before the astonished generals.

“You see here,” he continued, “a sample of all other negotiations. It is

a copy of a share contract which the courts of Vienna and Dresden

formed in 1745. They then regarded the decline of Prussia as so sure

an occurrence that they had already divided amongst themselves the

different parts of my land. Russia soon affixed her name also to this

contract, and here in this document you will see that these three powers

have sworn to attack Prussia at the same moment, and that for this

conquest, each one of the named courts was to furnish sixty thousand

men.”

While the generals were engaged in reading these papers, the king leaned

back in his arm-chair, gazing keenly at Retzow and Schwerin. He smiled

gayly as he saw Schwerin pressing his lips tightly together, and trying

in vain to suppress a cry of rage, and Retzow clinching his fists

vehemently.

When the papers had been read, and Schwerin was preparing to speak, the

king, with his head thrown proudly back, and gazing earnestly at his

listeners, interrupted him, saying:

“Now, sirs, perhaps you see the dangers by which we are surrounded.

Under the circumstances, I owe it to myself, to my honor, and to the

security of my land, to attack Austria and Saxony, and so to nip their

abominable designs in me bud, before their allies are ready to give

them any assistance. I am prepared, and the only question to be answered

before setting our army in motion, is where to commence the attack to

our advantage? For the deciding of this question, I have called you

together. I have finished and now, Marshal Schwerin, it is your turn.”

The old gray warrior arose. It may be that he was convinced by the

powerful proofs and words of the king, or that knowing that his will was

law it were vain to oppose him, but he was now as strongly for war as

the king or Winterfeldt.

“If there is to be war,” said he, enthusiastically, “let us start

to-morrow, take Saxony, and, in that land of corn, build magazines for

the holding of our provisions, so as to secure a way for our future

operations in Bohemia.”

“Ah! now I recognize my old Schwerin,” said the king, gayly pressing the

marshal’s hand. “No more delay! ‘To anticipate’ is my motto, and shall,

God willing, be Prussia’s in future.”

“And our army,” said Winterfeldt, with sparkling eyes, “has been

accustomed, for hundreds of years, not only to defend themselves,

but also to attack. Ah, at last it is to be granted us to fight our

arch-enemies in open field, mischief-making Austria, intriguing Saxony,

barbarous Russia, and finally lying, luxurious France, and to convince

them that, though we do not fear their anger, we share their hatred with

our whole hearts.”

“And you, Retzow,” said the king, sternly, turning to the general, who

was sitting silently with downcast head; “do your views coincide with

Schwerin’s? Or do you still think it were better to wait?”

“Yes, sire,” said Retzow, sadly; “I think delay, under the present

threatening circumstances, would be the wisest course; I--”

He was interrupted by the entrance of a valet, who approached the king,

and whispered a few words to him.

Frederick turned smilingly to the generals. “The princes, my brothers,

have arrived,” said he; “they were to be here at this hour to hear the

result of our consultation. And, it strikes me, they arrive at the right

moment. The princes may enter.”

CHAPTER IX. THE KING AND HIS BROTHERS.

The door was thrown open and the princes entered. First came the Prince

of Prussia, whose pale, dejected countenance was to-day paler and

sadder than usual. Then Prince Henry, whose quick bright eyes were fixed

inquiringly on General Retzow. The general shrugged his shoulders, and

shook his head. Prince Henry must have understood these movements, for

his brow became clouded, and a deep red suffused his countenance. The

king, who had seen this, laughed mockingly, and let the princes approach

very close to him, before addressing them.

“Sirs,” said he, “I have called you here, because I have some important

news to communicate. The days of peace are over and war is at hand!”

“War! and with whom?” said the Prince of Prussia, earnestly. “War with

our enemies!” cried the king. “War with those who have sworn Prussia’s

destruction. War with Austria, France, Saxony, and Russia!”

“That is impossible, my brother,” cried the prince, angrily. “You cannot

dream of warring against such powerful nations. You cannot believe in

the possibility of victory. Powerful and mighty as your spirit is it

will have to succumb before the tremendous force opposed to it. Oh! my

brother! my king! be merciful to yourself, to us, to our country. Do

not desire the impossible! Do not venture into the stormy sea of war,

to fight with your frail barks against the powerful men of war that your

enemies, will direct against you. We cannot be victorious! Preserve to

your country your own precious life, and that of her brave sons.”

The king’s eyes burned with anger; they were fixed with an expression of

deep hatred upon the prince.

“Truly, my brother,” said he, in a cold, cutting tone, “fear has made

you eloquent. You speak as if inspired.”

A groan escaped the prince, and he laid his hand unwittingly upon his

sword. He was deadly pale, and his lips trembled so violently, that he

could scarcely speak.

“Fear!” said he, slowly. “That is an accusation which none but the king

would dare to bring against me, and of which I will clear myself, if it

comes to this unhappy war which your majesty proposes, and which I now

protest against, in the name of my rights, my children, and my country.”

“And I,” said Prince Henry, earnestly--“I also protest against this war!

Have pity on us, my king. Much as I thirst for renown and glory, often

as I have prayed to God to grant me an occasion to distinguish myself,

I now swear to subdue forever this craving for renown, if it can only be

obtained at the price of this frightful, useless war. You stand alone!

Without allies, it is impossible to conquer. Why, then, brave certain

ruin and destruction?”

The king’s countenance was frightful to look at; his eyes were

flashing with rage, and his voice was like thunder, it was so loud and

threatening.

“Enough of this!” said he; “you were called here, not to advise, but

to receive my commands. The brother has heard you patiently, but now

the King of Prussia stands before you, and demands of you obedience and

submission. We are going to battle; this is settled; and your complaints

and fears will not alter my determination But all those who fear to

follow me on the battle-field, have my permission to remain at home, and

pass their time in love idyls. Who, amongst you all, prefers this? Let

him speak, and he shall follow his own inclinations.”

“None of us could do that,” said Prince Henry, passionately “If the

King of Prussia calls his soldiers, they will all come and follow their

chieftain joyfully, though they are marching to certain death. I have

already given you my personal opinion; it now rests with me to obey

you, as a soldier, as a subject. This I will do joyfully, without

complaining.”

“I also,” said Prince Augustus William, earnestly. “Like my brother,

I will know how to subdue my own opinions and fears, and to follow in

silent obedience my king and my chieftain.”

The king threw a glance of hatred upon the pale, disturbed countenance

of the prince.

“You will go where I command you,” said he, sharply; and not giving the

prince time to answer, he turned abruptly to Marshal Schwerin.

“Well, marshal, do you wish for a furlough, during this war? You heard

me say I would refuse it to no one.”

“I demand nothing of your majesty, but to take part in the first

battle against your enemies. I do not ask who they are. The hour for

consultation is past: it is now time to act. Let us to work, and that

right quickly.”

“Yes, to battle, sire,” cried Retzow, earnestly. “As soon as your

majesty has said that this war is irrevocable, your soldiers must have

no further doubts, and they will follow you joyfully, to conquer or to

die.”

“And you, Winterfeldt,” said the king, taking his favorite’s hand

tenderly; “have you nothing to say? Or have the Prince of Prussia’s

fears infected you, and made of you a coward?”

“Ah, no! sire,” said Winterfeldt, pressing the king’s hand to his

breast; “how could my courage fail, when it is Prussia’s hero king that

leads to battle? How can I be otherwise than joyous and confident

of victory, when Frederick calls us to fight against his wicked and

arrogant enemies? No! I have no fears; God and the true cause is on our

side.”

Prince Henry approached nearer to the king, and looking at him proudly,

he said:

“Sire, you asked General Winterfeldt if he shared the Prince of

Prussia’s fears. He says no; but I will beg your majesty to remember,

that I share entirely the sentiments of my dear and noble brother.”

As he finished, he threw an angry look at General Winterfeldt. The

latter commenced a fierce rejoinder, but was stopped by the king. “Be

still, Winterfeldt,” he said; “war has as yet not been declared,

and till then, let there at least be peace in my own house.” Then

approaching Prince Henry, and laying his hand on his shoulder, he said

kindly: “We will not exasperate each other, my brother. You have a

noble, generous soul, and no one would dare to doubt your courage. It

grieves me that you do not share my views as to the necessity of this

war, but I know that you will be a firm, helpful friend, and share with

me my dangers, my burdens, and if God wills it, also my victory.”

“Not I alone will do this,” cried Prince Henry, “but also my brother,

Augustus William, the Prince of Prussia, whose heart is not less brave,

whose courage--”

“Hush, Henry! I pray you,” said the Prince of Prussia, sadly; “speak not

of my courage. By defending it, it would seem that it had been doubted,

and that is a humiliation which I would stand from no one”

The king appeared not to have heard these words. He took some papers

from the table by which he was standing, and said:

“All that remains to be told you now, is that I agree with Marshal

Schwerin. We will commence the attack in Saxony. To Saxony, then,

gentlemen! But, until the day before the attack, let us keep even the

question of war a secret.”

Then, with the paper under his arm, he passed through the saloon and

entered his library.

There was a long pause after he left. The Prince of Prussia, exhausted

by the storm which had swept over his soul, had withdrawn to one of the

windows, where he was hid from view by the heavy satin damask curtains.

Prince Henry, standing alone in the middle of the room, gazed after his

brother, and a deep sigh escaped him. Then turning to Retzow, he said:

“You would not, then, fulfil my brother’s and my own wishes?”

“I did all that was in my power, prince,” said the general, sighing.

“Your highness did not wish this war to take place; you desired me, if

the king asked for my advice, to tell him that we were too weak, and

should therefore keep the peace. Well, I said this, not only because you

desired it, but because it was also my own opinion. But the king’s will

was unalterable. He has meditated this war for years. Years ago,

with Winterfeldt’s aid, he drew all the plans and made every other

arrangement.”

“Winterfeldt!” murmured the prince to himself, “yes, Winterfeldt is the

fiend whose whispers have misled the king. We suspected this long ago,

but we had to bear it in silence, for we could not prevent it.”

And giving his passionate nature full play, he approached General

Winterfeldt, who was whispering to Marshal Schwerin.

“You can rejoice, general,” said the prince, “for now you can take your

private revenge on the Empress of Russia.”

Winterfeldt encountered the prince’s angry glance with a quiet, cheerful

look.

“Your highness does me too much honor in thinking that a poor soldier,

such as I am, could be at enmity with a royal empress. What could this

Russian empress have done to me, that could call for revenge on my

part?”

“What has she done to you?” said the prince, with a mocking smile. “Two

things, which man finds hardest to forgive! She outwitted you, and took

your riches from you. Ah! general, I fear this war will be in vain,

and that you will not be able to take your wife’s jewels from St.

Petersburg, where the empress retains them.”

Winterfeldt subdued his anger, and replied: “You have related us a

beautiful fairy tale, prince, a tale from the Arabian Nights, in which

there is a talk of jewels and glorious treasures, only that in this

tale, instead of the usual dragon, an empress guards them. I acknowledge

that I do not understand your highness.”

“But I understand you perfectly, general. I know your ambitious and

proud plans. You wish to make your name renowned. General, I consider

you are much in fault as to this war. You were the king’s confidant--you

had your spies everywhere, who, for heavy rewards, imparted to you the

news by which you stimulated the king.”

“If in your eyes,” said Winterfeldt, proudly, “it is wrong to spend

your gold to find out the intrigues of your own, your king’s, and your

country’s enemies, I acknowledge that I am in fault, and deserve to be

punished. Yes, everywhere I have had my spies, and thanks to them, the

king knows Saxony’s, Austria’s, and Russia’s intentions. I paid these

spies with my own gold. Your highness may thus perceive that I am not

entirely dependent on those jewels of my wife which are said to be in

the Empress of Russia’s possession.”

At this moment the Prince of Prussia, who had been a silent witness to

this scene, approached General Winterfeldt.

“General,” said he, in a loud, solemn voice, “you are the cause of

this unfortunate war which will soon devastate our poor land. The

responsibility falls upon your head, and woe to you if this war, caused

by your ambition, should be the ruin of our beloved country! I would, if

there were no punishment for you on earth, accuse you before the throne

of God, and the blood of the slaughtered sons of my country, the blood

of my future subjects, would cry to Heaven for revenge! Woe to you it

this war should be the ruin of Prussia!” repeated Prince Henry. “I could

never forgive that; I would hold your ambition responsible for it, for

you have access to the king’s heart, and instead of dissipating his

distrust against these foreign nations, you have endeavored to nourish

it--instead of softening the king’s anger, you have given it fresh

food.”

“What I have done,” cried Winterfeldt, solemnly raising his right hand

heavenward--“what I have done was done from a feeling of duty, from love

of my country, and from a firm, unshaken trust in my king’s star, which

cannot fade, but must become ever more and more resplendent! May God

punish me if I have acted from other and less noble motives!”

“Yes, may God punish you--may He not revenge your crime upon our poor

country!” said Prince Augustus William. “I have said my last upon this

sad subject. From now on, my private opinions are subdued--I but obey

the king’s commands. What he requires of me shall be done--where he

sends me I will go, without questioning or considering, but quietly and

obediently, as it becomes a true soldier. I hope that you, my brother,

Marshal Schwerin, and General Retzow, will follow my example. The king

has commanded, we have but to obey cheerfully.”

Then, arm in arm, the princes left the audience-room and returned to

Berlin.

CHAPTER X. THE LAUREL-BRANCH.

While this last scene was passing in the audience-room, the king had

retired to his study, and was walking up and down in deep thought. His

countenance was stern and sorrowful--a dark cloud was upon his brow--his

lips were tightly pressed together--powerful emotions were disturbing

his whole being. He stopped suddenly, and raising his head proudly,

seemed to be listening to the thoughts and suggestions of his soul.

“Yes,” said he, “these were his very words: ‘I protest against this

war in the name of my rights, my children, and my country!’ Ah, it is a

pleasant thought to him that he is to be heir to my throne. He imagines

that he has rights beyond those that I grant him, and that he can

protest against an action of mine! He is a rebel, a traitor. He dares

to think of the time when I will be gone--of the time when he or his

children will wear this crown! I feel that I hate him as my father hated

me because I was his heir, and because the sight of me always reminded

him of his death! Yes, I hate him! The effeminate boy will disturb the

great work which I am endeavoring to perform. Under his weak hands, this

Prussia, which I would make great and powerful, will fail to pieces, and

all my battles and conquests will be in vain. He will not know how to

make use of them. I will make of my Prussia a mighty and much-feared

nation. And if I succeed, by giving up my every thought to this one

object, then my brother will come and destroy this work which has cost

me such pain and trouble. Prussia needs a strong, active king, not an

effeminate boy who passes his life in sighing for his lost love and in

grumbling at fate for making him the son of a king. Yes, I feel that I

hate him, for I foresee that he will be the destroyer of my great work.

But no, no--I do him wrong,” said the king, “and my suspicious heart

sees, perhaps, things that are not. Ah, has it gone so far? Must I,

also, pay the tribute which princes give for their pitiful splendor? I

suspect the heir to my throne, and see in him a secret enemy! Mistrust

has already thrown her shadow upon my soul, and made it dark and

troubled. Ah, there will come a cold and dreary night for me, when I

shall stand alone in the midst of all my glory!”

His head fell upon his breast, and he remained silent and immovable.

“And am I not alone, now?” said he, and in his voice there was a soft

and sorrowful sound. “My brothers are against me, because they do not

understand me; my sisters fear me, and, because this war will disturb

their peace and comfort, will hate me. My mother’s heart has cooled

toward me, because I will not be influenced by her; and Elizabeth

Christine, whom the world calls my wife, weeps in solitude over the

heavy chains which bind her. Not one of them loves me!--not one believes

in me, and in my future!”

The king, given up to these melancholy thoughts, did not hear a knock at

his door; it was now repeated, and so loudly, that he could not but hear

it. He hastened to the door and opened it. Winterfeldt was there, with a

sealed paper in his hand, which he gave to the king, begging him at the

same time to excuse this interruption.

“It is the best thing you could have done,” said the king, entering his

room, and signing to the general to follow him. “I was in bad company,

with my own sorrowful thoughts, and it is good that you came to

dissipate them.”

“This letter will know well how to do that,” said Winterfeldt handing

him the packet; “a courier brought it to me from Berlin.”

“Letters from my sister Wilhelmina, from Italy,” said the king, joyfully

breaking the seal, and unfolding the papers.

There were several sheets of paper closely written, and between them

lay a small, white packet. The king kept the latter in his hand, and

commenced reading eagerly. As he read, the dark, stern expression

gradually left his countenance. His brow was smooth and calm, and a

soft, beautiful smile played about his lips. He finished the letter,

and throwing it hastily aside, tore open the package. In it was a

laurel-branch, covered with beautiful leaves, which looked as bright and

green as if they had just been cut. The king raised it, and looked at it

tenderly. “Ah, my friend,” said he, with a beaming smile, “see how kind

Providence is to me! On this painful day she sends me a glorious token,

a laurel-branch. My sister gathered it for me on my birthday. Do you

know where, my friend? Bow your head, be all attention; for know that it

is a branch from the laurel-tree that grows upon Virgil’s grave! Ah, my

friend, it seems to me as if the great and glorious spirits of the olden

ages were greeting me with this laurel which came from the grave of one

of their greatest poets. My sister sends it to me, accompanied by some

beautiful verses of her own. An old fable says that these laurels grew

spontaneously upon Virgil’s grave, and that they are indestructible. May

this be a blessed omen for me! I greet you, Virgil’s holy shadow! I bow

down before you, and kiss in all humility your ashes, which have been

turned into laurels!”

Thus speaking, the king bowed his head, and pressed a fervent kiss upon

the laurel. He then handed it to Winterfeldt. “Do likewise, my friend,”

said he; “your lips are worthy to touch this holy branch, to inhale

the odor of these leaves which grew upon Virgil’s grave. Kiss this

branch--and now let us swear to become worthy of this kiss; swear that

in this war, which will soon begin, laurels shall either rest upon our

brows or upon our graves!”

Winterfeldt having sworn, repeated these words after him, “Amen!” said

the king; “God and Virgil have heard us.”

CHAPTER XI. THE BALL AT COUNT BRUHL’S.

Count Bruhl, first minister to the King of Saxony, gave to-day a

magnificent fete in his palace, in honor of his wife, whose birthday it

was. The feast was to be honored by the presence of the King of Poland,

the Prince Elector of Saxony, Augustus III., and Maria Josephine, his

wife. This was a favor which the proud queen granted to her favorite

for the first time. For she who had instituted there the stern Spanish

etiquette to which she had been accustomed at the court of her father,

Joseph I., had never taken a meal at the table of one of her subjects;

so holy did she consider her royal person, that the ambassadors of

foreign powers were not permitted to sit at the same table with her.

Therefore, at every feast at the court of Dresden, there was a small

table set apart for the royal family, and only the prime minister, Count

Bruhl, was deserving of the honor to eat with the king and queen. This

was a custom which pleased no one so well as the count himself, for it

insured him from the danger that some one might approach the royal pair,

and inform them of some occurrence of which the count wished them to

remain in ignorance.

There were many slanderers in this wretched kingdom--many who were

envious of the count’s high position--many who dared to believe that the

minister employed the king’s favor for his own good, and not for that of

his country. They said that he alone lived luxuriously in this miserable

land, while the people hungered; that he spent every year over a million

of thalers. They declared that he had not less than five millions now

lying in the banks of Rotterdam, Venice, and Marseilles; others

said that he had funds to the amount of seven millions. One of these

calumniators might possibly approach the king’s table and whisper into

the royal ear his wicked slanders; one of these evil-doers might even

have the audacity to make his unrighteous complaints to the queen. This

it was that caused Count Bruhl to tremble; this it was that robbed him

of sleep at night, of peace by day, this fear of a possible disgrace.

He was well acquainted with the history of Count Lerma, minister to King

Philip IV. of Spain. Lerma was also the ruler of a king, and reigned

over Spain, as Bruhl over Saxony. All had succumbed to his power and

influence, even the royal family trembled when he frowned, and felt

themselves honored by his smile. What was it that caused the ruin of

this all-powerful, irreproachable favorite? A little note which King

Philip found between his napkin one day, upon which was this address:

“To Philip IV., once King of Spain, and Master of both the Indies, but

now in the service of Count Lerma!” This it was that caused the count’s

ruin; Philip was enraged by this note, and the powerful favorite fell

into disgrace.

Count Bruhl knew this history, and was on his guard. He knew that even

the air which he breathed was poisoned by the malice of his enemies;

that those who paused in the streets to greet him reverentially when he

passed in his gilded carriage, cursed him in their inmost hearts; that

those friends who pressed his hand and sung songs in his praise, would

become his bitterest enemies so soon as he ceased paying for their

friendship with position, with pensions, with honors, and with orders.

He spent hundreds of thousands yearly to gain friends and admirers, but

still he was in constant fear that some enemy would undermine him. This

had indeed once happened. During the time that the king’s favor was

shared equally with Count Bruhl, Count Sulkovsky, and Count Hennicke,

whilst playing cards, a piece of gold was given to the king, upon which

was represented the crown of Poland, resting upon the shoulders of three

men, with the following inscription: “There are three of us, two

pages and one lackey!” The King of Poland was as much enraged by this

satirical piece of gold as was the King of Spain by his satirical note.

But Count Bruhl succeeded in turning the king’s anger upon the two other

shoulder-bearers of his crown. Counts Sulkovsky and Hennicke fell into

disgrace, and were banished from the court; Count Bruhl remained, and

reigned as absolute master over Poland and Saxony!

But reigning, he still trembled, and therefore he favored the queen’s

fancy for the strictest etiquette; therefore, no one but Count Bruhl

was to eat at the royal table; he himself took their napkins from their

plates and handed them to the royal couple; no one was to approach the

sovereigns who was not introduced by the prime minister, who was at once

master of ceremonies, field-marshal, and grand chamberlain, and received

for each of these different posts a truly royal salary. Etiquette and

the fears of the powerful favorite kept the royal pair almost prisoners.

But for to-day etiquette was to be done away with; the crowned heads

were to be gracious, so as to lend a new glory to their favorite’s

house. To-day the count was fearless, for there was no danger of a

traitor being among his guests. His wife and himself had drawn up the

list of invitations. But still, as there might possibly be those among

them who hated the count, and would very gladly injure him, he had

ordered some of the best paid of his friends to watch all suspicious

characters, not to leave them alone for a moment, and not to overlook a

single word of theirs. Of course, it was understood that the count and

his wife must remain continually at the side of the king and queen, that

all who wished to speak to them must first be introduced by the host or

hostess.

The count was perfectly secure to-day, and therefore gay and happy. He

had been looking at the different arrangements for this feast, and he

saw with delight that they were such as to do honor to his house. It

was, to be a summer festival: the entire palace had been turned into

a greenhouse, that served only for an entrance to the actual scene of

festivities. This was the immense garden. In the midst of the rarest and

most beautiful groups of flowers, immense tents were raised; they were

of rich, heavy silk, and were festooned at the sides with golden cords

and tassels. Apart from these was a smaller one, which outshone them

all in magnificence. The roof of this tent rested upon eight pillars of

gold; it was composed of a dark-red velvet, over which a slight gauze,

worked with gold and silver stars, was gracefully arranged. Upon the

table below this canopy, which rested upon a rich Turkish carpet, there

was a heavy service of gold, and the most exquisite Venetian glass;

the immense pyramid in the middle of the table was a master-work of

Benevenuto Cellini, for which the count had paid in Rome one hundred

thousand thalers. There were but seven seats, for no one was to eat

at this table but the royal pair, the prince-elector and his wife, the

Prince Xavier, and the Count and Countess Bruhl. This was a new triumph

that the count had prepared for himself; he wished his guests to see

the exclusive royal position he occupied. And no one could remain in

ignorance of this triumph, for from every part of the garden the royal

tent could be seen, being erected upon a slight eminence. It was like

a scene from fairyland. There were rushing cascades, beautiful marble

statues, arbors and bowers, in which were birds of every color from

every clime. Behind a group of trees was a lofty structure of the purest

marble, a shell, borne aloft by gigantic Tritons and mermaids, in which

there was room for fifty musicians, who were to fill the air with sweet

sounds, and never to become so loud as to weary the ear or disturb

conversation. If the tents, the rushing cascades, the rare flowers, the

many colored birds, were a beautiful sight by daylight, how much more

entrancing it would be at night, when illuminated by thousands of

brilliant lamps!

The count, having taken a last look at the arrangements and seen that

they were perfect, now retired to his rooms, and there, with the aid

of his twelve valets, he commenced his toilet. The countess had already

been in the hands of her Parisian coiffeur for some hours.

The count wore a suit of blue velvet. The price of embroidery in silver

and pearls on his coat would have furnished hundreds of wretched,

starving families with bread. His diamond shoe-buckles would almost have

sufficed to pay the army, which had gone unpaid for months. When his

toilet was finished, he entered his study to devote a few moments, at

least, to his public duties, and to read those letters which to-day’s

post had brought him from all parts of the world, and which his

secretary was accustomed to place in his study at this hour. He took a

letter, broke the seal hastily, and skimming over it quickly, threw it

aside and opened another, to read anew the complaints, the prayers, the

flatteries, the assurances of love, of his correspondents. But none of

them were calculated to compel the minister’s attention. He had long ago

hardened his heart against prayers and complaints; as for flattery, he

well knew that he had to pay for it with pensions, with position, with

titles, with orders, etc., etc. But it seemed as if the letters were

not all of the usual sort, for the expression of indifference which had

rested upon his countenance while reading the others, had vanished and

given place to one of a very different character. This letter was from

Flemming, the Saxon ambassador in Berlin, and contained strange, wild

rumors. The King of Prussia, it seemed, had left Berlin the day before,

with all the princes and his staff officers, and no one knew exactly

where he was going! Rumor said, though, that he and his army were

marching toward Saxony! After reading this, Count Bruhl broke out into a

loud laugh.

“Well,” said he, “it must be granted that this little poet-king,

Frederick, has the art of telling the most delightful fairy-tales to

his subjects, and of investing every action of his with the greatest

importance. Ah, Margrave of Brandenburg! we will soon be in a condition

to take your usurped crown from your head. Parade as much as you

like--make the world believe in you and your absurd manoeuvres--the day

will soon come when she will but see in you a poor knight with naught

but his title of marquis.” With a triumphant smile he threw down the

letter and grasped the next. “Another from Flemming?” said he. “Why,

truly, the good count is becoming fond of writing. Ah,” said he, after

reading it carelessly, “more warnings! He declares that the King of

Prussia intends attacking Saxony--that he is now already at our borders.

He then adds, that the king is aware of the contract which we and our

friends have signed, swearing to attack Prussia simultaneously. Well,

my good Flemming, there is not much wisdom needed to tell me that if the

king knows of our contract, he will be all the more on his guard,

and will make preparations to defend himself; for he would not be so

foolhardy as to attempt to attack our three united armies. No, no. Our

regiments can remain quietly in Poland, the seventeen thousand men here

will answer all purposes.”

“There is but one more of these begging letters,” said he, opening it,

but throwing it aside without reading it. Out of it fell a folded piece

of paper. “Why,” said the count, taking it up, “there are verses. Has

Flemming’s fear of the Prussian king made a poet of him?” He opened it

and read aloud:

“‘A piece of poetry which a friend, Baron Pollnitz, gave me yesterday.

The author is the King of Prussia.’”

“Well,” said the count, laughing, “a piece of poetry about me--the king

does me great honor. Let us see; perhaps these verses can be read at the

table to-day, and cause some amusement. ‘Ode to Count Bruhl,’ with this

inscription: ‘il ne faut pas s’inquieter de l’avsnir.’ That is a wise

philosophical sentence, which nevertheless did not spring from the brain

of his Prussian majesty. And now for the verses.” And straightening the

paper before him, he commenced.

“Esclave malheureux de la haute fortune,

D’un roi trop indolent souverain absolu,

Surcharge de travaux dont le soin L’importune.

Bruhl, quitte des grandeurs L’embarras superflu.

Au sein de ton opulence

Je vois le Dieu des ennuis,

Et dans ta magnificence

Le repos fait tes units.

“Descend de ce palais dont le superbe faite

Domine sur la Saxe, s’elevent aux cieux.

D’ou ton esprit craintif conjure la tempete

Que souleve ala cour un peuple d’envieux:

Vois cette grandeur fragile

Et cesse enfin d’admirer

L’eclat pompeux d’une ville

Ou tout feint de t’adorer.”

The count’s voice had at first been loud, pathetic, and slightly

ironical, but it became gradually lower, and sank at last almost to a

whisper. A deep, angry red suffused his face, as he read on. Again his

voice became louder as he read the last two verses:

“Connaissez la Fortune inconstante et legere;

La perfide se plait aux plus cruels revers,

On la voit, abuber le sage, le vulgaire,

Jouer insolemment tout ce faible univers;

Aujourd’hui c’est sur ma tete

Qu’elle repand des faveurs,

Des demain elle s’apprete

A les emporter ailleurs.”

“Fixe-t-elle sur moi sa bizarre inconstance,

Mon concur lui saura gre’ du bien qu’elle me fait

Veut’elle en d’autres lieux marquer sa bienvellance,

Je lui remets ses dons sans chagrin, sans regret.

Plein d’une vertu plus forte

J’epouse la pauvrete’

Si pour dot elle m’apporte

L’honneur et la probite’”

[Footnote: ODE TO COUNT BRUHL. Inscription.--“It is not necessary to

make ourselves uneasy about the future.”

“High Destiny’s unhappy slave,

Absolute lord of too indolent a king,

Oppressed with work whose care importunes him--

Bruhl, leave the useless perplexities of grandeur.

In the bosom of thine opulence

I see the God of the wearied ones,

And in thy magnificence

Repose makes thy nights.”

“Descend from this palace, whose haughty dome

Towering o’er Saxony, rises to the skies;

In which thy fearful mind confines the tempest.

Which agitates at the court, a nation of enviers.

Look at this fragile grandeur,

And cease at last to admire

The pompous shining of a city

Where all feign to adore thee.”

“Know that Fortune is light and inconstant;

A deceiver who delights

in cruel reverses;

She is seen to abuse the wise man, the vulgar

Insolently playing with all this weak universe.

To-day it is on my head

That she lets her favors fall,

By to-morrow she will be prepared

To carry them elsewhere.”

“Does she fix on me her wayward fickleness,

My heart will be grateful for the good she does me;

Does she wish to show elsewhere her benevolence,

I give her back her gifts without pain--without regret.

Filled with strongest virtue,

I will espouse Poverty,

If for dower she brings me

Honor and probity.”]

The paper fell from the count’s hand and he looked at it thoughtfully.

An expression of deep emotion rested upon his countenance, which, in

spite of his fifty years, could still be called handsome--as he repeated

in a low, trembling voice:

“J’epouse la pauvrete, Si pour dot elle m’apporte L’honneur et la

probite.”

The sun coming through the window rested upon his tall form, causing

the many jewels upon his garments to sparkle like stars on the blue

background, enveloping him in a sort of glory. He had repeated for the

third time, “J’epouse la pauvrete,” when the door leading to his wife’s

apartments was opened, and the countess entered in the full splendor of

her queenly toilet, sparkling with jewels. The count was startled by her

entrance, but he now broke out into a loud, mocking laugh.

“Truly, countess,” said he, “you could not have found a better moment to

interrupt me. For the last half hour my thoughts have been given up

to sentiment. Wonderful dreams have been chasing each other through

my brain. But you have again shown yourself my good angel, Antonia, by

dissipating these painful thoughts.” He pressed a fervent kiss upon her

hand, then looking at her with a beaming countenance, he said:

“How beautiful you are, Antonia; you must have found that mysterious

river which, if bathed in, insures perpetual youth and beauty.”

“Ah!” said the countess, smiling, “all know that no one can flatter so

exquisitely as Count Bruhl.”

“But I am not always paid with the same coin, Antonia,” said the count,

earnestly. “Look at this poem, that the King of Prussia has written of

me. Truly, there is no flattery in it.”

While reading, the countess’s countenance was perfectly clear; not the

slightest cloud was to be seen upon her brow.

“Do you not think it a good poem?” said she, indifferently.

“Well,” said he, “I must acknowledge that there was a certain fire in it

that touched my heart.”

“I find it stupid,” said she, sternly. “There is but one thing in it

that pleases me, and that is the title-’il ne faut pas s’inquieter de

l’avenir.’ The little King of Prussia has done well to choose this for

his motto, for without it, it strikes me, his peace would be forever

gone, for his future will surely be a humiliating one.”

The count laughed.

“How true that is!” said he “and a just answer to his stupid poem. Speak

of something else.”

He tore the paper into small pieces, which, with a graceful bow, he laid

at the feet of the countess.

“A small sacrifice,” said he, “which I bring to my goddess. Tread upon

it, and destroy the king’s words with your fairy foot.” The countess

obeyed him, laughingly.

“But now, count,” said she, “we will, for a moment, speak of graver

things. I have received letters from Loudon-from our son. Poor Henry

is in despair, and he has requested me to intercede for him. You were

always very stern with him, my friend, therefore he fears your anger,

now that he has been a little imprudent.”

“Well, what is it?” said the count; “I hope it is no duel, for that

would make me extremely angry.”

“It is nothing of that kind. His imprudence is of another sort, He is in

want of money.”

“Money!” said the count, in amazement; “why, barely a month ago, I sent

him six hundred thousand thalers. That, and what he took with him, three

months ago, is quite a large sum, for it amounts to more than a million

of thalers.”

“But, my dear husband, in England every thing is so dear! and there, to

move amongst and impress those rich lords, he must really have more. It

seems that our Charles Joseph has fallen in love with a lady whom all

Loudon worships for her surpassing beauty. But she, having a cold heart,

will listen to no one. She laughs at those who flatter her, and will

receive no presents. She seemed an invincible fortress, but our son,

thanks to stratagem, has taken it.”

“I am curious to know how,” said the count, laughing.

“He played a game of ecarte with her. He played for notes to the amount

of ten pounds, and, at first, Charles won, much to the displeasure

of the proud lady, who did not relish being beaten, even in a game of

cards. Charles, perceiving this, played badly. The lady won from him

eighty thousand pounds.”

“Eighty thousand pounds,” cried the count, “why, that is a half a

million of thalers!”

“And do you mean to say,” said the countess, angrily, “that that is too

much to gain the favor of a beautiful lady?”

“No! it is not too much; but it is certainly enough. I hope, at least,

it was not in vain.”

“No, no! and Loudon is now raving about the intellectual, genial and

generous son of Count Bruhl. I trust, count, that you instantly sent him

a check.”

“Yes,” said the count, shrugging his shoulders. “But, countess, if the

king were to hear this story, it would cause much evil; for you know

that he believes in economy; luckily for me, he believes me to be an

economical man. Those enemies who would not dare to accuse us, would

have no fears of saying evil of our son; he will certainly hear this

eighty-thousand-pound story.”

“We will tell him ourselves, but say that the story is much

exaggerated.”

“What a wonderful woman you are, Antonia!” said her husband; “your

counsel is wise; we will follow it.”

At this moment a slight knocking was heard at the door, and the

secretary entered with a sealed letter.

“A courier from Torgau just arrived with this from the commandant.” The

count’s brow became clouded.

“Business! forever business!” said he. “How dared you annoy me with

this, upon the birthday of my wife?”

“Pardon, your excellency; but the courier brought with this packet such

strange news, that I ventured to disturb you, to communicate--”

The beating of drums and the thunder of cannon interrupted him.

“The king and queen are now entering their carriage,” cried the count.

“No more business to-day, my friend. It will keep till tomorrow. Come,

Antonia, we must welcome their majesties.” And taking his wife’s hand,

he passed out of the study.

CHAPTER XII. THE INTERRUPTED FEAST.

As the Count Bruhl and his wife entered the saloon, it almost seemed

as if they were the royal couple for whom all this company was waiting.

Every one of any rank or position in Dresden was present. There were

to be seen the gold and silver embroidered uniforms of generals and

ambassadors; jewelled stars were sparkling upon many breasts; the

proudest, loveliest women of the court, bearing the noblest Saxon names,

were there, accompanied by princes, counts, dukes, and barons, and one

and all were bowing reverentially to the count and his wife. And now, at

a sign from the grand chamberlain, the pages of the countess, clothed

in garments embroidered with silver and pearls, approached to carry her

train; beside them were the count’s officers, followed by all the noble

guests. Thus they passed through the third room, where the servants

of the house, numbering upward of two hundred, were placed in military

order, and then on until they came to the grand entrance, which had been

turned into a floral temple.

The royal equipage was at the gate; the host and hostess advanced to

welcome the king and queen, whose arrival had been announced by the roar

of cannon.

The king passed through the beautiful avenue, and greeted the company

placed on either side of him, gayly. The queen, sparkling with diamonds,

forcing herself also to smile, was at his side; and as their majesties

passed on, saying here and there a kind, merry word, it seemed as if the

sun had just risen over all these noble, rich, and powerful guests. This

was reflected upon every countenance. The gods had demanded from Olympus

to favor these mortals with their presence, and to enjoy themselves

among them. And truly, even a king might spend some happy hours in this

delightful garden.

The air was so soft and mild, so sweet from the odor of many flowers;

the rustling of the trees was accompanied by soft whispers of music that

seemed floating like angels’ wings upon the air. Every countenance was

sparkling with happiness and content, and the king could but take the

flattering unction to his soul that all his subjects were equally as

happy as the elite by which he was surrounded.

Pleased with this thought and delighted with all the arrangements

for the fete, the king gave himself up to an enjoyment which, though

somewhat clouding his character as a deity, was immensely gratifying to

him.

He abandoned himself to the delights of the table! He devoured with a

sort of amiable astonishment the rare and choice dishes which, even to

his experienced and pampered palate, appeared unfathomable mysteries;

luxuries had been procured, not only from Loudon and Paris, but from

every part of the world. He delighted himself with the gold and purple

wines, whose vintage was unknown to him, and whose odor intoxicated him

more than the perfume of flowers. He requested the count to give the

name and history of all these wines.

The count obeyed in that shy, reverential manner in which he was

accustomed to speak. He charmed him by relating the many difficulties he

had overcome to obtain this wine from the Cape of Good Hope, which had

to cross the line twice to arrive at its highest perfection. He said

that for two years he had been thinking of this gloriously happy day,

and had had a ship upon the sea for the purpose of perfecting this wine.

He bade the king notice the strangely formed fish, which could only be

obtained from the Chinese sea. Then, following up the subject, he spoke

of the peculiar and laughable customs and habits of the Chinese, thus

causing even the proud queen to laugh at his humorous descriptions.

Count Bruhl was suddenly interrupted in an unusual manner.

His secretary, Willmar, approached the royal table, and without a word

of excuse, without greeting the king, handed the count a sealed package!

This was such a crime against courtly etiquette that the count, from

sheer amazement, made no excuses to the king; he only cast a threatening

look at the secretary. But as he encountered Willmar’s pale, terrified

countenance, a tremor seized him, and he cast an eager glance upon

the papers in his hand, which, no doubt, contained the key to all

this mystery. “They are from the commandant at Leipsic,” whispered the

secretary; “I entreat your excellency to read them.”

Before the count had time, however, to open the dispatch, a still

stranger event took place.

The Prussian ambassador, who, upon the plea of illness, had declined

Count Bruhl’s invitation, suddenly appeared in the garden, accompanied

by the four secretaries of his legation, and approached the royal

table. Upon his countenance there was no sign of sickness, but rather an

expression of great joy.

As he neared the tent, the gay song and merry jest ceased. Every eye was

fixed inquiringly upon the individual who had dared to disturb this fete

by his presence. The music, which had before filled the air with joyous

sounds, was now playing a heart-breaking air.

Count Bruhl now arose and advanced. He greeted the Prussian ambassador

in a few cold, ceremonious words.

But Count Mattzahn’s only answer to this greeting was a silent bow. He

then said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the king and queen:

“Count Bruhl, as ambassador of the King of Prussia, I request you to

demand an audience for me at once from the King of Saxony. I have an

important dispatch from my king.”

Count Bruhl, struck with terror, could only gaze at him, he had not the

strength to answer.

But King Augustus, rising from his seat, said:

“The ambassador of my royal brother can approach; I consent to grant

him this audience; it is demanded in so strange a manner, it must surely

have some important object.”

The count entered the royal tent.

“Is it your majesty’s wish,” said Mattzahn, solemnly, “that all these

noble guests shall be witnesses? I am commanded by my royal master to

demand a private audience.”

“Draw the curtain!” said the king.

Count Bruhl, with trembling fingers, drew the golden cord, and the heavy

curtains fell to the ground. They were now completely separated from the

guests.

“And now, count,” said the king, taking his seat by his proud, silent

queen, “speak.”

Bowing profoundly, Count Mattzahn drew a dispatch from his pocket, and

read in a loud, earnest voice.

It was a manifesto from the King of Prussia, written by himself and

addressed to all the European courts. In it, Frederick denied being

actuated by any desire of conquest or gain, but declared that he was

compelled to commence this war to which Austria had provoked him by her

many and prolonged insults. There was a pause when the count finished

reading. Upon the gentle, amiable countenance of the king there was now

an angry look. The queen was indifferent, cold, and haughty; she seemed

to have paid no attention whatever to Count Mattzahn, but, turning to

the princess at her side, she asked a perfectly irrelevant question,

which was answered in a whisper.

Countess Bruhl dared not raise her eyes; she did not wish her faithless

lover, Count Mattzahn, whose cunning political intrigues she now

perfectly understood, to see her pain and confusion. The prince-elector,

well aware of the importance of this hour, stood at the king’s side;

behind him was Count Bruhl, whose handsome, sparkling countenance was

now deadly pale.

Opposite to this agitated group, stood the Prussian ambassador, whose

haughty, quiet appearance presented a marked contrast. His clear,

piercing glance rested upon each one of them, and seemed to fathom every

thought of their souls. His tall, imposing form was raised proudly,

and there was an expression of the noblest satisfaction upon his

countenance. After waiting some time in vain for an answer, he placed

the manifesto before the king.

“With your majesty’s permission, I will now add a few words,” said he.

“Speak!” said the king, laconically.

“His majesty, my royal master,” continued Count Mattzahn, in a loud

voice, “has commissioned me to give your majesty the most quieting

assurances, and to convince you that his march through Saxony has

no purpose inimical to you, but that he only uses it as a passway to

Bohemia.”

The king’s countenance now became dark and stern, even the queen lost

some of her haughty indifference.

“How?” said the king; “Frederick of Prussia does us the honor to pass

through our land without permission? He intends coming to Saxony?”

“Sire,” said Mattzahn, with a slight smile, “his majesty is already

there! Yesterday his army, divided into three columns, passed the Saxon

borders!”

The king rose hastily from his seat. The queen was deadly pale, her lips

trembled, but she remained silent, and cast a look of bitter hatred upon

the ambassador of her enemy.

Count Bruhl was leaning against his chair, trembling with terror, when

the king turned to him.

“I ask my prime minister if he knows how far the King of Prussia has

advanced into Saxony?”

“Sire, I was in perfect ignorance of this unheard-of event. The King

of Prussia wishes to surprise us in a manner worthy of the most skilful

magician. Perhaps it is one of those April jests which Frederick II is

so fond of practising.”

“Your excellency can judge for yourself,” said Count Mattzahn,

earnestly, “whether the taking of towns and fortresses is to be

considered a jest. For, if I am rightly informed, you have this day

received two dispatches, informing you of my royal master’s line of

march.”

“How?” said the king, hastily; “you were aware of this, count, and I was

not informed? You received important dispatches, and I was not notified

of it?”

“It is true,” said the count, much embarrassed. “I received two

couriers. The dispatches of the first were handed to me the same moment

your majesties entered my house; I received the other just as Count

Mattzahn arrived. I have, therefore, read neither.”

“With your majesty’s permission,” said Count Mattzahn, “I will inform

you of their contents.”

“You will be doing me a great service,” said the king, earnestly.

“The first dispatch, sire, contained the news that his majesty the King

of Prussia had taken without resistance the fortresses of Torgau and

Wittenberg!”

A hollow groan escaped the king as he sank in his chair. The queen

became paler than before.

“What more?” said the king, gloomily.

“The second dispatch,” continued Count Mattzahn, smilingly, “informed

his excellency Count Bruhl that the King of Prussia, my noble and

victorious master, was pressing forward, and had also taken Leipsic

without the slightest resistance!”

“How!” said the king, “he is in Leipsic?”

“Sire, I think he was there,” said Count Mattzahn, laughing; “for it

seems that the Prussians, led by their king, have taken the wings of the

morning. Frederick was in Leipsic when the courier left--he must now be

on his way to Dresden. But he has commissioned me to say that his motive

for passing through Saxony is to see and request your majesty to take a

neutral part in this war between Austria and Prussia.”

“A neutral part!” said the king, angrily, “when my land is invaded

without question or permission, and peace broken in this inexplicable

manner. Have you any other message, count?”

“I have finished, sire, and humbly ask if you have any answer for my

sovereign?”

“Tell the king, your master, that I will raise my voice throughout

the land of Germany to complain of this unheard-of and arbitrary

infringement of the peace. At the throne of the German emperor I will

demand by what right the King of Prussia dares to enter Saxony with his

army and take possession of my cities. You can depart, sir; I have no

further answer for his majesty!”

The count, bowing reverentially to the king and queen, left the royal

tent.

Every eye was fixed upon the prime minister. From him alone, who was

considered the soul of the kingdom of Saxony, help and counsel was

expected. All important questions were referred to him, and all were

now eagerly looking for his decision. But the powerful favorite was in

despair. He knew how utterly impossible it was to withstand the King of

Prussia’s army. Every arrangement for this war had been made on paper,

but in reality little had been accomplished. The army was not in

readiness! The prime minister had been in want of a few luxuries of

late, and had, therefore, as he believed there would be no war until the

following spring, reduced it. He knew how little Saxony was prepared

to battle against the King of Prussia’s disciplined troops, and the

ambassador’s friendly assurances did not deceive him.

“Well, count,” said the king, after a long pause, “how is this

strange request of Frederick II., that we should remain neutral, to be

answered?”

Before the count was able to answer, the queen said, in a loud voice:

“By a declaration of war, my husband! This is due to your honor. We have

been insulted; it therefore becomes you to throw down the gauntlet to

your presumptuous adversary.”

“We will continue this conversation in my apartments,” said the king,

rising; “this is no place for it. Our beautiful feast has been disturbed

in a most brutal manner. Count Bruhl, notify the different ambassadors

that, in an hour, I will receive them at my palace.”

“This hour is mine!” thought the queen, as she arose; “in it I will

stimulate my husband’s soft and gentle heart to a brave, warlike

decision; he will yield to my prayers and tears.” She took the king’s

arm with a gay smile, and left the tent, followed by the princes, and

the host and hostess.

Silently they passed the festive tables, from which the guests had risen

to greet them. The courtiers sought to read in their countenances the

solution of that riddle which had occupied them since the arrival of the

Prussian ambassador, and about which they had been anxiously debating.

But, upon the queen’s countenance there was now her general look of

indifference. It is true, the king was not smiling as was his wont when

amongst his subjects, but his pleasant countenance betrayed no fear or

sorrow. The queen maintained her exalted bearing; nothing had passed

to bow her proud head. After the royal guests had left, Count Bruhl

returned. He also had regained his usual serenity. With ingenious

friendliness he turned to his guests, and while requesting them, in

a flattering manner, to continue to grace his wife’s fete by their

presence, demanded for himself leave of absence. Then passing on, he

whispered here and there a few words to the different ambassadors. They

and the count then disappeared.

The fete continued quietly; the music recommenced its gay, melodious

sounds, the birds carolled their songs, and the flowers were as

beautiful and as sweet as before. The jewels of the courtiers sparkled

as brilliantly. Their eyes alone were not so bright, and the happy smile

had left their lips. They were all weighed down by a presentiment that

danger was hovering around them.

CHAPTER XIII. THE ARCHIVES AT DRESDEN.

Count Mattzahn’s prophecy came true. The King of Prussia came to

Dresden, and there, as in every other part of Saxony, found no

resistance. Fear and terror had gone before him, disarming all

opposition. The king and prince-elector were not accustomed to have

a will of their own; and Count Bruhl, the favorite of fortune, showed

himself weak and helpless in the hour of adversity. It needed the

queen’s powerful energy, and the forcible representations of the French

ambassador, Count Broglio, to arouse them from their lethargy; and

what Count Broglio’s representations, and the queen’s prayers and tears

commenced, hatred finished. Count Bruhl’s sinking courage rose at the

thought of the possibility of still undermining the King of Prussia, and

putting an end to his victorious march. It was only necessary to detain

him, to prevent him from reaching the Bohemian borders, until the

Austrian army came to their assistance, until the French troops had

entered and taken possession of Prussia. Therefore, Count Bruhl sent

courier after courier to Saxony’s allies, to spread her cry for help to

every friendly court. He then collected the army, ordered them to camp

at Pirna, which was very near the boundary of Bohemia, and, as it

was guarded on one side by the Elbe, and on the other by high rocks,

appeared perfectly secure. When these preparations were commenced, the

count’s courage rose considerably, and he determined to prove himself

a hero, and to give the Saxon army the inspiring consciousness that,

in the hour of danger, their king would be in their midst. The king

therefore left for the fortress of Konigstein, accompanied by Count

Bruhl, leaving the army, consisting of about seventeen thousand men, to

follow under the command of General Rutrosky, and to encamp at the foot

of Konigstein. Arrived at Konigstein, where they thought themselves

perfectly secure, they gave themselves up to the free and careless

life of former days. They had only changed their residence, not their

character; their dreams were of future victories, of the many provinces

they would take from the King of Prussia; and with this delightful

prospect the old gay, luxurious, and wanton life was continued. What

difference did it make to Count Bruhl that the army was only provided

with commissary stores for fourteen days, and that this time was

almost past, and no way had been found to furnish them with additional

supplies. The King of Prussia had garrisoned every outlet, and only the

King of Saxony’s forage-wagon was allowed to pass.

Frederick knew better than the Saxon generals the fearful, invincible

enemy that was marching to the camp of Pirna. What were the barricades,

the palisades, and ambushes, by which the camp was surrounded, to this

enemy? This foe was in the camp, not outside of it--he had no need to

climb the barricades--he came hither flying through the air, breathing,

like a gloomy bird of death, his horrible cries of woe. This enemy was

hunger--enervating, discouraging, demoralizing hunger!

The fourteen days had expired, and in the camp of Pirna languished

seventeen thousand men! The bread rations became smaller and smaller;

but the third part of the usual meat ration was given; the horses’ food

also was considerably shortened. Sorrow and starvation reigned in

the camp. Why should this distress Count Bruhl? He lived in his usual

luxurious splendor, with the king. Looking out from his handsome

apartments upon the valley lying at his feet, he saw on a little meadow

by which the Elbe was flowing, herds of cows and calves, sheep and

beeves, which were there to die like the Saxon soldiers, for their king.

These herds were for the royal table; there was, therefore, no danger

that the enemy visiting the army should find its way to the fortress.

It was also forbidden, upon pain of death, to force one of these animals

intended for the royal table, from their noble calling, and to satisfy

therewith the hungry soldiers. Count Bruhl could therefore wait

patiently the arrival of the Austrian army, which was already in motion,

under the command of General Brown.

While the King of Poland was living gay and joyous in the fortress of

Konigstein, the queen with the princes of the royal house had remained

in Dresden; and though she knew her husband’s irresolute character, and

knew that the King of Prussia, counting upon this, was corresponding

with him, endeavoring to persuade him to neutrality, still she had no

fears of her husband succumbing to his entreaties. For was not Count

Bruhl, the bitter, irreconcilable enemy of Prussia, at his side?--and

had not the king said to her, in a solemn manner, before leaving:

“Better that every misfortune come upon us than to take the part of our

enemies!” The queen, therefore, felt perfectly safe upon this point.

She remained in Dresden for two reasons: first, to watch the King of

Prussia, and then to guard the archives--those archives which contained

the most precious treasures of Saxon diplomacy--the most important

secrets of their allies. These papers were prized more highly by the

queen than all the crown jewels now lying in their silver casket; and

though the keeping of the latter was given over to some one else, no

one seemed brave enough to shield the former. No one but herself should

guard these rich treasures. The state archives were placed in those

rooms of the palace which had but one outlet, and that leading into

one of the queen’s apartments. In this room she remained--she took her

meals, worked, and slept there--there she received the princes and

the foreign ambassadors--always guarding the secret door, of which she

carried the key fastened to a gold chain around her neck. But still the

queen was continually in fear her treasure would be torn from her, and

the King of Prussia’s seeming friendliness was not calculated to drive

away this anxiety. It is true the king had sent her his compliments by

Marshal Keith, with the most friendly assurances of his affection, but

notwithstanding this, the chancery, the college, and the mint department

had been closed; all the artillery and ammunition had been taken from

the Dresden arsenal and carried to Magdeburg; some of the oldest and

worthiest officers of the crown had been dismissed; and the Swiss guard,

intended for service in the palace, had been disarmed. All this agreed

but badly with the king’s quieting assurances, and was calculated to

increase the hatred of his proud enemy. She had, nevertheless, stifled

her anger so far as to invite the King of Prussia, who was staying in

the palace of the Countess Morizinska, not far from his army, to her

table.

Frederick had declined this invitation. He remained quietly in the

palace, whose doors were open to all, giving audience to all who desired

it, listening to their prayers, and granting their wishes.

The Queen of Poland heard this with bitter anger; and the more gracious

the King of Prussia showed himself to the Saxons, the more furious and

enraged became the heart of this princess.

“He will turn our people from their true ruler,” said she to Countess

Ogliva, her first maid of honor, who was sitting at her side upon a

divan placed before the princess’s door. “This hypocritical affability

will only serve to gain the favor of our subjects, and turn them from

their duty.”

“It has succeeded pretty well,” said the countess, sighing. “The Saxon

nobility are continually in the antechamber of this heretical king; and

yesterday several of the city authorities, accompanied by the foreign

ambassadors, waited upon him, and he received them.”

“Yes, he receives every one; he gives gay balls every evening, at which

he laughs and jokes merrily. He keeps open house, and the poor people

assemble there in crowds to see him eat.” Maria Josephine sighed deeply.

“I hate this miserable, changeable people!” murmured she.

“And your majesty does well,” said the countess, whose wrinkled, yellow

countenance was now illuminated by a strange fire. “The anger of God

will rest upon this heretical nation that has turned from her salvation,

and left the holy mother church in haughty defiance. The King of Poland

cannot even appoint true Catholic-Christians as his officers--every

position of any importance is occupied by heretics. But the deluge will

surely come again upon this sinful people and destroy them.”

The queen crossed herself, and prayed in a low voice.

The countess continued: “This Frederick stimulates these heretical

Saxons in their wicked unbelief. He, who it is well known, laughs

and mocks at every religion, even his own--attended, yesterday, the

Protestant church, to show our people that he is a protector of that

church.”

“Woe, woe to him!” said the queen.

“With listening ear he attended to his so-called preacher’s sermon,

and then loudly expressed his approval of it, well knowing that this

preacher is a favorite of heretics in Dresden. This cunning king wished

to give them another proof of his favor. Does your majesty wish to know

of the present he made this, preacher?”

“What?” said the queen, with a mocking laugh. “Perhaps a Bible, with

the marginal observations of his profligate friends, Voltaire and La

Mettrie?”

“No, your majesty; the king sent this learned preacher a dozen bottles

of champagne!”

“He is a blasphemous scoffer, even with that which he declares holy. But

punishment will overtake him. Already the voice of my exalted nephew,

the Emperor of Germany, is to be heard throughout the entire land,

commanding the King of Prussia to return at once to his own kingdom,

and to make apologies to the King of Poland for his late insults. It is

possible that, in his haughty pride, Frederick will take no notice of

this command. But it will be otherwise with the generals and commandants

of this usurper. They have been commanded by the emperor to leave their

impious master, and not to be the sharers of his frightful crime.”

“I fear,” said Countess Ogliva, sighing, and raising her eyes

heavenward--“I fear they will not listen to the voice of our good

emperor.”

“But they will hear the voice of his cannon,” cried the queen,

impetuously; “the thunder of our artillery and the anger of God will

annihilate them, and they will fall to the ground as if struck by

lightning before the swords blessed by our holy priests.”

The door of the antechamber was at this moment opened violently, and the

queen’s chamberlain appeared upon its threshold.

“Your majesty, a messenger from the King of Prussia requests an

audience,” said he.

The queen’s brow became clouded, and she blushed with anger. “Tell this

messenger that I am not in a condition to receive his visit, and that he

must therefore impart to you his message.”

“It is, no doubt, another of his hypocritical, friendly assurances,”

said the queen, as the chamberlain left. “He has, no doubt, some evil

design, and wishes to soothe us before he strikes.”

The chamberlain returned, but his countenance was now white with terror.

“Well!” said the queen, “what is this message?”

“Ah, your majesty,” stammered the trembling courtier, “my lips would not

dare to repeat it; and I could never find the courage to tell you what

he demands.”

“What he demands!” repeated the queen; “has it come to that, that a

foreign prince commands in our land? Go, countess, and in my name, fully

empowered by me, receive this King of Prussia’s message; then return,

and dare not keep the truth from me.”

Countess Ogliva and the chamberlain left the royal apartment, and Maria

Josephine was alone. And now, there was no necessity of guarding this

mask of proud quietude and security. Alone, with her own heart, the

queen’s woman nature conquered. She did not now force back the tears

which streamed from her eyes, nor did she repress the sighs that

oppressed her heart. She wept, and groaned, and trembled. But hearing a

step in the antechamber, she dried her eyes, and again put on the proud

mask of her royalty. It was the countess returning. Slowly and silently

she passed through the apartment. Upon her colorless countenance there

was a dark, angry expression, and a scoffing smile played about her

thin, pale lips.

“The King of Prussia,” said she, in a low, whispering voice, as she

reached the queen, “demands that the key to the state archives be

delivered at once to his messenger, Major von Vangenheim.”

The queen raised herself proudly from her seat.

“Say to this Major von Vangenheim that he will never receive this key!”

said she, commandingly.

The countess bowed, and left the room.

“He has left,” said she, when she returned to the queen; “though he said

that he or another would return.”

“Let us now consult as to what is to be done,” said the queen. “Send for

Father Guarini, so that we may receive his advice.”

Thanks to the queen’s consultation with her confessor and her maid of

honor, the King of Prussia’s messenger, when he returned, was not denied

an audience. This time, it was not Major von Vangenheim, but General von

Wylich, the Prussian commandant at Dresden, whom Frederick sent.

Maria Josephine received him in the room next to the archives, sitting

upon a divan, near to the momentous door. She listened with a careless

indifference, as he again demanded, in the king’s name, the key to the

state archives.

The queen turned to her maid of honor.

“How is it that you are so negligent, countess?” said she; “did I not

tell you to answer to the messenger of the king, that I would give this

key, which is the property of the Prince-Elector of Saxony, and which he

intrusted to me, to no one but my husband?”

“I had the honor to fulfil your majesty’s command,” said the countess,

respectfully.

“How is it, then,” said she, turning to General von Wylich, “that you

dare to come again with this request, which I have already answered?”

“Oh, may your majesty graciously pardon me,” cried the general, deeply

moved; “but his majesty, my king and master, has given me the sternest

commands to get the key, and bring him the papers. I am therefore under

the sad necessity to beseech your majesty to agree to my master’s will.”

“Never!” said the queen, proudly. “That door shall never be opened; you

shall never enter it.”

“Be merciful. I dare not leave here without fulfilling my master’s

commands. Have pity on my despair, your majesty, and give me the key to

that door.”

“Listen! I shall not give you the key,” said the queen, white and

trembling with anger; “and if you open the door by force, I will cover

it with my body; and now, sir, if you wish to murder the Queen of

Poland, open the door.” And raising her proud, imposing form, the queen

placed herself before the door.

“Mercy! mercy! queen,” cried the general; “do not force me to do

something terrible; do not make me guilty of a crime against your sacred

royalty. I dare not return to my king without these papers. I therefore

implore your majesty humbly, upon my knees, to deliver this key to me.”

He fell upon his knees before the queen, humbly supplicating her to

repent her decision.

“I will not give it to you,” said she, with a triumphant smile. “I do

not move from this door; it shall not be opened.”

General Wylich rose from his lowly position. He was pale, but there was

a resolute expression upon his countenance. Looking upon it, you could

not but see that he was about to do something extremely painful to his

feelings.

“Queen of Poland,” said he, in a loud, firm voice, “I am commanded by

my king to bring to him the state archives. Below, at the castle gate,

wagons are in attendance to receive them; they are accompanied by a

detachment of Prussian soldiers. I have only to open that window, sign

to them, and they are here. In the antechamber are the four officers who

came with me; by opening the door, they will be at my side.”

“What do you mean by this?” said the queen, in a faltering voice, moving

slightly from the door.

“I mean, that at any price, I must enter that room. If the key is not

given to me, I will call upon my soldiers to break down the door; as

they have learned to tear down the walls of a fortress, it will be an

easy task; that if the Queen of Poland does not value her high position

sufficiently to guard herself against any attack, I will be compelled to

lay hands upon a royal princess, and lead her by force from that door,

which my soldiers must open! But, once more, I bend my knee, and implore

your majesty to preserve me from this crime, and to have mercy on me.”

And again he fell upon his knees supplicating for pity.

“Be merciful! be merciful!” cried the queen’s confessor and the Countess

Ogliva, who both knew that General Wylich would do all that he had said,

and had both fallen on their knees, adding their entreaties to his.

“Your Majesty has done all that human power can do. It is now time

to guard your holy form from insult. Have mercy on your threatened

royalty.”

“No, no!” murmured the queen, “I cannot! I cannot! Death would be sweet

in comparison to this humiliating defeat.”

The queen’s confessor, Father Guarini, now rose from his knees, and,

approaching the queen, he said, in a solemn, commanding voice:

“My daughter, by virtue of my profession, as a servant of the holy

mother church, to whom is due obedience and trust, I command you to

deliver up to this man the key of this door.”

The queen’s head fell upon her breast, and hollow, convulsive groans

escaped her. Then, with a hasty movement, she severed the key from her

chain.

“I obey you, my father,” said she. “There is the key, general; this room

can now be entered.”

General Wylich took the key, kissing reverentially the hand that gave it

to him. He then said to her, in a voice full of emotion:

“I have but this last favor to ask of your majesty, that you will now

leave this room, so that my soldiers may enter it.”

Without answering, the queen, accompanied by her confessor and maid of

honor, left the apartment.

“And now,” said the queen to Countess Ogliva, as she entered her

reception-room, “send messengers at once to all the foreign ambassadors,

and tell them I command their presence.”

CHAPTER XIV. SAXONY HUMILIATED.

A half an hour later the ambassadors of France, Austria, Holland,

Russia, and Sweden, were assembled in the queen’s reception-room. The

queen was there, pale, and trembling with anger. With the proud pathos

of misfortune, and humiliated royalty, she apprised them of the repeated

insults she had endured, and commanded them to write at once to their

different courts, imploring their rulers to send aid to her sorely

threatened kingdom.

“And if these princes,” said she, impetuously, “help us to battle

against this usurper, in defending us they will be defending their own

rights and honor. For my cause is now the cause of all kings; for if

my crown falls, the foundation of their thrones will also give way. For

this little Margrave of Brandenburg, who calls himself King of Prussia,

will annihilate us all it we do not ruin him in advance. I, for my part,

swear him a perpetual resistance, a perpetual enmity! I will perish

willingly in this fight if only my insults are revenged and my honor

remains untarnished. Hasten, therefore, to acquaint your courts with all

that has occurred here.”

“I will be the first to obey your majesty,” said the French ambassador,

Count Broglio, approaching the queen. “I will repeat your words to my

exalted master; I will portray to your majesty’s lovely daughter, the

Dauphine of France, the sufferings her royal mother has endured, and

I know she will strain every nerve to send you aid. With your gracious

permission, I will now take my leave, for to-day I start for Paris.”

“To Paris!” cried the queen; “would you leave my court in the hour of

misfortune?”

“I would be the last to do this, unless forced by necessity,” said the

count; “but the King of Prussia has just dismissed me, and sent me my

passport!”

“Your passport! dismissed you!” repeated the queen. “Have I heard

aright? Do you speak of the King of Prussia? Has he then made himself

King of Saxony?”

Before anyone had time to answer the queen’s painful questions, the door

was opened, and the king’s ministers entered; beside them was to be seen

the pale, terrified countenance of Count Leuke, the king’s chamberlain.

Slowly and silently these gentlemen passed through the room and

approached the queen.

“We have come,” said Count Hoymb, bowing lowly, “to take leave of your

majesty.”

The queen fell slightly back, and gazed in terror at the four ministers

standing before her with bowed heads.

“Has the king, my husband, sent for you? Are you come to take leave of

me before starting to Konigstein?”

“No, your majesty; we come because we have been dismissed from our

offices by the King of Prussia.”

The queen did not answer, but gazed wildly at the sad countenances about

her; and now she fixed a searching glance upon the royal chamberlain.

“Well, and you?” said she. “Have you a message for me from my husband?

Are you from Konigstein?”

“Yes, your majesty, I come from Konigstein. But I am not a bearer of

pleasant news. I am sent to Dresden by the King of Poland to request

of the King of Prussia passports for himself and Count Bruhl. The king

wishes to visit Warsaw, and is therefore desirous of obtaining these

passports.”

“Ah!” said the queen, sighing, “to think that my husband requires

permission to travel in his own kingdom, and that he must receive it

from our enemy! Well, have you obeyed the king’s command, Count Leuke?

Have you been to the King of Prussia and received the passports?”

“I was with the King of Prussia,” said the count, in a faltering voice.

“Well, what more?”

“He refused me! He does not give his consent to this visit.”

“Listen, listen!” said the queen, wildly; “hear the fresh insult thrown

at our crown! Can God hear this and not send His lightning to destroy

this heretical tyrant? Ah, I will raise my voice; it shall be a cry of

woe and lamentation, and shall resound throughout all Europe; it shall

reach every throne, and every one shall hear my voice calling out: ‘Woe!

woe! woe to us all; our thrones are tottering, they will surely fall if

we do not ruin this evil-doer who threatens us all!’”

With a fearful groan, the queen fell fainting into the arms of Countess

Ogliva. But the sorrows and humiliations of this day were not the only

ones experienced by Maria Josephine from her victorious enemy.

It is true her cry for help resounded throughout Europe. Preparations

for war were made in many places, but her allies were not able to

prevent the fearful blow that was to be the ruin of Saxony. Though the

Dauphine of France, daughter of the wretched Maria Josephine, and the

mother of the unfortunate King of France, Louis XVI., threw herself at

the feet of Louis XV., imploring for help for her mother’s tottering

kingdom, the French troops came too late to prevent this disaster. Even

though Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, and niece to the Queen of

Saxony, as her army were in want of horses, gave up all her own to carry

the cannon. The Austrian cannon was of as little help to Saxony as the

French troops.

Starvation was a more powerful ally to Prussia than Austria, France,

Russia, and Sweden were to Saxony, for in the Saxon camp also a cry of

woe resounded.

It was hunger that compelled the brave Saxon General Rutrosky to

capitulate. It was the same cause that forced the King of Saxony to

bind himself to the fearful stipulations which the victorious King of

Prussia, after having tried in vain for many years to gain an ally in

Saxony, made.

In the valley of Lilienstein the first of that great drama, whose scenes

are engraved in blood in the book of history, was performed, and for

whose further developments many sad, long years were necessary.

In the valley of Lilienstein the Saxon army, compelled to it by actual

starvation, gave up their arms; and as these true, brave soldiers,

weeping over their humiliation, with one hand laid down their weapons,

the other was extended toward their enemies for bread.

Lamentation and despair reigned in the camp at Lilienstein, and there,

at a window of the castle of Konigstein, stood the Prince-Elector of

Saxony, with his favorite Count Bruhl, witnesses to their misery.

After these fearful humiliations, by which Frederick punished the

Saxons for their many intrigues, by which he revenged himself for their

obstinate, enmity, their proud superiority--after these humiliations,

after their complete defeat, the King of Prussia was no longer opposed

to the King of Saxony’s journey. He sent him the desired passports, he

even extended their number, and not only sent one to the king and to

Count Bruhl, but also to the Countess Bruhl, with the express command

to accompany her husband. He also sent a pass to Countess Ogliva,

compelling this bigoted woman to leave her mistress.

And when the queen again raised her cry of woe, to call her allies to

her aid, the King of Prussia answered her with the victorious thunder

of the battle of Losovitz, the first battle fought in this war, and in

which the Prussians, led by their king, performed wonders of bravery,

and defeated for the third time the tremendous Austrian army, under the

command of General Brown.

“Never,” says Frederick, “since I have had the honor to command the

Prussian troops, have they performed such deeds of daring as to-day.”

The Austrians, in viewing these deeds, cried out:

“We have found again the old Prussians!”

And still they fought so bravely, that the Prussians remarked in

amazement: “These cannot be the same Austrians!”

This was the first act of that great drama enacted by the European

nations, and of which King Frederick II. was the hero.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I. THE MAIDEN OF BRUNEN.

The sun was just setting, throwing its crimson glow upon the waters

of the Rhine, which appeared to flow like a river of blood between the

green meadows on either side of it.

From the little village of Brunen, whose red chimneys were visible above

a group of oak and beech trees, the sound of the evening bell was heard,

reminding the pious peasants, engaged in cutting and garnering their

golden corn, of the hour for devotion.

With the sweet sounds of the bell mingled the joyous mountain yodel of

the cowherd, who had just descended the little hill yonder, with his

herd straying here and there, in picturesque confusion. Upon the green

meadow in the foreground, the flocks of the village were pasturing,

strictly guarded by a large white dog, whose stern, martial glance not

the slightest movement among his army contrary to discipline, escaped.

As soon as one of the sheep committed to his care left the fold and

approached the field where the reapers were mowing the corn, which was

bound at once in sheaves by busy maidens, the stern Phylax barking,

growling, and snarling, rushed after the audacious wanderer who sought

to appease the anger of his inexorable overseer by a speedy return.

The old shepherd, sitting not far off upon a little wooden stool,

with his long, silver hair falling about him, was engaged in weaving

a graceful basket of some meadow roots; at every bark of his Phylax he

looked up and smiled his approval at his faithful steward; occasionally

he gazed across the meadow at the reapers and busy maidens, then there

came upon his venerable old countenance an expression of great interest.

And well he might be pleased with what he saw there; for that tall,

sturdy youth, standing in the wagon, waiting with outstretched arms to

catch the sheaves which are skilfully thrown him; that youth with the

bright rosy face, the sparkling eye, the full red lip, upon which

there is always a merry smile, the ivory white teeth--that youth is his

beloved son, Charles Henry. And yonder maiden, not far from the wagon,

binding up the corn, in whose tall, proud form, in spite of her

plain peasant-gown, there is something imposing; that maiden with the

youthful, blooming, lovely face, is his son’s betrothed, whom all in

the village called the beautiful Anna Sophia, and for whose love Charles

Henry was envied by all the village boys. It is true she was a penniless

orphan, but in her busy, industrious hands there was a better and surer

treasure than in a purse of gold, and her ability and goodness would be

a much better dowry to her husband; for Anna Sophia Detzloff could do

almost every thing, and the villagers knew not whether to respect her

more for her great knowledge, or love her more for her kind, good heart.

Anna could read and write like a school-teacher. She wrote every letter

which the women of the village sent to their sons and husbands, now far

away with the King of Prussia’s army, and read to them the answers;

and in so beautiful and winning a manner did she read them, that to the

happy women it almost seemed as if they were hearing the voices of their

loved ones. But, notwithstanding her learning, she was well versed in

every sort of work that beseemed a woman. None in the village could

prepare more delightful dishes than she; no one could equal her

beautiful, rapid sewing and knitting. Anna Sophia learned all these

things from her mother, who had lived and worked for many long years in

Brunen. Her father had been the village school-teacher, and it was owing

to his diligence and activity that the women could now receive letters

from their sons and husbands. He had taught the boys to read and write;

and though the girls did not learn, the example of his daughter showed

that it was not owing to inability, but for a want of time and desire.

From her mother, Anna had learned all her womanly duties. She had taught

her to be amiable, ready with help for all, kind and sympathetic, and to

strive by her good deeds to gain the love of her fellow-creatures.

A joyous family had lived in the little village school-house; though

they had poverty and want to fight against, these three happy human

beings did not consider this a misfortune, but a necessary evil of life.

They loved each other, and when the parents looked upon the lovely, rosy

countenance of their only child, they did not perceive that their bread

was hard and heavy, they did not miss the butter and cheese without

which the rich villagers seldom took a meal. And when, on Sundays, Anna

went with her parents to church, in the faded red skirt, neat white

body, and black bodice, which had been her mother’s wedding-dress,

she heard the boys whisper amongst themselves about her beauty and

sweetness, and casting her eyes down with timid blushes she did not

perceive the jeering smiles of the other girls who, though not as

pretty, were proud that they were richer and better dressed than the

school-teacher’s daughter.

But Death, in his inexorable manner, had disturbed this modest

happiness. In a year he took the schoolmaster Detzloff and his wife from

the little house which, to any one else, would have appeared a pitiful

hut, but which, to them, seemed a paradise. In one year Anna became an

orphan; she was entirely alone in the world, and, after she had given to

her dear departed ones the tribute of her sorrows and tears, she had to

arouse herself and create a new future. After death only, the villagers

became aware of the great worth of the departed, they now admitted to

the full the school-teacher’s merits, and were anxious to pay to the

daughter the debt owing to the father. As he had died partly from

starvation, sorrow, and work, they wished to prove themselves generous

to his daughter, and preserve her from the want and misery which had

caused the death of her parents.

But Anna Sophia would be dependent on no one. To those who came in the

name of the villagers to notify her that she would receive from them a

monthly allowance, she showed her able hands, her brown, muscular arms,

and, raising her sparkling eyes proudly to the new school-teacher, she

said, “From these alone will I receive help; they shall give me food and

clothing; on them alone will I be dependent.”

She then went to seek work. The rich burgher of the village would gladly

have taken so smart and industrious a girl into his house and paid her

handsomely for her services. But Anna Sophia declared proudly that,

though she was willing to work, she would be no slave; that she would

sell her hands, but not her freedom.

Another house had been built and furnished for the school-teacher,

because there was danger of the old one, in which the Detzloff family

had lived, falling to pieces.

Anna Sophia, by the sale of some of the furniture, had bought the old,

dilapidated hut for herself. And there, in her hours of leisure, she

lived over the happy past. There she felt that she was still with her

parents, and not alone and orphaned. In the morning, before leaving her

home to go at her daily work, she entered the little garden at the back

of the hut, where in the arbor, laden with dark-red blossoms, were

the three chairs her father had woven in his idle moments, and the

roughly-hewn deal table made by his axe. She took her seat for a moment

upon the chair standing in the centre, and laid one hand upon the one to

either side of her Thus she had sat in the past, with her hands clasped

in those of her parents. The Rhine flowed on as melodiously as before in

the dim distance, the trees were as green, the flowers and blossoms as

sweet, the sky as blue. There was no change; all around her was as in

former days, except these empty chairs. But Anna had only to close

her eyes to see the beloved forms of her departed parents, to feel the

pressure of their hands, and to hear them addressing her, in tones which

love alone could have uttered, love alone understood. Then saying aloud,

“Good-morning, mother! Good-morning, father!” she rose, with closed

eyes, from her seat, and hastened from the arbor with the pleasant

thought that she was followed by the loving gaze of her parents. She did

not turn once, for then she would have seen that the arbor was empty,

and she wished to preserve the sweet delusion to be the brighter and

happier at her day’s work. When, during the day, she saw the burgher’s

wife surrounded by her blooming daughters, she would say to herself, “I

also have a father and mother at home, and they await me!” Then, when

her day’s work was finished, she hastened with a flying step to her

home, whose solemn stillness resounded for her with the dear-loved

voices of the past. Opening the bedroom of her parents, she cried,

“Good-night, mother! Good-night, father!” Then she climbed up to her

little attic, which had been her father’s favorite room, and which, when

she was with him, he had called a little spot of Eden. There stood his

writing-table, and above it the bookcase, which held her most precious

treasures, her father’s library. From the window the Rhine could be

seen meandering along the smooth green meadows, finally loosing itself

between the distant hills.

Her father had left her this blessed little spot, and hither she fled

when her heavy day’s work was over. There of an evening she stood,

gazing thoughtfully out into the darkening twilight, and there daily she

greeted the rising sun, repeating aloud her morning prayer. Then with

eager hands she took from the book-case one of the large folios. From

these books Anna Sophia drew all her knowledge. And when, during the

long winter evenings, the village girls were busy spinning, she would

tell them the stories she had read, no hand was idle, no eye drooping.

She was looked upon as the guardian angel of the village; she knew some

remedy, some alleviation for every illness, every pain. In a sick-room,

she was all that a nurse should be, kind, loving, patient, and gentle.

She was beloved by all, and all the village boys sought to gain her

hand. For a long time she would listen to none of them, and flew in

terror from those who broached the subject.

How the youngest son of the old shepherd Buschman had finally won her

heart, she did not herself know. It is true, he was the handsomest,

best-made boy in the village, but it was not for this that she loved

him; for she had known him long ago, and had been perfectly indifferent

to him, until within the last few weeks. Why was it? Because he loved

her so dearly, and had told her he would die if she did not listen to

him. Many others had done and said the same thing, but it had never

moved her sensibilities, nor had their threats terrified her. What,

then, had won her cold, proud heart?

The old shepherd had been the occasion of their frequently meeting each

other. For some weeks she had been in the habit, when her day’s work was

over, of reading to him the daily paper, which the good-hearted burgher

always sent to the old man, who had six sons in the king’s army; he had

given his country six soldiers.

Keeling by his side upon the meadow, Anna Sophia would first read to

him, and then talk over the events of the war, and prophesy many a

glorious victory. And then, Charles Henry, who worked on the same farm

with Anna, joined them, speaking enthusiastically of the great, heroic

king. In their inspired love for their great sovereign, their hearts

had first met, he seemed to her a hero, because he had six brothers in

Frederick’s army, she saw laurels upon his brow, won by his brothers

upon the battle-field. She loved him for his brothers’ sake, and she was

proud of being the bride of him of whom it was said, when he passed, “It

is the old man’s dearest child--God preserve him to his father, whose

only prop he is!” The old shepherd was thinking of all this, as he

sat in the midst of his flock upon the green meadow, gazing toward the

corn-field in which Anna Sophia and his son were at work.

“God be praised!” murmured the old man. “That is the last sheaf, Anna

will soon be with me.”

At last, the happy moment had come. The old shepherd folded his hands,

and a silent prayer arose from his heart for his absent sons. He then

rose from his lowly seat, and whistled to his faithful Phylax to follow.

The flock arrived at the village, and were driven by the dog into the

sheep-pen, from which was heard the tremulous bleating of the lambs,

who were rejoicing over their dams’ arrival. Father Buschman waited

impatiently until the last sheep had entered, and then hastened toward

the large farm house to the left of the pen.

Anna Sophia was just leaving the house, paper in hand, and advanced,

with a cheerful smile, to meet him.

“Father,” said she, “I have the paper, and we are the first to read

it. The good burgher and his wife are in the country, and the overseer

allowed me to take it. But, hear, father, he says he glanced over it

hastily, and saw something about a Prussian victory.”

The old shepherd’s face sparkled with joy, and he sought to draw Anna

away with him. “Come, come, my child,” said he, “to my house, where it

is still and quiet, there we will read of our king’s victories.”

But Anna shook her beautiful head.

“No, father,” said she, “it would not be right to read the paper alone

today. The king’s victories belong to his people, to each one of his

subjects, and every heart will beat more proudly when it hears of them,

and thank God that He has blessed the weapons of their king. It is not

for us to keep this joy from our men and women. Charles Henry, with the

overseer’s permission, had already assembled the villagers upon the open

space under the beech-trees. See! all are hastening with their work.

Come, father, we must read to our neighbors and friends our king’s

victories. A victory belongs to the whole village, but should there ever

be news of a lost battle, then, father, we will read it to ourselves.”

“God forbid that this should come to pass!” said the old man, following

Anna to the place of general meeting.