CHAPTER XVI. THE BROKEN HEART.

A carriage stopped before the pleasure palace of Oranienburg. The lady

who sat in it, cast anxious, questioning glances at the windows, and

breathed a heavy sigh when she saw the closed shutters, and observed the

absence of life and movement in the palace. At this moment an officer

stepped hastily from the great portal to greet the lady, and assist her

to descend.

“Does he still live?” said she, breathlessly.

“He lives, countess, and awaits you eagerly!” said the officer.

She did not reply, but raised her large, melancholy eyes thankfully to

heaven, and her lips moved as if in prayer.

They stepped silently and rapidly through the dazzling saloons, now

drear and deserted. Their pomp and splendor was painful; it harmonized

but little with their sad presentiments.

“We have arrived, countess,” said the officer, as they stood before

a closed and thickly-curtained door. “The prince is in this

garden-saloon.”

The lady’s heart beat loudly, and her lips were pale as death. She

leaned for a moment against the door, and tried to gather strength.

“I am ready I announce me to the prince!”

“That is unnecessary, countess. The prince’s nerves are so sensitive,

that the slightest noise does not escape him. He heard the rolling of

your carriage-wheels, and knows that you are here. He is expecting you,

and has commanded that you come unannounced. Have the goodness to enter;

you will be alone with the prince.” He raised the curtain, and the

countess looked back once more.

“Is there any hope?” said she, to her companion.

“None! The physician says he must die to-day!”

The countess opened the door so noiselessly, that not the slightest

sound betrayed her presence. She sank upon a chair near the entrance,

and fixed her tearful eyes with inexpressible agony upon the pale form,

which lay upon the bed, near the open door, leading into the garden.

What!--this wan, emaciated figure, that countenance of deadly pallor,

those fallen cheeks, those bloodless lips, the hollow temples, thinly

shaded by the lifeless, colorless hair--was that Augustus William?--the

lover of her youth, the worshipped dream-picture of her whole life, the

never-effaced ideal of her faithful heart?

As she looked upon him, the sweetly-painful, sad, and yet glorious past,

seemed to fill her soul. She felt that her heart was young, and beat,

even now, as ardently for him who lay dying before her, as in the early

time, when they stood side by side in the fulness of youth, beauty, and

strength--when they stood side by side for the last time.

At that time, she died! Youth, happiness, heart were buried; but now, as

she looked upon him, the coffin unclosed, the shroud fell back, and the

immortal spirits greeted each other with the love of the olden time.

And now, Laura wept no more. Enthusiasm, inspiration were written

upon her face. She felt no earthly pain; the heavenly peace of the

resurrection morning filled her soul. She arose and approached the

prince. He did not see her; his eyes were closed. Perhaps he slumbered;

perhaps the king of terrors had already pressed his first bewildering

kiss upon the pale brow. Laura bent over and looked upon him. Her long,

dark ringlets fell around his face like a mourning veil. She listened to

his light breathing, and, bowing lower, kissed the poor, wan lips.

He opened his eyes very quietly, without surprise. Peacefully, joyfully

he looked up at her. And Laura--she asked no longer if that wasted form

could be the lover of her youth. In his eyes she found the long-lost

treasure--the love, the youth, the soul of the glorious past.

Slowly the prince raised his arms, and drew her toward him. She sank

down, and laid her head by his cold cheek. Her hot breath wafted him

a new life-current, and seemed to call back his soul from the

spirit-world.

For a long time no word was spoken. How could they speak, in this first

consecrated moment? They felt so much, that language failed. They

lay heart to heart, and only God understood their hollow sighs, their

unspoken prayers, their suppressed tears. Only God was with them! God

sent through the open doors the fresh fragrance of the flowers; He

sent the winds, His messengers, through the tall trees, and their wild,

melancholy voices were like a solemn organ, accompanying love’s last

hymn. In the distant thickets the nightingale raised her melancholy

notes, for love’s last greeting. Thus eternal Nature greets the dying

sons of men.

God was with His children. Their thoughts were prayers; their eyes,

which at first were fixed upon each other, now turned pleadingly to

heaven.

“I shall soon be there!” said Prince Augustus--“soon! I shall live a

true life, and this struggle with death will soon be over. For sixteen

years I have been slowly dying, day by day, hour by hour. Laura, it has

been sixteen years, has it not?”

She bowed silently.

“No,” said he, gazing earnestly upon her; “it was but yesterday. I know

now that it was but yesterday. You are just the same--unchanged, my

Laura. This is the same angel-face which I have carried in my heart.

Nothing is changed, and I thank God for it. It would have been a great

grief to look upon you and find a strange face by my side. This is my

Laura, my own Laura, who left me sixteen years ago. And now, look at

me steadily; see what life has made of me; see how it has mastered

me--tortured me to death with a thousand wounds! I call no man my

murderer, but I die of these wounds. Oh, Laura! why did you forsake

me? Why did you not leave this miserable, hypocritical, weary world of

civilization, and follow me to the New World, where the happiness of a

true life awaited us?”

“I dared not,” said she; “God demanded this offering of me, and because

I loved you boundlessly I was strong to submit. God also knows what it

cost me, and how these many years I have struggled with my heart, and

tried to learn to forget.”

“Struggle no longer, Laura, I am dying; when I am dead you dare not

forget me.”

She embraced him with soft tenderness.

“No, no,” whispered she, “God is merciful! He will not rob me of the

only consolation of my joyless, solitary life. I had only this. To

think he lives, he breathes the same air, he looks up into the same

heavens--the same quiet stars greet him and me. And a day will come in

which millions of men will shout and call him their king; and when I

look upon his handsome face, and see him in the midst of his people,

surrounded by pomp and splendor, I dare say to myself, That is my work.

I loved him more than I loved myself, therefore he wears a crown--I

had the courage not only to die for him, but to live without him, and

therefore is he a king. Oh, my beloved, say not that you are dying!”

“If you love me truly, Laura, you will not wish me to live. Indeed I

have long been dying. For sixteen years I have felt the death-worm in my

heart--it gnaws and gnaws. I have tried to crush it--I wished to live,

because I had promised you to bear my burden. I wished to prove myself a

man. I gave the love which you laid at my feet, bathed in our tears and

our blood, to my fatherland. I was told that I must marry, to promote

the interest of my country, and I did so. I laid a mask over my face,

and a mask over my heart. I wished to play my part in the drama of life

to the end; I wished to honor my royal birth to which fate had condemned

me. But it appears I was a bad actor. I was cast out from my service,

my gay uniform and royal star torn from my breast. I, a prince, was sent

home a humiliated, degraded, ragged beggar. I crept with my misery and

my shame into this corner, and no one followed me. No one showed a spark

of love for the poor, spurned cast-away. Love would have enabled me to

overcome all, to defy the world, and to oppose its slanders boldly. I

was left alone to bear my shame and my despair--wholly alone. I have a

wife, I have children, and I am alone; they live far away from me, and

at the moment of my death they will smile and be happy. I am the heir of

a throne, but a poor beggar; I asked only of fate a little love, but I

asked in vain. Fate had no pity--only when I am dead will I be a prince

again; then they will heap honors upon my dead body. Oh, Laura! how it

burns in my heart--how terrible is this hell-fire of shame! It eats up

the marrow of my bones and devours my brain. Oh, my head, my head! how

terrible is this pain!”

With a loud sob he sank back on the pillow; his eyes closed, great drops

of sweat stood on his brow, and the breath seemed struggling in his

breast.

Laura bowed over him, she wiped away the death-sweat with her hair, and

hot tears fell on the poor wan face. These tears aroused him--he opened

his eyes.

“I have got something to say,” whispered he; “I feel that I shall soon

be well. When the world says of me, ‘He is dead,’ I shall have just

awaked from death. There above begins the true life; what is here so

called is only a pitiful prologue. We live here only that we may learn

to wish for death. Oh, my Laura! I shall soon live, love, and be happy.”

“Oh, take me with you, my beloved,” cried Laura, kneeling before him,

dissolved in tears. “Leave me not alone--it is so sad, so solitary in

this cold world! Take me with you, my beloved!”

He heard her not! Death had already touched him with the point of his

dark wings, and spread his mantle over him. His spirit struggled with

the exhausted body and panted to escape. He no longer heard when Laura

called, but he still lived: his eyes were wide open and he spoke

again. But they were single, disconnected words, which belonged to

the dreamland and the forms of the invisible world which his almost

disembodied spirit now looked upon.

Once he said, in a loud voice, and this time he looked with full

consciousness upon Laura, “I close my life--a life of sorrow.

Winterfeldt has shortened my days, but I die content in knowing that

so bad, so dangerous a man is no longer in the army.” [Footnote: The

prince’s own words. He died the 12th of June, 1758, at thirty-six years

of age. As his adjutant, Von Hagen, brought the news of his death to the

king, Frederick asked, “Of what disease did my brother die?”

“Grief and shame shortened his life,” said the officer. Frederick turned

his back on him without a reply, and Von Hagen was never promoted.

The king erected a monument to Winterfeldt, Ziethen, and Schwerin, but

he left it to his brother Henry to erect one to the Prince of Prussia.

This was done in Reinenz, where a lofty pyramid was built in honor of

the heroes of the Seven Years’ War. The names of all the generals,

and all the battles they had gained were engraven upon it, and it was

crowned by a bust of Augustus William, the great-grandfather of the

present King of Prussia.

The king erected a statue to Winterfeldt, and forgot his brother, and

now Prince Henry forgot to place Winterfeldt’s name among the heroes

of the war. When the monument was completed, the prince made a speech,

which was full of enthusiastic praise of his beloved brother, so early

numbered with the dead. Prince Henry betrayed by insinuation the strifes

and difficulties which always reigned between the king and himself;

he did not allude to the king during his speech, and did not class him

among the heroes of the Seven Years’ War.

In speaking of the necessity of a monument in memory of his best beloved

brother, Augustus William, he alluded to the statue of Winterfeldt, and

added: “L’abus des richesses et du pouvoir eleve des statues de marbre

et de bronze a ceux qui n’etaient pas dignes de passer a la posterite

sous l’embleme de l’honneur.”--Rouille’s “Vie du Prince Henry.”

Recently a signal honor has been shown to Prince Augustus William,

his statue has the principal place on the monument erected in honor of

Frederick the Great in Berlin.--Rouille.]

His mind wandered, and he thought he was on the battle-field, and called

out, loudly:

“Forward! forward to the death!”

Then all was still but the song of the birds and the sighing winds.

Laura knelt and prayed. When she turned her glance from the cloudless

heavens upon her beloved, his countenance was changed. There was a glory

about it, and his great, wide-opened eyes flashed with inspiration; he

raised his dying head and greeted the trees and flowers with his last

glance.

“How beautiful is the world when one is about to die,” said he, with a

sweet smile. “Farewell, world! Farewell, Laura! Come, take me in your

arms--let me die in the arms of love! Hate has its reign in this

world, but love goes down with us into the cold grave.

Farewell!--farewell!--farewell!”

His head fell upon Laura’s shoulder; one last gasp, one last shudder,

and the heir of a throne, the future ruler of millions, was nothing but

a corpse.

The trees whispered gayly--no cloud shadowed the blue heavens; the birds

sang, the flowers bloomed, and yet in that eventful moment a prince was

born, a pardoned soul was wafted to the skies.

Love pressed the last kiss upon the poor, wan lips; love closed the

weary eyes; love wept over him; love prayed for his soul.

“Hate has her reign in this poor world, love goes down with us into the

dark tomb.”

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I. THE KING AND HIS OLD AND NEW ENEMIES.

Three years, three long, terrible years had passed since the beginning

of this fearful war; since King Frederick of Prussia had stood alone,

without any ally but distant England, opposed by all Europe.

These three years had somewhat undeceived the proud and self-confident

enemies of Frederick. The pope still called him the Marquis of

Brandenburg, and the German emperor declared that, notwithstanding the

adverse circumstances threatening him on every side, the King of Prussia

was still a brave and undaunted adversary. His enemies, alter having for

a long time declared that they would extinguish him and reduce him once

more to the rank of the little Prince-Elector of Brandenburg, now began

to fear him. From every battle, from every effort, from every defeat,

King Frederick rose up with a clear brow and flashing eye, and unshaken

courage. Even the lost battles did not cast a shadow upon the lustre

of his victories. In both the one and the other he had shown himself a

hero, greater even after the battles in his composure and decision, in

his unconquerable energy, in the circumspection and presence of mind

by which he grasped at a glance all the surroundings, and converted the

most threatening into favorable circumstances. After a great victory

his enemies might indeed say they had conquered the King of Prussia, but

never that they had subdued him. He stood ever undaunted, ever ready

for the contest, prepared to attack them when they least expected it;

to take advantage of every weak point, and to profit by every incautious

movement. The fallen ranks of his brave soldiers appeared to be dragons’

teeth, which produced armed warriors.

In the camps of the allied Austrians, Saxons, and Russians hunger and

sickness prevailed. In Vienna, Petersburg, and Dresden, the costs and

burden of the war were felt to be almost insupportable. The Prussian

army was healthy, their magazines well stocked, and, thanks to the

English subsidy, the treasury seemed inexhaustible. Three years, as we

have said, of never-ceasing struggle had gone by. The heroic brow of

the great Frederick had been wreathed with new laurels. The battles of

Losovitz, of Rossbach, of Leuthen, and of Zorndorf were such dazzling

victories that they were not even obscured by the defeats of Collin and

Hochkirch. The allies made their shouts of victory resound throughout

all Europe, and used every means to produce the impression upon the

armies and the people that these victories were decisive.

Another fearful enemy, armed with words of Holy Writ, was now added

to the list of those who had attacked him with the sword. This new

adversary was Pope Clement XIII. He mounted the apostolic throne in May,

1758, and immediately declared himself the irreconcilable foe of the

little Marquis of Brandenburg, who had dared to hold up throughout

Prussia all superstition and bigotry to mockery and derision; who had

illuminated the holy gloom and obscurity of the church with the clear

light of reason and truth; who misused the priests and religious orders,

and welcomed and assisted in Prussia all those whom the holy mother

Catholic Church banished for heresies and unbelief.

Benedict, the predecessor of the present pope, was also known to have

been the enemy of Frederick, but he was wise enough to be silent and not

draw down upon the cloisters, and colleges, and Catholics of Prussia the

rage of the king.

But Clement, in his fanatical zeal, was not satisfied to pursue this

course. He was resolved to do battle against this heretical king. He

fulminated the anathemas of the church and bitter imprecations against

him, and showered down words of blessing and salvation upon all those

who declared themselves his foes. Because of this fanatical hatred,

Austria received a new honor, a new title from the hands of the pope.

As a reward for her enmity to this atheistical marquis, and the great

service which she had rendered in this war, the pope bestowed the title

of apostolic majesty upon the empress and her successors. Not only the

royal house of Austria, but the generals and the whole army of pious and

believing Christians, should know and feel that the blessing of the pope

rested upon their arms, protecting them from adversity and defeat.

The glorious victory of Hochkirch must be solemnly celebrated, and the

armies of the allies incited to more daring deeds of arms.

For this reason, Pope Clement sent to Field-Marshal Daun, who had

commanded at the battle of Hochkirch, a consecrated hat and sword,

thus changing this political into a religious war. It was no longer a

question of earthly possessions, but a holy contest against an heretical

enemy of mother church. Up to this time, these consecrated gifts had

been only bestowed upon generals who had already subdued unbelievers or

subjugated barbarians. [Footnote: OEuvres Posthumes, vol. iii.]

But King Frederick of Prussia laughed at these attacks of God’s

vicegerent. To his enemies, armed with the sword, he opposed his own

glittering blade; to his popish enemy, armed with the tongue and the

pen, he opposed the same weapons. He met the first in the open field,

the last in winter quarters, through those biting, mocking, keen

Fliegenden Blattern, which at that time made all Europe roar with

laughter, and crushed and brought to nothing the great deeds of the pope

by the curse of ridicule.

The consecrated hat and sword of Field-Marshal Daun lost its value

through the letter of thanks from Daun to the pope, which the king

intercepted, and which, even in Austria, was laughed at and made sport

of.

The congratulatory letter of the Princess Soubise to Daun was also made

public, and produced general merriment.

When the pope called Frederick the “heretical Marchese di Brandenburgo,”

the king returned the compliment by calling him the “Grand Lama,” and

delighted himself over the assumed infallibility of the vicegerent of

the Most High.

But the king not only scourged the pope with his satirical pen--the

modest and prudish Empress Maria Theresa was also the victim of his wit.

He wrote a letter, supposed to be from the Marquise de Pompadour to

the Queen of Hungary, in which the inexplicable friendship between the

virtuous empress and the luxurious mistress of Louis was mischievously

portrayed. This letter of Frederick’s was spread abroad in every

direction, and people were not only naive enough to read it, but to

believe it genuine. The Austrian court saw itself forced to the public

declaration that all these letters were false; that Field-Marshal Daun

had not received a consecrated wig, but a hat; and that the empress

had never received a letter of this character from the Marquise de

Pompadour. [Footnote: In this letter the marquise complained bitterly

that the empress had made it impossible for her to hasten to Vienna and

offer her the homage, the lore, the friendship she cherished for her in

her heart. The empress had established a court of virtue and modesty in

Vienna, and this tribunal could hardly receive the Pompadour graciously.

The marquise, therefore, entreated the empress to execute judgment

against this fearful tribunal of virtue, and to bow to the yoke of

the omnipotent goddess Venus. All these letters can be seen in the

“Supplement aux OEuvres Posthumes.”] These Fliegende Blattern, as we

have said, were the weapons with which King Frederick fought against his

enemies when the rough, inclement winter made it impossible for him

to meet them in the open field. In the winter quarters in 1758 most of

those letters appeared; and no one but the Marquis d’Argens, the most

faithful friend of Frederick, guessed who was the author of these hated

and feared satires.

The enemies of the king also made use of this winter rest to make every

possible aggression; they had their acquaintances and spies throughout

Germany; under various pretences and disguises, they were scattered

abroad--even in the highest court circles of Berlin they were zealously

at work. By flattery, and bribery, and glittering promises, they made

friends and adherents, and in the capital of Prussia they found ready

supporters and informers. They were not satisfied with this--they were

haughty and bold enough to seek for allies among the Prussians, and

hoped to obtain entrance into the walls of the cities, and possession of

the fortresses by treachery.

The Austrian and Russian prisoners confined in the fortress of Kustrin

conspired to give it up to the enemy. The number of Russian prisoners

sent to the fortress of Kustrin after the battle of Zorndorf, was

twice as numerous as the garrison, and if they could succeed in getting

possession of the hundred cannon captured at Zorndorf, and placed as

victorious trophies in the market-place, it would be an easy thing to

fall upon and overcome the garrison.

This plan was all arranged, and about to be carried out, but it was

discovered the day before its completion. The Prussian commander doubled

the guard before the casemates in which three thousand Russian prisoners

were confined, and arrested the Russian officers. Their leader,

Lieutenant von Yaden of Courland, was accused, condemned by the

court-martial, and, by the express command of the king, broken upon the

wheel. Even this terrible example bore little fruit. Ever new attempts

were being made--ever new conspiracies discovered amongst the prisoners;

and whilst the armies of the allies were attacking Prussia outwardly,

the prisoners were carrying on a not less dangerous guerilla war--the

more to be feared because it was secret--not in the open field and by

day, but under the shadow of night and the veil of conspiracy.

Nowhere was this warfare carried on more vigorously than in Berlin. All

the French taken at Rossbach, all the Austrians captured at Leuthen, and

the Russian officers of high rank taken at Zorndorf, had been sent by

the king to Berlin. They had the most enlarged liberty; the whole city

was their prison, and only their word of honor bound them not to leave

the walls of Berlin. Besides this, all were zealous to alleviate the

sorrows of the “poor captives,” and by fetes and genial amusements to

make them forget their captivity. The doors of all the first houses

were opened to the distinguished strangers--everywhere they were welcome

guests, and there was no assembly at the palace to which they were not

invited.

Even in these fearful times, balls and fetes were given at the court.

Anxious and sad faces were hidden under gay masks, and the loud sound of

music and dancing drowned the heavy sighs of the desponding. While the

Austrians, Russians, and Prussians strove with each other on the bloody

battle-field, the Berlin ladies danced the graceful Parisienne dances

with the noble prisoners. This was now the mode.

Truly there were many aching hearts in this gay and merry city, but they

hid their grief and tears in their quiet, lonely chambers, and their

clouded brows cast no shadow upon the laughing, rosy faces of the

beautiful women whose brothers, husbands, and lovers, were far away on

the bloody battle-field If not exactly willing to accept these strangers

as substitutes, they were at least glad to seek distraction in their

society. After all, it is impossible to be always mourning, always

complaining, always leading a cloistered life. In the beginning, the

oath of constancy and remembrance, which all had sworn at parting, had

been religiously preserved, and Berlin had the physiognomy of a lovely,

interesting, but dejected widow, who knew and wished to know nothing of

the joys of life. But suddenly Nature had asserted her own inexorable

laws, which teach forgetfulness and inspire hope. The bitterest ears

were dried--the heaviest sighs suppressed; people had learned to

reconcile themselves to life, and to snatch eagerly at every ray

of sunshine which could illumine the cold, hopeless desert, which

surrounded them.

They had seen that it was quite possible to live comfortably, even

while wild war was blustering and raging without--that weak, frail human

nature, refused to be ever strained, ever excited, in the expectation

of great events. In the course of these three fearful years, even the

saddest had learned again to laugh, jest, and be gay, in spite of

death and defeat. They loved their fatherland--they shouted loudly and

joyfully over the great victories of their king--they grieved sincerely

over his defeats; but they could not carry their animosities so far as

to be cold and strange to the captive officers who were compelled by the

chances of war to remain in Berlin.

They had so long striven not to seek to revenge themselves upon these

powerless captives, that they had at last truly forgotten they were

enemies; and these handsome, entertaining, captivating, gallant

gentlemen were no longer looked upon even as prisoners, but as strangers

and travellers, and therefore they should receive the honors of the

city. [Footnote: Sulzer writes: “The prisoners of war are treated here

as if they were distinguished travellers and visitors.”]

The king commanded that these officers should receive all attention.

It was also the imperative will of the king that court balls should be

given; he wished to prove to the world that his family were neither sad

nor dispirited, but gay, bold, and hopeful.

CHAPTER II. THE THREE OFFICERS.

It was the spring of 1759. Winter quarters were broken up, and it was

said the king had left Breslau and advanced boldly to meet the enemy.

The Berlin journals contained accounts of combats and skirmishes which

had taken place here and there between the Prussians and the allies, and

in which, it appeared, the Prussians had always been unfortunate.

Three captive officers sat in an elegant room of a house near the

castle, and conversed upon the news of the day, and stared at the

morning journals which lay before them on the table.

“I beg you,” said one of them in French--“I beg you will have the

goodness to translate this sentence for me. I think it has relation

to Prince Henry, but I find it impossible to decipher this barbarous

dialect.” He handed the journal to his neighbor, and pointed with his

finger to the paragraph.

“Yes, there is something about Prince Henry,” said the other, with a

peculiar accent which betrayed the Russian; “and something, Monsieur

Belleville, which will greatly interest you.”

“Oh, I beseech you to read it to us,” said the Frenchman, somewhat

impatiently; then, turning graciously to the third gentleman who sat

silent and indifferent near him, he added: “We must first ascertain,

however, if our kind host, Monsieur le Comte di Ranuzi, consents to the

reading.”

“I gladly take part,” said the Italian count, “in any thing that is

interesting; above all, in every thing which has no relation to this

wearisome and stupid Berlin.”

“Vraiment! you are right.” sighed the Frenchman. “It is a dreary and

ceremonious region. They are so inexpressibly prudish and virtuous--so

ruled with old-fashioned scruples--led captive by such little

prejudices that I should be greatly amused at it, if I did not suffer

daily from the dead monotony it brings. What would the enchanting

mistress of France--what would the Marquise de Pompadour say, if she

could see me, the gay, witty, merry Belleville, conversing with such

an aspect of pious gravity with this poor Queen of Prussia, who makes

a face if one alludes to La Pucelle d’Orleans, and wishes to make it

appear that she has not read Crebillon!”

“Tell me, now, Giurgenow, how is it with your court of Petersburg? Is it

formal, as ceremonious as here in Prussia?”

Giurgenow laughed aloud. “Our Empress Elizabeth is an angel of beauty

and goodness--mild and magnanimous to all-sacrificing herself constantly

to the good of others. Last year she gave a ball to her body-guard. She

danced with every one of the soldiers, and sipped from every glass; and

when the soldiers, carried away by her grace and favor, dared to indulge

in somewhat free jests, the good empress laughed merrily, and forgave

them. On that auspicious day she first turned her attention to the happy

Bestuchef. He was then a poor subordinate officer--now he is a prince

and one of the richest men in Russia.”

“It appears that your Russia has some resemblance to my beautiful

France,” said Belleville, gayly. “But how is it with you, Count Ranuzi?

Is the Austrian court like the court of France, or like this wearisome

Prussia?”

“The Austrian court stands alone--resembles no other,” said the Italian,

proudly. “At the Austrian court we have a tribunal of justice to decide

all charges against modesty and virtue The Empress Maria Theresa is its

president.”

“Diable!” cried the Frenchman, “what earthly chance would the Russian

empress and my lovely, enchanting marquise have, if summoned before this

tribunal by their most august ally the Empress Maria Theresa? But you

forget, Giurgenow, that you have promised to read us something from the

journal about Prince Henry.”

“It is nothing of importance,” said the Russian, apathetically; “the

prince has entirely recovered from his wounds, and has been solacing

himself in his winter camp at Dresden with the representations upon the

French stage. He has taken part as actor, and has played the role of

Voltaire’s Enfant Prodigue. It is further written, that he has now left

the comic stage and commenced the graver game of arms.”

“He might accidentally change these roles,” said Belleville, gayly, “and

play the Enfant Prodigue when he should play the hero. In which would he

be the greater, do you know, Ranuzi?”

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. “You must ask his wife.”

“Or Baron Kalkreuth, who has lingered here for seven months because of

his wounds,” said Giurgenow, with a loud laugh. “Besides, Prince Henry

is averse to this war, all his sympathies are on our side. If the fate

of war should cost the King of Prussia his life, we would soon have

peace and leave this detestable Berlin--this dead, sandy desert, where

we are now languishing as prisoners.”

“The god of war is not always complaisant,” said the Frenchman, grimly.

“He does not always strike those whom we would gladly see fall; the

balls often go wide of the mark.”

“Truly a dagger is more reliable,” said Ranuzi, coolly.

The Russian cast a quick, lowering side glance upon him.

“Not always sure,” said he. “It is said that men armed with daggers have

twice found their way into the Prussian camp, and been caught in the

king’s tent. Their daggers have been as little fatal to the king as the

cannon-balls.”

“Those who bore the daggers were Dutchmen,” said Ranuzi, apathetically;

“they do not understand this sort of work. One must learn to handle the

dagger in my fatherland.”

“Have you learned?” said Giurgenow, sharply.

“I have learned a little of every thing. I am a dilettanti in all.”

“But you are master in the art of love,” said Belleville, smiling. “Much

is said of your love-affairs, monsieur.”

“Much is said that is untrue.” said the Italian, quietly. “I love no

intrigues--least of all, love intrigues; while you, sir, are known as

a veritable Don Juan. I learn that you are fatally in love with the

beautiful maid of honor of the Princess Henry.”

“Ah, you mean the lovely Fraulein von Marshal,” said Giurgenow; “I have

also heard this, and I admire the taste and envy the good fortune of

Belleville.”

“It is, indeed, true,” said Belleville; “the little one is pretty, and

I divert myself by making love to her. It is our duty to teach these

little Dutch girls, once for all, what true gallantry is.”

“And is that your only reason for paying court to this beautiful girl?”

said Giurgenow, frowningly.

“The only reason, I assure you,” cried Belleville, rising up, and

drawing near the window. “But, look,” cried he, hastily; “what a crowd

of men are filling the streets, and how the people are crying and

gesticulating, as if some great misfortune had fallen upon them!”

The two officers hastened to his side and threw open the window. A great

crowd of people was indeed assembled in the platz, and they were still

rushing from the neighboring streets into the wide, open square, in

the middle of which, upon a few large stones, a curious group were

exhibiting themselves.

There stood a tall, thin man enveloped in a sort of black robe; his

long gray hair fell in wild locks around his pallid and fanatical

countenance. In his right hand he held a Bible, which he waved aloft

to the people, while his large, deeply-set, hollow eyes were raised to

heaven, and his pale lips murmured light and unintelligible words. By

his side stood a woman, also in black, with dishevelled hair floating

down her back. Her face was colorless, she looked like a corpse, and her

thin, blue lips were pressed together as if in death. There was life in

her eyes--a gloomy, wild, fanatical fire flashed from them. Her glance

was glaring and uncertain, like a will-o’-the-wisp, and filled those

upon whom it fell with a shivering, mysterious feeling of dread.

And now, as if by accident, she looked to the windows where the three

gentlemen were standing. The shadow of a smile passed over her face, and

she bowed her head almost imperceptibly. No one regarded this; no one

saw that Giurgenow answered this greeting, and smiled back significantly

upon this enigmatical woman.

“Do you know what this means, gentlemen?” said Belleville.

“It means,” said Giurgenow, “that the people will learn from their great

prophet something of the continuance, or rather of the conclusion of

this war. These good, simple people, as it seems to me, long for rest,

and wish to know when they may hope to attain it. That man knows, for he

is a great prophet, and all his prophecies are fulfilled.”

“But you forget to make mention of the woman?” said Ranuzi, with a

peculiar smile.

“The woman is, I think, a fortune-teller with cards, and the Princess

Amelia holds her in great respect; but let us listen to what the prophet

says.”

They were silent, and listened anxiously. And now the voice of the

prophet raised itself high above the silent crowd. Pealing and sounding

through the air, it fell in trumpet-tones upon the ear, and not one word

escaped the eager and attentive people.

“Brothers,” cried the prophet, “why do you interrupt me? Why do you

disturb me, in my quiet, peaceful path--me and this innocent woman, who

stood by my side last night, to read the dark stars, and whose soul is

sad, even as my own, at what we have seen.”

“What did you see?” cried a voice from the crowd.

“Pale, ghostly shadows, who, in bloody garments, wandered here and

there, weeping and wailing, seating themselves upon a thousand open

graves, and singing out their plaintive hymns of lamentation. ‘War!

war!’ they cried, ‘woe to war! It kills our men, devours our youths,

makes widows of our women, and nuns of our maidens. Woe, woe to war!

Shriek out a prayer to God for peace--peace! O God, send us peace; close

these open graves, heal our wounds, and let our great suffering cease!’”

The prophet folded his hands and looked to heaven, and now the woman’s

voice was heard.

“But the heavens were dark to the prayer of the spirits, and a blood-red

stream gushed from them; colored the stars crimson, turned the moon to a

lake of blood, and piteous voices cried out from the clouds, and in the

air--‘Fight on and die, for your king wills it so; your life belongs to

him, your blood is his.’ Then, from two rivulets of blood, giant-like,

pale, transparent forms emerged; upon the head of the first, I read the

number, ‘1759.’ Then the pale form opened its lips, and cried out: ‘I

bring war, and ever-new bloodshed. Your king demands the blood of your

sons; give it to him. He demands your gold; give it to him. The king is

lord of your body, your blood, and your soul. When he speaks, you must

obey!’”

“It seems to me all this is a little too Russian in its conception,”

said Ranuzi, half aloud. “I shall be surprised if the police do not

interrupt this seance, which smells a little of insurrection.”

“The scene is so very piquant,” said Giurgenow, “I would like to draw

nearer. Pardon me, gentlemen, I must leave you, and go upon the square.

It is interesting to hear what the people say, and how they receive such

prophecies. We can, perhaps, judge in this way of the probabilities of

peace and liberty. The voice of the people is, in politics, ever the

decisive voice.” He took his hat, and, bowing to the gentlemen, left the

room hastily.

CHAPTER III. RANUZI

Count Ranuzi gazed after the Russian with a mocking smile. “Do you know,

Belleville, where he is going?”

“He has not told us, but I guess it. He is going to approach this

fortune-teller, and give her a sign that her zeal has carried her too

far, and that, if not more prudent, she will betray herself.”

“You think, then, that Giurgenow knows the fortune-teller?”

“I am certain of it. He has engaged these charlatans to rouse up the

people, and excite them against the king. This is, indeed, a very common

mode of proceeding, and often successful; but here, in Prussia, it can

bear no fruit. The people here have nothing to do with politics; the

king reigns alone. The people are nothing but a mass of subjects, who

obey implicitly his commands, even when they know, that in so doing,

they rush on destruction.”

“Giurgenow has failed, and he might have counted upon failure! If you,

Belleville, had resorted to these means, I could have understood it. In

France, the people play an important role in politics. In order to put

down the government, you must work upon the people. You might have been

forgiven for this attempt, but Giurgenow never!”

“You believe, then, that he is manoeuvring here, in Berlin, in the

interest of his government?” said Belleville, amazed.

Ranuzi laughed heartily. “That is a fine and diplomatic mode of

expressing the thing!” said he. “Yes, he is here in the interest of his

government; but when the Prussian government becomes acquainted with

this fact, they will consider him a spy. If discovered, he will be hung.

If successful, when once more at liberty, he may receive thanks and

rewards from Russia. See, now, how rightly I have prophesied! There

is Giurgenow, standing by the side of the prophetess, and I imagine I

almost hear the words he is whispering to her. She will commence again

to prophesy, but in a less violent and fanatical manner.”

“No, no; she will prophesy no more! The police are breaking their way

forcibly through the crowd. They do not regard the cries of fear and

suffering of those they are shoving so violently aside. These are

the servants of the police; they will speedily put an end to this

prophesying. Already the people are flying. Look how adroitly Giurgenow

slips away, and does not condescend to give a glance to the poor

prophetess he inspired. Only see how little respect these rough

policemen have for these heaven-inspired prophets! They seize them

rudely, and bear them off. They will be punished with, at least,

twenty-four hours’ arrest. In Prussia, this concourse and tumult of

the people is not allowed. Come, monsieur, let us close the window;

the comedy is over. The prophets are in the watch-house. Their role is

probably forever played out!” said Belleville, smilingly.

“Not so; they will recommence it to-morrow. These same prophets have

high and mighty protectors in Berlin; the police will not dare to

keep them long under arrest. The Princess Amelia will demand her

fortune-teller.”

“Vraiment, monsieur le comte,” said the Frenchman, “you seem

extraordinarily well acquainted with all these intrigues?”

“I observe closely,” said Ranuzi, with a meaning smile. “I am very

silent--therefore hear a great deal.”

“Well, I counsel you not to give to me or my actions the honor of your

observations,” said Belleville. “My life offers few opportunities for

discovery. I live, I eat, I sleep, I chat, and write poetry and caress,

and seek to amuse myself as well as possible. Sometimes I catch myself

praying to God tearfully for liberty, and truly, not from any political

considerations--simply from the selfish wish to get away from here. You

see, therefore, I am an innocent and harmless bon enfant, not in the

least troubled about public affairs.”

“No,” said Ranuzi, “you do not love Fraulein Marshal at all from

political reasons, but solely because of her beauty, her grace, and her

charms. Behold, this is the result of my observations.”

“You have, then, been watching me?” said Belleville, blushing. “I have

told you that I was always observant. This is here my only distraction

and recreation, and really I do not know what I should do with my time

if I did not kill the weary hours in this way.”

“You do employ it sometimes to a better purpose?” said the Frenchman,

in low tones. “Love is still for you a more agreeable diversion, and you

understand the game well.”

“It appears you are also an observer,” said Ranuzi, with an ironical

smile. “Well, then, I do find love a sweeter diversion; and if I should

yield myself up entirely to my love-dreams, I would perhaps be less

observant. But, Belleville, why do you take your hat? Will you also

leave me?”

“I must, perforce. Through our agreeable conversation I had entirely

forgotten that I had promised Fraulein Marshal to ride with her. A

cavalier must keep his promise with a lady, at least till he knows she

is ardently in love with him.” He gave his hand to the duke, and as he

left the room he hummed a light French chanson.

Ranuzi looked after him with a long, frowning glance. “Poor fool,”

murmured he, “he believes he plays his part so well that he deceives

even me. This mask of folly and levity he has assumed is thin and

transparent enough I see his true face behind it. It is the physiognomy

of a sly intriguant. Oh, I know him thoroughly; I understand every

emotion of his heart, and I know well what his passion for the beautiful

Marshal signifies. She is the maid of honor of the Princess Henry this

is the secret of his love. She is the confidante of the princess, who

receives every week long and confidential letters from the tent of her

tender husband. Fraulein Marshal is naturally acquainted with their

contents. The prince certainly speaks in these letters of his love and

devotion, but also a little of the king’s plans of battle. Fraulein von

Marshal knows all this. If Belleville obtains her love and confidence,

he will receive pretty correct information of what goes on in the tent

of the king and in the camp councils. So Belleville will have most

important dispatches to forward to his Marquise de Pompadour dispatches

for which he will be one day rewarded with honor and fortune. This is

the Frenchman’s plan! I see through him as I do through the Russian.

They are both paid spies informers of their governments nothing more.

They will be paid, or they will be hung, according as accident is

favorable or unfavorable to them.” Ranuzi was silent, and walked hastily

backward and forward in the rood. Upon his high, pale brow dark thoughts

were written, and flashes of anger flamed from his eyes.

“And I,” said he, after a long pause, “am I in any respect better

than they? Will not the day come when I also will be considered as

a purchased spy? a miserable informer? and my name branded with this

title? No, no; away with this dark spectre, which floats like a black

cloud between me and my purpose! My aim is heaven; and what I do, I do

in the name of the Church--in the service of this great, exalted Church,

whose servant and priest I am. No, no; the world will not call me a spy,

will not brand my name with shame. God will bless my efforts as the Holy

Father in Rome has blessed them, and I shall reach the goal.”

Ranuzi was brilliantly handsome in this inspired mood; his noble and

characteristic face seemed illuminated and as beautiful as the angel of

darkness, when surrounded by a halo of heavenly light.

“It is an exalted and great aim which I have set before me,” said he,

after another pause; “a work which the Holy Father himself confided to

me. I must and I will accomplish it to the honor of God and the

Holy Madonna. This blasphemous war must end; this atheistical and

free-thinking king must be reduced, humbled, and cast down from the

stage he has mounted with such ostentatious bravado. Silesia must be

torn from the hands of this profligate robber and incorporated in the

crown of our apostolic majesty of Austria. The holy Church dare not

lose any of her provinces, and Silesia will be lost if it remains in the

hands of this heretical king; he must be punished for his insolence and

scoffing, for having dared to oppose himself to the Holy Father at Rome.

The injuries which he heaped upon the Queen of Poland must be avenged,

and I will not rest till he is so humbled, so crushed, as to sue for a

shameful peace, even as Henry the Fourth, clad like a peasant, pleaded

to Canoza. But the means, the means to attain this great object.”

Hastily and silently he paced the room, his head proudly thrown back,

and a cold, defiant glance directed upward.

“To kill him!” said he suddenly, as if answering the voices which

whispered in his soul; “that would be an imbecile, miserable resort,

and, moreover, we would not obtain our object; ho would not be

humiliated, but a martyr’s crown would be added to his laurels. When,

however, ho is completely humbled, when, to this great victory at

Hochkirch, we add new triumphs, when we have taken Silesia and

revenged Saxony, then he might die; then we will seek a sure hand which

understands the dagger and its uses. Until then, silence and caution;

until then this contest must be carried on with every weapon which

wisdom and craft can place in our hands. I think my weapons are good and

sharp, well fitted to give a telling thrust; and yet they are so simple,

so threadbare--a cunning fortune-teller, a love-sick fool, a noble

coquette, and a poor prisoner! these are my only weapons, and with

these I will defeat the man whom his flatterers call the heroic King of

Prussia.” He laughed aloud, but it was a ferocious, threatening laugh,

which shocked himself.

“Down, down, ye evil spirits,” said he; “do not press forward so boldly

to my lips; they are consecrated now to soft words and tender sighs

alone. Silence, ye demons! creep back into my heart, and there, from

some dark corner, you can hear and see if my great role is well played.

It is time! it is time! I must once more prove my weapons.”

He stepped to the glass and looked thoughtfully at his face, examined

his eyes, his lips, to see if they betrayed the dark passions of his

soul; then arranged his dark hair in soft, wavy lines over his brow; he

rang for his servant, put on his Austrian uniform, and buckled on the

sword. The king had been gracious enough to allow the captive officers

in Berlin to wear their swords, only requiring their word of honor that

they would never use them again in this war. When Count Ranuzi, the

captive Austrian captain, had completed his toilet, he took his hat

and entered the street. Ranuzi had now assumed a careless, indifferent

expression; he greeted the acquaintances who met him with a friendly

smile, uttering to each a few kindly words or gay jests. He reached, at

last, a small and insignificant house in the Frederick Street, opened

the door which was only slightly closed, and entered the hall; at the

same moment a side door opened, and a lady sprang forward, with extended

arms, to meet the count.

“Oh, my angel,” said she, in that soft Italian tongue, so well suited to

clothe love’s trembling sighs in words--“oh, my angel, are you here at

last? I saw your noble, handsome face, from my window; it seemed to me

that my room was illuminated with glorious sunshine, and my heart and

soul were warmed.”

Ranuzi made no answer to these glowing words, silently he suffered

himself to be led forward by the lady, then replied to her ardent

assurances by a few cool, friendly words.

“You are alone to-day, Marietta,” said he, “and your husband will not

interrupt our conversation.”

“My husband!” said she, reproachfully, “Taliazuchi is not my husband.

I despise him; I know nothing of him; I am even willing that he should

know I adore you.”

“Oh woman, woman!” said Ranuzi, laughing; “how treacherous, how

dangerous you are! When you love happily, you are like the anaconda,

whose poisonous bite one need not fear, when it is well fed and tended,

but when you have ceased to love, you are like the tigress who, rashly

awaked from sleep, would strangle the unfortunate who disturbed her

repose. Come, my anaconda, come; if you are satisfied with my love, let

us talk and dream.” He drew her tenderly toward him, and, kissing her

fondly, seated her by his side; but Marietta glided softly to his feet.

“Let it be so,” she said; “let me lie at your feet; let me adore you,

and read in your face the history of these last three terrible days, in

which I have not seen you. Where were you, Carlo? why have you forgotten

me?”

“Ah,” said he, laughing, “my anaconda begins to hunger for my heart’s

blood! how long before she will be ready to devour or to murder me?”

“Do not call me your anaconda,” she said, shaking her head; “you say

that, when we are satisfied with your love, we are like the sleeping

anaconda. But, Carlo, when I look upon you, I thirst for your glances,

your sweet words, your assurances of love. And has it not been thus all

my life long? Have I not loved you since I was capable of thought and

feeling? Oh, do you remember our happy, glorious childhood, Carlo? those

days of sunshine, of fragrance, of flowers, of childish innocence?

Do you remember how often we have wandered hand in hand through the

Campagna, talking of God, of the stars, and of the flowers?--dreaming

of the time in which the angels and the stars would float down into our

hearts, and change the world into a paradise for us?”

“Ah! we had a bitter awaking from these fair dreams,” said Ranuzi,

thoughtfully. “My father placed me in a Jesuit college; your mother sent

you to a cloister, that the nuns might make of you a public singer. We

had both our own career to make, Marietta; you upon the stage, I on the

confessor’s stool. We were the poor children of poor parents, and

every path was closed to us but one, the church and the stage; our wise

parents knew this.”

“And they separated us,” sighed Marietta; “they crushed out the first

modest flame of our young, pure hearts, and made us an example of their

greed! Ah, Carlo; you can never know how much I suffered, how bitterly I

wept on your account. I was only twelve years old, but I loved you with

all the strength and ardor of a woman, and longed after you as after a

lost paradise. The nuns taught me to sing; and when my clear, rich voice

pealed through the church halls, no one knew that not God’s image, but

yours, was in my heart; that I was worshipping you with my hymns of

praise and pious fervor. I knew that we were forever separated, could

never belong to each other, so I prayed to God to lend swift wings to

time, that we might become independent and free, I as a singer and you

as my honored confessor.”

Ranuzi laughed merrily. “But fate was unpropitious,” said he. “The

pious fathers discovered that I had too little eloquence to make a good

priest; in short, that I was better fitted to serve holy mother Church

upon the battle-field. When I was a man and sufficiently learned, they

obtained a commission for me as officer in the Pope’s body-guard, and I

exchanged the black robe of my order for the gold-embroidered uniform.”

“And you forgot me, Carlo? you did not let me know where you were? Five

years after, when I was engaged in Florence as a singer, I learned what

had become of you. I loved you always, Carlo; but what hope had I

ever to tell you so? we were so far away from each other, and poverty

separated us so widely. I must first become rich, you must make your

career. Only then might we hope to belong to each other. I waited and

was silent.”

“You waited and were silent till you forgot me,” said Ranuzi, playing

carelessly with her long, soft curls; “and, having forgotten me, you

discovered that Signer Taliazuchi was a tolerably pretty fellow, whom it

was quite possible to love.”

“Taliazuchi understood how to flatter my vanity,” said she, gloomily;

“he wrote beautiful and glowing poems in my praise, which were printed

and read not only in Florence, but throughout all Italy. When he

declared his love and pleaded for my hand, I thought, if I refused him,

he would persecute me and hate me; that mockery and ridicule would take

the place of the enthusiastic hymns in my praise, with which Italy

then resounded. I was too ambitious to submit to this, and had not

the courage to refuse him, so I became his wife, and in becoming so,

I abhorred him, and I swore to make him atone for having forced me to

become so.”

“But this force consisted only in hymns of praise and favorable

criticisms,” said Ranuzi, quietly.

“I have kept my oath,” said Marietta; “I have made him atone for what

he has done, and I have often thought that, when afterward compelled to

write poems in my favor, he cursed me in his heart; he would gladly have

crushed me by his criticisms, but that my fame was a fountain of gold

for him, which he dared not exhaust or dry up. But my voice had been

injured by too much straining, and a veil soon fell upon it. I could but

regard it as great good fortune when Count Algarotti proposed to me

to take the second place as singer in Berlin; this promised to be more

profitable, as the count carelessly offered Taliazuchi a place in the

opera troupe as writer. So I left my beautiful Italy; I left you to

amass gold in this cold north. And now, I no longer repent; I rejoice!

I have found you again--you, the beloved of my youth--you, my youth

itself. Oh, Heaven! never will I forget the day when I saw you passing.

I knew you in spite of the uniform, in spite of the many years which

had passed since we met. I knew you; and not my lips only, but my heart,

uttered that loud cry which caused you to look up, my Carlo. And now

you recognized me and stretched your hands out to me, and I would have

sprung to you from the window, had not Taliazuchi held me back. I cried

out, ‘It is Ranuzi! it is Carlo! I must, I will fly to him,’ when the

door opened and you entered and I saw you, my own beloved; I heard

your dear voice, and never did one of God’s poor creatures fall into a

happier insensibility than I in that rapturous moment.”

“And Taliazuchi stood by and smiled!” said Ranuzi, laughing; “it was

truly a pretty scene for an opera writer. He, no doubt, thought so,

and wished to take note of it, as he left the room when you awaked to

consciousness.”

“Since that time, I am only awake when in your presence,” said Marietta,

passionately. “When you are not near me, I sleep. You are the sun which

rouses me to life. When you leave me, it is night--dark night, and dark,

gloomy thoughts steal over me.”

“What thoughts, Marietta?” said he, placing his hand under her chin, and

raising her head gently.

She looked up at him with a curious, dreamy smile, but was silent.

“Well, what thoughts have you when I am not with you?” he repeated.

“I think it possible a day may come in which you will cease to love me.”

“And you think you will then fly to Taliazuchi for consolation?” said

Ranuzi, laughing.

“No; I think, or rather I fear that I will revenge myself; that I will

take vengeance on you for your unfaithfulness.”

“Ah! my tigress threatens!” cried Ranuzi. “Now, Marietta, you know well

that I shall never cease to love you, but a day will come when we will

be forced to separate.” She sprang up with a wild cry, and clasped him

stormily in her arms.

“No, no!” she cried, trembling and weeping; “no man shall dare to tear

you from me! We will never be separated!”

“You think, then, that I am not only your prisoner for life, but also

the eternal prisoner of the King of Prussia?”

“No, no! you shall be free--free! but Marietta will also be free, and

by your side. When you leave Berlin, I go with you; no power can bind me

here. Taliazuchi will not seek me, if I leave him my little fortune.

I will do that; I will take nothing with me. Poor, without fortune or

possessions, I will follow you, Ranuzi. I desire nothing, I hope for

nothing, but to be by your side.”

She clasped him in her arms, and did not remark the dark cloud which

shadowed his brow, but this vanished quickly, and his countenance

assumed a kind and clear expression. “It shall be so, Marietta! Freedom

shall unite us both eternally, death only shall separate us! But when

may we hope for this great, this glorious, this beautiful hour? When

will the blessed day dawn in which I can take your hand and say to you,

‘Come, Marietta, come; the world belongs to us and our love. Let us fly

and enjoy our happiness.’ Oh, beloved, if you truly love me, help me to

snatch this happy day from fate! Stand by me with your love, that I may

attain my freedom.”

“Tell me what I can do, and it is done,” said she resolutely; “there is

nothing I will not undertake and dare for you.”

Ranuzi took her small head in his hands and gazed long and smilingly

into her glowing face.

“Are you sure of yourself?” said he.

“I am sure. Tell me, Carlo, what I must do, and it is done.”

“And if it is dangerous, Marietta?”

“I know but one danger.”

“What is that?”

“To lose your love, Carlo!”

“Then this world has no danger for you, Marietta!”

“Speak, Carlo, speak! How can I aid you? What can I do to obtain your

liberty?”

Ranuzi threw a quick and searching glance around the room, as if to

convince himself that they were alone, then bowed down close to her ear

and whispered:

“I can never be free till the King of Prussia is completely conquered

and subjected, and only if I bring all my strength and capabilities to

this object, may I hope to be free, and rich, and honored. The King

of Prussia is my enemy, he is the enemy of the Church, the enemy of my

gracious sovereign of Austria, to whom I have sworn fealty. A man may

strive to conquer his enemies with every weapon, even with craft. Will

you stand by me in this?”

“I will.”

“Then observe and listen, and search all around you. Repeat to me all

that you hear and see--seem to be an enthusiastic adherent of the King

of Prussia; you will then be confided in and know all that is taking

place. Be kind and sympathetic to your husband; he is a sincere follower

of the king, and has free intercourse with many distinguished persons;

he is also well received at court. Give yourself the appearance of

sympathizing in all his sentiments. When you attend the concerts at

the castle, observe all that passes--every laugh, every glance,

every indistinct word, and inform me of all. Do you understand,

Marietta?--will you do this?”

“I understand, Carlo, and I will do this. Is this all? Can I do nothing

more to help you?”

“Yes, there are other things, but they are more difficult, more

dangerous.”

“So much the better; the more dangerous the stronger the proof of my

love. Speak, dear Carlo!”

“It is forbidden for the captive officers to send sealed letters to

their friends or relatives. All our letters must be read, and if a word

of politics is found in them, they are condemned. All other persons

have the right to send sealed letters in every direction. Have you not

friends to whom you write, Marietta?”

“I have, and from this time onward your friends will be mine, and I will

correspond with them.”

As she said this, with a roguish smile, a ray of joy lighted up Ranuzi’s

eyes.

“You understand me, my beloved; your intellect is as clear and sharp

as your heart is warm and noble. Think well what you do--what danger

threatens you. I tell you plainly, Marietta, this is no question of

common friendly letters, but of the most earnest, grave, important

interests!”

She bowed to his ear and whispered: “All that you espy in Berlin you

will confide to these letters; you will concert with your friends,

you will design plans, perhaps make conspiracies. I will address these

letters and take them to the post, and no one will mistrust me, for

my letters will be addressed to some friends in Vienna, or to whom you

will. Have I understood you, Carlo? Is this all right?”

He clasped her rapturously in his arms, and the words of tender

gratitude which he expressed were not entirely wanting in sincerity and

truth.

Marietta was proudly happy, and listened with sparkling eyes to his

honeyed words.

As Ranuzi, however, after this long interview, arose to say farewell,

she held him back. Laying her hands upon his shoulder, she looked at him

with a curious expression, half laughing, half threatening.

“One last word, Carlo,” she said; “I love you boundlessly. To prove my

love to you, I become a traitress to this king, who has been a gracious

master to me, whose bread I eat--who received and protects me. To prove

my love, I become a spy, an informer. Men say this is dishonorable work,

but for myself I feel proud and happy to undertake it for you, and not

for all the riches and treasures of this world would I betray you.

But, Carlo, if you ever cease to love me, if you deceive me and become

unfaithful, as true as God helps me, I will betray both myself and you!”

“I believe truly she is capable of it,” said Ranuzi, as he reached the

street; “she is a dangerous woman, and with her love and hate she is

truly like a tigress. Well, I must be on my guard. If she rages I must

draw her teeth, so that she cannot bite, or flee from her furious leaps.

But this danger is in the distance, the principal thing is that I have

opened a way to my correspondence, and that is immense progress in my

plans, for which I might well show my gratitude to my tender Marietta by

a few caresses.”

CHAPTER IV. LOUISE DU TROUFFLE.

Madame du Trouffle paced her room restlessly; she listened to every

stroke of the clock, every sound made her tremble.

“He comes not! he comes not!” murmured she; “he received my irony of

yesterday in earnest and is exasperated. Alas! am I really an old woman?

Have I no longer the power to enchain, to attract? Can it be that I am

old and ugly? No, no! I am but thirty-four years of age--that is not old

for a married woman, and as to being ugly--”

She interrupted herself, stepped hastily to the glass, and looked long

and curiously at her face.

Yes, yes! she must confess her beauty was on the wane. She was more

faded than her age would justify. Already was seen around her mouth

those yellow, treacherous lines which vanished years imprint upon the

face; already her brow was marked with light lines, and silver threads

glimmered in her hair.

Louise du Trouffle sighed heavily.

“I was too early married, and then unhappily married; at eighteen I was

a mother. All this ages a woman--not the years but the storms of life

have marked these fearful lines in my face. Then it is not possible for

a man to feel any warm interest in me when he sees a grown-up daughter

by my side, who will soon be my rival, and strive with me for the homage

of men. This is indeed exasperating. Oh, my God! my God! a day may come

in which I may be jealous of my own daughter! May Heaven guard me from

that! Grant that I may see her fresh and blooming beauty without rancor;

that I may think more of her happiness than my vanity.”

Then, as if she would strengthen her good resolutions, Louise left her

room and hastened to the chamber of her daughter.

Camilla lay upon the divan--her slender and beauteous form was wrapped

in soft white drapery; her shining, soft dark hair fell around her rosy

face and over her naked shoulders, with whose alabaster whiteness

it contrasted strongly. Camilla was reading, and so entirely was she

occupied with her book that she did not hear her mother enter.

Louise drew softly near the divan, and stood still, lost in admiration

at this lovely, enchanting picture, this reposing Hebe.

“Camilla,” said she, fondly, “what are you reading so eagerly?”

Camilla started and looked up suddenly, then laughed aloud.

“Ah, mamma,” said she, in a silver, clear, and soft voice, “how you

frightened me! I thought it was my tyrannical governess already returned

from her walk, and that she had surprised me with this book.”

“Without doubt she forbade you to read it,” said her mother, gravely,

stretching out her hand for the book, but Camilla drew it back suddenly.

“Yes, certainly, Madame Brunnen forbade me to read this book; but that

is no reason, mamma, why you should take it away from me. It is to be

hoped you will not play the stern tyrant against your poor Camilla.”

“I wish to know what you are reading, Camilla.”

“Well, then, Voltaire’s ‘Pucelle d’ Orleans,’ and I assure you, mamma, I

am extremely pleased with it.”

“Madame Brunnen was right to forbid you to read this book, and I also

forbid it.”

“And if I refuse to obey, mamma?”

“I will force you to obedience,” cried her mother, sternly.

“Did any one succeed in forcing you to obey your mother?” said Camilla,

in a transport of rage. “Did your mother give her consent to your

elopement with the garden-boy? You chose your own path in life, and I

will choose mine. I will no longer bear to be treated as a child--I am

thirteen years old; you were not older when you had the affair with the

garden-boy, and were forced to confide yourself to my father. Why do you

wish in treat me as a little child, and keep me in leading-strings, when

I am a grown-up girl?”

“You are no grown-up girl, Camilla,” cried her mother; “if you were, you

would not dare to speak to your mother as you have done: you would know

that it was unseemly, and that, above all other things, you should show

reverence and obedience to your mother. No, Camilla, God be thanked! you

are but a foolish child, and therefore I forgive you.”

Louise drew near her daughter and tried to clasp her tenderly in her

arms, but Camilla struggled roughly against it.

“You shall not call me a child,” said she, rudely. “I will no longer

bear it! it angers me! and if you repeat it, mamma, I will declare to

every one that I am sixteen years old!”

“And why will you say that, Camilla?”

Camilla looked up with a cunning smile.

“Why?” she repeated, “ah! you think I do not know why I must

always remain a child? It is because you wish to remain a young

woman--therefore you declare to all the world that I am but twelve years

old! But no one believes you, mamma, not one believes you. The world

laughs at you, but you do not see it--you think you are younger when you

call me a child. I say to you I will not endure it! I will be a

lady--I will adorn myself and go into society. I will not remain in the

school-room with a governess while you are sparkling in the saloon

and enchanting your followers by your beauty. I will also have my

worshippers, who pay court to me; I will write and receive love-letters

as other maidens do; I will carry on my own little love-affairs as all

other girls do; as you did, from the time you were twelve years old, and

still do!”

“Silence, Camilla! or I will make you feel that you are still a child!”

cried Louise, raising her arm threateningly and approaching the divan.

“Would you strike me, mother?” said she, with trembling lips. “I counsel

you not to do it. Raise your hand once more against me, but think of the

consequences. I will run away! I will fly to my poor, dear father, whom

you, unhappy one, have made a drunkard! I will remain with him--he loves

me tenderly. If I were with him, he would no longer drink.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Louise, with tears gushing from her eyes;

“it is he who has planted this hate in her heart--he has been the cause

of all my wretchedness! She loves her father who has done nothing for

her, and she hates her mother who has shown her nothing but love.”

With a loud cry of agony, she clasped her hands over her face and wept

bitterly.

Camilla drew close to her, grasped her hands and pulled them forcibly

from her face, then looked in her eyes passionately and scornfully.

Camilla was indeed no longer a child. She stood erect, pale, and

fiercely excited, opposite to her mother. Understanding and intellect

flashed from her dark eyes. There were lines around her mouth which

betrayed a passion and a power with which childhood has nothing to do.

“You say you have shown me nothing but love,” said Camilla, in a cold

and cutting tone. “Mother, what love have you shown me? You made my

father wretched, and my childish years were spent under the curse of

a most unhappy marriage. I have seen my father weep while you were

laughing merrily--I have seen him drunk and lying like a beast at my

feet, while you were in our gay saloon receiving and entertaining guests

with cool unconcern. You say you have shown me nothing but love. You

never loved me, mother, never! Had you loved me, you would have taken

pity with my future--you would not have given me a step-father while I

had a poor, dear father, who had nothing in the wide world but me, me

alone! You think perhaps, mother, that I am not unhappy; while I am

giddy and play foolish pranks, you believe me to be happy and contented.

Ah, mother, I have an inward horror and prophetic fear of the future

which never leaves me; it seems to me that evil spirits surround me--as

if they enchanted me with strange, alluring songs. I know they will

work my destruction, but I cannot withstand them--I must listen, I must

succumb to them. I would gladly be different--be better. I desire to be

a virtuous and modest girl, but alas, alas, I cannot escape from this

magic circle to which my mother has condemned me! I have lived too fast,

experienced too much--I am no longer a child--I am an experienced woman.

The world and the things of the world call me with a thousand alluring

voices, and I shall be lost as my mother was lost! I am her most unhappy

daughter, and her blood is in my heart!” Almost insensible, crushed by

excitement and passion, Camilla sank to the earth.

Her mother looked at her with cold and tearless eyes; her hair seemed

to stand erect, and a cold, dead hand seemed placed upon her heart and

almost stilled its beatings. “I have deserved this,” murmured she; “God

punishes the levity of my youth through my own child.” She bowed down to

her daughter and raised her softly in her arms.

“Come, my child,” she said, tenderly, “we will forget this hour--we will

strive to live in love and harmony with each other. You are right!

You are no longer a child, and I will think of introducing you to the

world.”

“And you will dismiss Madame Brunnen,” said Camilla, gayly. “Oh, mamma,

you have no idea how she tortures and martyrs me with her Argus-eyes,

and watches me day and night. Will you not dismiss her, mamma, and take

no other governess?”

“I will think of it,” said her mother, sadly. But now a servant entered

and announced Count Ranuzi. Madame du Trouffle blushed, and directed the

servant to conduct him to the parlor.

Camilla looked at her roguishly, and said: “If you really think me a

grown-up girl, take me with you to the parlor.”

Madame du Trouffle refused. “You are not properly dressed, and besides,

I have important business with the count.”

Camilla turned her back scornfully, and her mother left the room;

Camilla returned to the sofa and Madame du Trouffle entered the saloon.

In the levity and frivolity of their hearts they had both forgotten this

sad scene in the drama of a demoralized family life; such scenes had

been too often repeated to make any lasting impression.

Madame du Trouffle found Count Ranuzi awaiting her. He came forward with

such a joyous greeting, that she was flattered, and gave him her hand

with a gracious smile. She said triumphantly to herself that the power

of her charms was not subdued, since the handsome and much admired

Ranuzi was surely captivated by them.

The count had pleaded yesterday for an interview, and he had done this

with so mysterious and melancholy a mien, that the gay and sportive

Louise had called him the Knight of Toggenberg, and had asked him

plaintively if he was coming to die at her feet.

“Possibly,” he answered, with grave earnestness--“possibly, if you are

cruel enough to refuse the request I prefer.”

These words had occupied the thoughts of this vain coquette during the

whole night; she was convinced that Ranuzi, ravished by her beauty,

wished to make her a declaration, and she had been hesitating whether to

reject or encourage him. As he advanced so gracefully and smilingly to

meet her, she resolved to encourage him and make him forget the mockery

of yesterday.

Possibly Ranuzi read this in her glance, but he did not regard it; he

had attained his aim--the interview which he desired. “Madame,” said he,

“I come to make honorable amends, and to plead at your feet for pardon.”

He bowed on one knee, and looked up beseechingly.

Louise found that his languishing and at the same time glowing eyes were

very beautiful, and she was entirely ready to be gracious, although she

did not know the offence. “Stand up, count,” said she, “and let us talk

reasonably together. What have you done, and for what must I forgive

you?”

“You annihilate me with your magnanimity,” sighed Ranuzi. “You are

so truly noble as to have forgotten my boldness of yesterday, and you

choose to forget that the poor, imprisoned soldier, intoxicated by your

beauty, carried away by your grace and amiability, has dared to love you

and to confess it. But I swear to you, madame, I will never repeat this

offence. The graceful mockery and keen wit with which you punished me

yesterday has deeply moved me, and I assure you, madame, you have had

more influence over me than any prude with her most eloquent sermon on

virtue could have done. I have seen my crime, and never again will my

lips dare to confess what lives and glows in my heart.” He took her hand

and kissed it most respectfully.

Louise was strangely surprised, and it seemed to her not at all

necessary for the count to preserve so inviolable a silence as to his

love; but she was obliged to appear pleased, and she did this with

facility and grace.

“I thank you,” she said, gayly, “that you have freed me from a lover

whom, as the wife of Major du Trouffle, I should have been compelled

to banish from my house. Now I dare give a pleasant, kindly welcome, to

Count Ranuzi, and be ready at all times to serve him gladly.”

Ranuzi looked steadily at her. “Will you truly do this?” said he,

sighing--“will you interest yourself for a poor prisoner, who has no one

to hear and sympathize in his sorrows?”

Louise gave him her hand. “Confide in me, sir count,” said she, with an

impulse of her better nature; “make known your sorrows, and be assured

that I will take an interest in them. You are so prudent and reasonable

as not to be my lover, and I will be your friend. Here is my hand--I

offer you my friendship; will you accept, it?”

“Will I accept it?” said he, rapturously; “you offer me life, and ask if

I will accept it!”

Louise smiled softly. She found that Ranuzi declared his friendship in

almost as glowing terms as he had confessed his love. “So then,” said

she, “you have sorrows that you dare not name?”

“Yes, but they are not my own individual griefs I suffer, but it is for

another.”

“That sounds mysterious. For whom do you suffer?”

“For a poor prisoner, who, far from the world, far from the haunts of

men, languishes in wretchedness and chains--whom not only men but God

has forgotten, for He will not even send His minister Death to release

him. I cannot, I dare not say more--it is not my secret, and I have

sworn to disclose it to but one person.”

“And this person--”

“Is the Princess Amelia of Prussia,” said Ranuzi. Louise shrank back,

and looked searchingly at the count. “A sister of the king! And you say

that your secret relates to a poor prisoner?”

“I said so. Oh, my noble, magnanimous friend, do not ask me to say

more; I dare not, but I entreat you to help me. I must speak with the

princess. You are her confidante and friend, you alone can obtain me an

interview.”

“It is impossible! impossible!” cried Madame du Trouffle, rising up and

pacing the room hastily. Ranuzi followed her with his eyes, observed

every movement, and read in her countenance every emotion of her soul.

“I will succeed,” said he to himself, and proud triumph swelled his

heart.

Louise drew near and stood before him.

“Listen,” said she, gravely; “it is a daring, a dangerous enterprise

in which you wish to entangle me--doubly dangerous for me, as the king

suspects me, and he would never forgive it if he should learn that I had

dared to act against his commands, and to assist the Princess Amelia to

save an unhappy wretch whom he had irretrievably condemned. I know well

who this prisoner is, but do not call his name--it is dangerous to speak

it, even to think it. I be long not to the confidantes of the princess

in this matter, and I do not desire it. Speak no more of the prisoner,

but of yourself. You wish to be presented to the princess. Why not apply

to Baron Pollnitz?”

“I have not gold enough to bribe him; and, besides that, he is a

babbler, and purchasable. To-morrow he would betray me.”

“You are right; and he could not obtain you a secret interview. One

of the maids of honor must always be present, and the princess is

surrounded by many spies. But there is a means, and it lies in my hands.

Listen!”

Louise bowed and whispered.

Ranuzi’s face sparkled with triumph.

“To-morrow, then,” said he, as he withdrew.

“To-morrow,” said Louise, “expect me at the castle gate, and be

punctual.”

CHAPTER V. THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

The heavy curtains were drawn down, and a gloomy twilight reigned in

this great, silent room, whose dreary stillness was only interrupted by

the monotonous stroke of the clock, and the deep sighs and lamentations

which came from the sofa in a distant part of the room. There in the

corner, drawn up convulsively and motionless, lay a female form, her

hands clasped over her breast, her eyes fixed staringly toward heaven,

and from time to time uttering words of grief and scorn and indignation.

She was alone in her anguish--ever alone; she had been alone for many

years; grief and disappointment had hardened her heart, and made it

insensible to all sorrows but her own. She hated men, she hated the

world, she railed at those who were gay and happy, she had no pity for

those who wept and mourned.

Had she not suffered more? Did she not still suffer? Who had been

merciful, who had pitied her sorrows? Look now at this poor, groaning

woman! Do you recognize these fearful features, deformed by sickness

and grief; these blood-shot eyes, these thin, colorless lips, ever

convulsively pressed together, as if to suppress a wild shriek of agony,

which are only unclosed to utter cold, harsh words of scorn and passion?

Do you know this woman? Has this poor, unhappy, deformed being any

resemblance to the gay, beautiful, intellectual Princess Amelia, whom

we once knew? and yet this is the Princess Amelia. How have the mighty

fallen! Look at the transforming power of a few sorrowful years! The

sister of a mighty hero king, but a poor desolate creature, shunned and

avoided by all: she knows that men fly from her, and she will have it

so; she will be alone--lonely in the midst of the world, even as he is,

in the midst of his dark and gloomy prison. Amelia calls the whole world

her prison; she often says to herself that her soul is shut in behind

the iron bars of her body and can never be delivered, that her heart

lies upon the burning gridiron of the base world, and cannot escape, it

is bound there with the same chains which are around about and hold him

in captivity.

But Amelia says this only to herself, she desires no sympathy, she

knows no one will dare to pity her. Destiny placed her high in rank and

alone--alone she will remain; her complaints might perhaps bring new

danger to him she loves, of whom alone she thinks, for whose sake alone

she supports existence, she lives only for him. Can this be called life?

A perpetual hope--and yet hopeless--a constant watching and listening

for one happy moment, which never comes! She had not been permitted

to live for him, she would not die without him. So long as he lived

he might need her aid, and might call upon her for help in the hour of

extremest need, so she would not die.

She was not wholly dead, but her youth, her heart, her peace, her

illusions, her hopes were dead; she was opposed to all that lived, to

the world, to all mankind. In the wide world she loved but two persons:

one, who languished in prison and who suffered for her sake, Frederick

von Trenck; the other, he who had made her wretched and who had the

power to liberate Trenck and restore their peace--the king. Amelia had

loved her mother, but she was dead; grief at the lost battle of Collin

killed her. She had loved her sister, the Margravine of Baireuth; but

she died of despair at the lost battle of Hochkirch. Grief and the anger

and contempt of the king had killed her brother, the Prince Augustus

William of Prussia. She was therefore alone, alone! Her other sisters

were far away; they were happy, and with the happy she had nothing to

do; with them she had no sympathy. Her two brothers were in the field,

they thought not of her. There was but one who remembered her, and he

was under the earth--not dead, but buried--buried alive. The blackness

of thick darkness is round about him, but he is not blind; there is

glorious sunshine, but he sees it not.

These fearful thoughts had crushed Amelia’s youth, her mind, her life;

she stood like a desolate ruin under the wreck of the past. The rude

storms of life whistled over her, and she laughed them to scorn; she had

no more to fear--not she; if an oak fell, if a fair flower was crushed,

her heart was glad; her own wretchedness had made her envious and

malicious; perhaps she concealed her sympathy, under this seeming

harshness; perhaps she gave herself the appearance of proud reserve,

knowing that she was feared and avoided. Whoever drew near her was

observed and suspected; the spies of the king surrounded her and kept

her friends, if she had friends, far off. Perhaps Amelia would have been

less unhappy if she had fled for shelter to Him who is the refuge of all

hearts; if she had turned to her God in her anguish and despair. But

she was not a pious believer, like the noble and patient Elizabeth

Christine, the disdained wife of Frederick the Great.

Princess Amelia was the true sister of the king, the pupil of Voltaire;

she mocked at the church and scorned the consolations of religion.

She also was forced to pay some tribute to her sex; she failed in the

strong, self-confident, intellectual independence of Frederick;

her poor, weak, trembling hands wandered around seeking support;

as religion, in its mighty mission, was rejected, she turned for

consolation to superstition. While Elizabeth Christine prayed, Amelia

tried her fortune with cards; while the queen gathered around her

ministers of the gospel and pious scholars, the princess called to the

prophets and fortune-tellers. While Elizabeth found comfort in reading

the Holy Scriptures, Amelia found consolation in the mystical and

enigmatical words of her sooth-sayers. While the queen translated

sermons and pious hymns into French, Amelia wrote down carefully all

the prophecies of her cards, her coffee-grounds, and the stars, and both

ladies sent their manuscripts to the king.

Frederick received them both with a kindly and pitiful smile. The pious

manuscript of the queen was laid aside unread, but the oracles of the

princess were carefully looked over. Perhaps this was done in pity for

the poor, wounded spirit which found distraction in such child’s play.

It is certain that when the king wrote to the princess, he thanked her

for her manuscripts, and asked her to continue to send them. [Footnote:

Thiebault, p. 279.] But he also demanded perfect silence as to this

strange correspondence; he feared his enemies might falsely interpret

his consideration for the weakness of the princess; they might suppose

that he needed these prophecies to lead him on to victory, as his

adversaries needed the consecrated sword.

This was one of the days on which the princess was accustomed to receive

her fortune-teller; she had been very angry when told that she was under

arrest; neither the prophet nor the fortune-teller were at liberty, and

the princess was not able to obtain their release. She would, therefore,

have been compelled to forego her usual occupation for the evening, had

not Madame du Trouffle come to her aid. Louise had written that morning

to the princess, and asked permission to introduce a new soothsayer,

whose prophecies astonished the world, as, so far, they had been

literally fulfilled. Amelia received this proposition joyfully, and now

waited impatiently for Madame du Trouffle and the soothsayer; but

she was yet alone, it was not necessary to hide her grief in stoical

indifference, to still the groans of agony which, like the last sighs

from a death-bed, rang from her breast.

The princess suffered not only from mental anguish; her body was as sick

as her soul. The worm gnawing at her heart was also devouring her body;

but neither for body nor soul would she accept a physician, she refused

all sympathy for intellectual and physical pain. Amelia suffered and was

silent, and only when as now she was certain there was no eye to see, no

ear to hear her complaints, did she give utterance to them. And now the

maid entered and announced Madame du Trouffle and the prophet.

“Let them enter,” said the princess in a hollow, death-like voice; “let

them enter, and remain yourself, Fraulein Lethow; the soothsayer shall

tell your fortune.”

The door opened, and Madame du Trouffle entered. She was gay and lovely

as ever, and drew near the princess with a charming smile. Amelia

returned her salutation coldly and carelessly.

“How many hours have you spent at your toilet to-day?” said she,

roughly; “and where do you buy the rouge with which you have painted

your cheeks?”

“Ah, your royal highness,” said Louise, smiling, “Nature has been kind

to me, and has painted my cheeks with her own sweet and cunning hand.”

“Then Nature is in covenant with you, and helps you to deceive yourself

to imagine that you are yet young. I am told that your daughter is grown

up and wondrously beautiful, and that only when you stand near her is it

seen how old and ugly you are.”

Louise knew the rancor of the unhappy princess, and she knew no one

could approach her without being wounded--that the undying worm in her

soul was only satisfied with the blood it caused to flow. The harsh

words of the princess had no sting for her. “If I were truly old,” said

she, “I would live in my daughter: she is said to be my image, and when

she is praised, I feel myself flattered.”

“A day will come when she will be blamed and you will also be

reproached,” murmured Amelia. After a pause she said: “So you have

brought me another deceiver who declares himself a prophet?”

“I do not believe him to be an impostor, your highness. He has given me

convincing proofs of his inspiration.”

“What sort of proofs? How can these people who prophesy of the future

prove that they are inspired?”

“He has not told me of the future, but of the past,” said Louise.

“Has he had the courage to recall any portion of your past to you?” said

the princess, with a coarse laugh.

“Many droll and merry portions, your highness, and it is to be regretted

that they were all true,” she said, with comic pathos.

“Bring in this soothsayer, Fraulein von Lethow. He shall prophesy of

you: I think you have not, like Madame du Trouffle, any reason to fear a

picture of your past.”

The prophet entered. He was wrapped in a long black robe, which was

gathered around his slender form by a black leathern girdle covered with

curious and strange figures and emblems; raven black hair fell around

his small, pale face; his eyes burned with clouded fire, and flashed

quickly around the room. With head erect and proud bearing, he drew near

the princess, and only when very near did he salute her, and in a sweet,

soft, melodious voice, asked why she wished to see him.

“If you are truly a prophet, you will know my reasons.”

“Would you learn of the past?” said he, solemnly.

“And why not first of the future?”

“Because your highness distrusts me and would prove me. Will you permit

me to take my cards? If you allow it, I will first prophesy to this

lady.” He took a mass of soiled, curiously painted cards, and spread

them out before him on the table. He took the hand of Fraulein Lethow

and seemed to read it earnestly; and now, in a low, musical voice, he

related little incidents of the past. They were piquant little anecdotes

which had been secretly whispered at the court, but which no one dared

to speak aloud, as Fraulein Lethow passed for a model of virtue and

piety.

She received these developments of the prophet with visible scorn. In

place of laughing, and by smiling indifference bringing their truth in

question, she was excited and angry, and thus prepared for the princess

some gay and happy moments.

“I dare not decide,” said Amelia, as the prophet ceased, “whether what

you have told is true or false. Fraulein Lethow alone can know that;

but she will not be so cruel as to call you an impostor, for that would

prevent me from having my fortune told. Allow me, therefore, to believe

that you have spoken the truth. Now take your cards and shuffle them.”

“Does your highness wish that I should tell you of the past?” said the

soothsayer, in a sharp voice.

The princess hesitated. “Yes,” said she, “of my past. But no; I will

first hear a little chapter out of the life of my chaste and modest

Louise. Now, now, madame, you have nothing to fear; you are pure and

innocent, and this little recitation of your by-gone days will seem to

us a chapter from ‘La Pucelle d’Orleans.’”

“I dare to oppose myself to this lecture,” said Louise, laughing. “There

are books which should only be read in solitude, and to that class

belong the volumes of my past life. I am ready in the presence of

your highness to have my future prophesied, but of my past I will hear

nothing--I know too much already.”

“Had I been alone with Fraulein Lethow, I should have told her many

other things, and she would have been forced to believe in my power.

Only when these cards are under your eyes is my spirit clear.”

“I must, then, in order to know the whole truth from you, be entirely

alone?” said the princess.

The prophet bowed silently. Amelia fixed a piercing glance upon him, and

nodded to her ladies.

“Go into the next room,” said she. “And now,” said the princess, “you

can begin.”

The magician, instead of taking the cards, knelt before the princess and

kissed the hem of her robe. “I pray for mercy and forgiveness,” said

he; “I am nothing but a poor impostor! In order to reach the presence

of your royal highness, I have disguised myself under this mask, which

alone made it possible. But I swear to you, princess, no one knows of

this attempt, no one can ever know it--I alone am guilty. Pardon, then,

princess--pardon for this bold act. I was forced to this step--forced to

clasp your knees--to implore you in your greatness and magnanimity, to

stand by me! I was impelled irresistibly, for I had sworn a fearful oath

to do this thing.”

“To whom have you sworn?” said the princess, sternly. “Who are you? what

do you ask of me?”

“I am Count Ranuzi, Austrian captain and prisoner of war. I implore you,

noble princess, to have mercy upon a poor, helpless prisoner, consumed

with grief and despair. God and the world have forsaken him, but he has

one protecting angel in whom he trusts, to whom he prays--and her name

is Amelia! He is bound in chains like a wild beast--a hard stone is his

couch, and a vault beneath is his grave--he is living and buried--his

heart lives and heaves and calls to you, princess, for rescue.”

The Princess Amelia shrank back trembling and groaning on the sofa; her

eyes were wide open, and staring in the distance. After a long pause,

she said, slowly: “Call his name.”

“Frederick von Trenck!”

Amelia shuddered, and uttered a low cry. “Trenck!” repeated she, softly;

“oh, what sad melody lies in that word! It is like the death-cry of my

youth. I think the very air must weep when this name vibrates upon it.

Trenck, Trenck! How beautiful, how lovely that sounds; it is a sweet,

harmonious song; it sings to me softly of the only happiness of my life.

Ah, how long, how long since this song was silenced! All within me is

desolate! On every side my heart is torn--on every side! Oh, so drear,

so fearful! All! all!” Lost in her own thoughts, these words had been

slowly uttered. She had forgotten that she was not alone with her

remembrances, which like a cloud had gathered round about her and shut

off the outward world.

Ranuzi did not dare to recall her thoughts--he still knelt at her feet.

Suddenly her whole frame trembled, and she sprang up. “My God! I dream,

while he calls me! I am idly musing, and Trenck has need of me. Speak,

sir, speak! What do you know of him? Have you seen him? Did he send you

to me?”

“He sent me, your highness, but I have not seen him. Have the grace to

listen to me. Ah, your highness, in what I now say I lay the safety of a

dear and valued friend, yes, his life, at your feet. One word from you,

and he will be delivered over to a court-martial and be shot. But you

will not speak that word--you are an angel of mercy.”

“Speak, sir--speak, sir,” said Amelia, breathlessly. “My God! do you not

see that I am dying from agitation?”

“Princess, Trenck lives--he is in chains--he is in a hole under the

earth--but he lives, and as long as he has life, he hopes in you--has

wild dreams of liberty, and his friends think and hope with him. Trenck

has friends who are ready to offer up their lives for him. One of them

is in the fortress of Magdeburg--he is lieutenant of the guard; another

is a Captain Kimsky, prisoner of war; I am a third. I have known Trenck

since my youth. In our beautiful days of mirth and revelry, we swore to

stand by each other in every danger. The moment has come to fulfil my

oath--Trenck is a prisoner, and I must help to liberate him. Our numbers

are few and dismembered--we need allies in the fortress, and still more

in the city. We need powerful assistance, and no one but your highness

can obtain it for us.”

“I have an assured and confidential friend in Magdeburg,” said the

princess; “at a hint from me he will be ready to stand by you to--”

Suddenly she was silent, and cast a searching, threatening glance at

Ranuzi. She had been too often deceived and circumvented--snares had

been too often laid at her feet--she was distrustful. “No, no,” said

she, at last, sternly, rudely--“I will take no part in this folly. Go,

sir--go. You are a poor soothsayer, and I will have nothing to do with

you.”

Ranuzi smiled, and drew a folded paper from his bosom, which he handed

to the princess. It contained these words: “Count Ranuzi is an honest

man--he can be trusted unconditionally.” Under these words was written:

“Nel tue giorni felici, vicordati da me.”

The breast of Amelia heaved convulsively--she gazed at these written

characters; at last her eyes filled with tears--at last her heart was

overcome by those painful and passionate feelings which she had so long

kept in bondage. She pressed the paper, the lines on which were written

with his blood, to her lips, and hot tears gushed from those poor eyes

which for long, long years, had lost the power to weep.

“Now, sir,” said she, “I believe in you, I trust you. Tell me what I

have to do.”

“Three things fail us, princess: A house in Magdeburg, where Trenck’s

friends can meet at all hours, and make all necessary preparations, and

where he can be concealed after his escape. Secondly, a few reliable and

confiding friends, who will unite with us and aid us. Thirdly, we must

have gold--we must bribe the guard, we must buy horses, we must buy

friends in the fortress, and lastly, we must buy French clothing.

Besides this, I must have permission to go for a few days to Magdeburg,

and there on the spot I can better make the final preparations. A

fair pretext shall not fail me for this; Captain Kimsky is my near

relative--he will be taken suddenly ill, and as a dying request he will

beg to see me; one of his comrades will bring me notice of this, and I

will turn imploringly to your highness.”

“I will obtain you a passport,” said Amelia, decisively.

“While in Magdeburg, the flight will be arranged.”

“And you believe you will succeed?” said the princess, with a bright

smile, which illuminated her poor deformed visage with a golden ray of

hope.

“I do not only believe it, I know it; that is, if your royal highness

will assist us.”

The princess made no reply; she stepped to her desk and took from it

several rolls of gold, then seated herself and wrote with a swift hand:

“You must trust the bearer fully, he is my friend; assist him in all

that he undertakes.” She folded the paper and sealed it.

Ranuzi followed every movement with flashing eyes and loudly beating

heart. As she took the pen to write the address a ray of wild triumph

lighted his dark face, and a proud smile played about his mouth. As

Amelia turned, all this disappeared, and he was dignified and grave as

before.

“Take this, sir,” said she; “you see that I place in your power a

faithful and beloved friend, he is lost if you are false. As soon as

you reach Magdeburg go to him, and he will make other friends and allies

known to you.”

“Can I make use of this address, and write under it to my friend

Kimsky?” said Ranuzi. “Yes, without danger. To-day I will find means

to inform him that he may expect this letter. Here is gold, two hundred

ducats, all that I have at present. When this is exhausted, turn again

to me and I will again supply you.”

Ranuzi took the gold and said, smilingly, “This is the magic means by

which we will break his chains.”

Amelia took a costly diamond pin, which lay upon the table, and gave it

to Ranuzi. She pointed to the paper marked with blood, which she still

held in her hand.

“This is a most precious jewel which you have given me--let us

exchange.”

Ranuzi fell upon his knees and kissed her hand as ho took the pin.

“And now, sir, go. My maid is a salaried spy, and a longer interview

would make you suspected. You would be watched, and all discovered. Go!

If I believed in the power of prayer, I would lie upon my knees night

and day, and pray for God’s blessing upon your effort. As it is, I can

only follow you with my thoughts and hopes. Farewell!”

“Your royal highness sends no reply to these lines, written with

Trenck’s heart’s blood?”

Amelia took the pen and wrote a few hasty lines upon the paper, which

she handed Ranuzi. The words were: “Ovunque tu sei vicina ti sono.”

“Give him that,” said she; “it is not written with my heart’s blood, but

my heart bleeds for him--bleeds ever inwardly. And now resume your role

of soothsayer--I must call my ladies.”

The afternoon of this day Ranuzi wrote to his friend, Captain Kimsky,

prisoner of war at Magdeburg: “The train is laid, and will succeed.

The fortress will soon be in our hands. A romantic, sentimental woman’s

heart is a good thing, easily moved to intrigues. Magdeburg will

be ours! Prepare everything--be ill, and call for me; I shall get a

passport. I have a powerful protectress, and with such, you know, a man

mar attain all the desires of his heart!”

CHAPTER VI. A COURT DAY IN BERLIN.

It was the birthday of Prince Henry, and was to be celebrated with

great pomp at the court. The king had himself written explicitly on

this subject to the master of ceremonies, Baron Pollnitz. Pollnitz was,

therefore, actively occupied in the early morning, and no general ever

made his preparations for a battle with more earnestness and importance

than the good baron gave his orders for the splendid fete which was to

be given in the royal apartments that night.

And this was indeed a great opportunity. The people of Berlin were to

enjoy a ball and a concert, at which all the Italian singers were to be

present; and then a rare and costly supper, to which not only the court,

but all the officers who were prisoners of war were to be invited.

This supper was to Pollnitz the great circumstance, the middle point of

the fete. Such an entertainment was now rare at the court of Berlin, and

many months might pass away ere the queen would think of giving another

supper. Pollnitz knew that when he thirsted now for a luxurious meal he

must enjoy it at his own cost, and this thought made him shudder. The

worthy baron was at the same time a spendthrift and a miser.

Four times in every year he had three or four days of rare and rich

enjoyment; he lived en grand seigneur, and prepared for himself every

earthly luxury; these were the first three or four days of every quarter

in which he received his salary. With a lavish hand he scattered all

the gold which he could keep back from his greedy creditors, and felt

himself young, rich, and happy. After these fleeting days of proud

glory came months of sad economy; he was obliged to play the role of a

parasitical plant, attach himself to some firm, well-rooted stem, and

absorb its strength and muscle. In these days of restraint he watched

like a pirate all those who were in the condition to keep a good table,

and so soon as he learned that a dinner was on hand, he knew how to

conquer a place. At these times he was also a passionate devotee of

the card-table, and it was the greatest proof of his versatility and

dexterity that he always succeeded in making up his party, though every

man knew it cost gold to play cards with Pollnitz. The grand-master had

the exalted principles of Louis XV. of France, who was also devoted to

cards. Every evening the great Louis set apart a thousand louis d’or to

win or lose. If the king won, the gold went into his private pocket; if

he lost, the state treasury suffered.

Following this royal example, Pollnitz placed the gold he won in his

pocket; if he lost, he borrowed the money to pay--he considered this

borrowed sum as also the clear profit of his game; he was assured to

win, and in this way he obtained his pocket money.

To-day, however, he would not be merry at a strange table; he himself

would do the honors, and he had conducted the arrangements of the table

with a scholarship and knowledge of details which would have obtained

the admiration of the Duke de Richelieu.

On this occasion it was not necessary to restrain his luxurious desires

and tastes. Honor demanded that the court should show itself in full

pomp and splendor, and prove to the world that this long, wearisome war

had not exhausted the royal treasury, nor the royal table service of

silver; in short, that it was an easy thing to carry on the war, without

resorting to the private treasures of the royal house.

It was, therefore, necessary to bring out for this great occasion the

golden service which had been the king’s inheritance from his mother.

Frederick’s portion had been lately increased by the death of the

Margravino of Baireuth, who had explicitly willed her part to her

brother Frederick. [Footnote: When the court fled, after the battle of

Kunendorf, to Magdeburg, they took the golden service which the king

inherited from his mother with them; that portion given to Frederick by

the margravino was left in Berlin, and the next year, 1760, was seized

by the Russians and carried to Petersburg--“Geschichte Berlins,” vol.

v., p. 2.]

The queen and the princesses were to appear in all the splendor of their

jewels, and by their costly and exquisite toilets impose upon these

proud and haughty officers, whom fate had sent as prisoners of war to

Berlin, and who would not fail to inform their respective governments of

all they saw in the capital.

This fete was a demonstration made by the king to his over-confident

enemies. He would prove to them that if he wished for peace it was not

because the gold failed to carry on the war, but because he wished

to give rest and the opportunity to recover to Europe, groaning and

bleeding from a thousand wounds. Besides this, the king wished to show

his subjects, by the celebration of his brother’s birthday, how highly

he honored the prince--how gladly he embraced the opportunity to

distinguish the young general who, during the whole war, had not lost a

single battle; but, by his bold and masterly movements, had come to the

king’s help in the most difficult and dangerous moments.

This celebration should be a refutation of the rumors spread abroad by

the king’s enemies, that Frederick regarded the success and military

talent of his brother with jealous envy.

There were, therefore, many reasons why Pollnitz should make this a

luxurious and dazzling feast; he knew also that Prince Henry would

receive a detailed account of the celebration from his adjutant, Count

Kalkreuth, who had lingered some months in Berlin because of his wounds,

was now fully restored, and would leave Berlin the morning after the

ball to return to the army.

And now the important hour had arrived. Pollnitz wandered through the

saloons with the searching glance of a warrior on the field of battle;

he pronounced that all was good.

The saloons were dazzling with light; pomp and splendor reigned

throughout, and on entering the supper-room you were almost blinded

by the array of gold and silver adorning the costly buffet, on whose

glittering surface the lights were a thousand times reflected.

Suddenly the rooms began to fill; everywhere gold-embroidered uniforms,

orders, stars, and flashing gems were to be seen; a promiscuous and

strange crowd was moving through these lofty saloons, illuminated by

thousands of lights and odorous with the fragrance of flowers.

Side by side with the rich, fantastic uniform of the Russian, was seen

the light and active French chasseur; here was to be seen the Hungarian

hussar, whose variegated and tasteful costume contrasted curiously with

the dark and simple uniform of the Spaniard, who stood near him, both

conversing gayly with an Italian, dressed in the white coat of an

Austrian officer.

It seemed as if every nation in Europe had arranged a rendezvous for

this day in the royal palace at Berlin, or as it the great Frederick had

sent specimens to his people of all the various nations against whom he

had undertaken this gigantic war.

There were not only Germans from all the provinces, but Italians,

Spaniards, Russians, Swedes, Hungarians, Netherlanders, and Frenchmen.

All these were prisoners of war--their swords had been stained with the

blood of Prussians; the fate of war now confined them to the scabbard,

and changed the enemies of the king into guests at his court.

Hundreds of captive officers were now waiting in the saloon for the

appearance of the queen, but the Prussian army was scarcely represented.

All who were fit for service were in the field, only the invalids

and the old warriors, too infirm for active duty had remained at the

capital; even the youths who had not attained the legal age for military

duty, had hastened to the army, full of courage and enthusiasm, inspired

by the example of their fathers and brothers.

The dazzling appearance of these royal saloons was therefore mostly

owing to the flashing uniforms of the prisoners of war. Only a few old

Prussian generals, and the courtiers, whose duties prevented them from

being heroes, were added to the number.

Herr von Giurgenow, and his friend Captain Belleville, were invited to

the ball, and were well pleased to offer their homage to the majesty

of Prussia. Count Ranuzi, who, reserved and silent as usual, had

been wandering through the saloons, now joined them, and they had all

withdrawn to a window, in order to observe quietly and undisturbed the

gay crowd passing before them.

“Look you,” said Ranuzi, laughing, “this reminds me of the frantic

confusion in the anterooms of hell, which Dante has described in such

masterly style. We all wear our glittering masks, under which our

corpses are hidden; one word from our master and this drapery would

fall off, and these grinning death-heads be brought to ruin. It depends

solely upon the will of Frederick of Prussia to speak this word. He is

our master, and when he commands it, we must lay aside our swords and

exchange our uniforms for the garments of a malefactor.”

“He will not dare to do this,” said Giurgenow; “all Europe would call

him a barbarian, and make him answerable for his insolence.”

“First, all Europe must be in a condition to call him to account,” said

Ranuzi, laughing; “and that is certainly not the case at present, I am

sorry to say.”

“You have not heard, then,” said Belleville, “of the glorious victory

which our great General Broglie has gained over Duke Ferdinand of

Brunswick; all France is jubilant over this happy event, and the

Marquise de Pompadour, or rather King Louis, has made this second

Turenne, our noble Broglie, marshal.”

“I know of this,” said Ranuzi; “but I know also that the fortune of

battles is inconstant, otherwise we would not now be here.”

“It is to be hoped we will not be here long,” said Giurgenow,

impatiently. “Does it not lie in our power to go at once? What think

you? Have we not our swords? They have not dared to take them from

us! They tremble before us, and honor, in our persons, the nations we

represent. Look at the complaisance and consideration with which we are

met on all sides. The King of Prussia fears his powerful enemies, and

does all in his power to conciliate them. Suppose that to-night, as soon

as the royal family are assembled, we draw our swords and take them all

prisoners; we have overpowering numbers, and I think it would be an easy

victory. We could make a fortress of this palace, and defend ourselves;

they would not dare to make a violent attack, as the queen and

princesses would be in our power. What think you of this plan, Count

Ranuzi?”

Ranuzi met the sharp and piercing glance of the Russian with cool

composure.

“I think it bold, but impossible. We could not maintain our position,

one hour. The garrison of Berlin would overcome us. We have no thousands

of prisoners in the casements here, as in Kustrin, to aid us in such an

attempt.”

“The count is right,” said Belleville, gayly; “such a grandiose and

warlike conspiracy would amount to nothing. We must revenge ourselves

in another way for the tedious ennui we are made to endure here, and my

friends and myself are resolved to do so. We will no longer submit to

the shackles of etiquette, which are laid upon us; we will be free from

the wearisome constraint which hems us in on every side. These proud

ladies wish us to believe that they are modest and virtuous, because

they are stiff and ceremonious. They make a grimace at every equivoque.

We will prove to them that we are not blinded by this outward seeming,

and not disposed to lie like Dutchmen, languishing at the feet of our

inexorable fair ones. Our brave brothers have conquered the Prussians at

Hochkirch and at Bergen; we cannot stand side by side with them in the

field, but here, at least, we can humble the Prussian women!”

“I can well believe,” whispered Giurgenow, “that you would be pleased to

humble the beautiful Fraulein von Marshal?”

“Ah, my friend,” said Ranuzi, laughing, “you touch the wound of our

poor friend. You do not seem to know that the beautiful Marshal is

responsible for the scorn and rage of Count Belleville, she is indeed a

haughty and presumptuous beauty; she not only dared to reject the

love of the fascinating count, but she showed him the door; and when

afterward he ventured to send her a passionate and tender billet-doux,

she informed him, through her servant, that she would give the letter to

her chambermaid, for whom, without doubt, it was intended.”

“Eh bien, what do you say to this insolence?” cried the enraged

Frenchman. “But she shall do penance for it. I have already made the

necessary arrangements with my friends. This is not simply a personal

affair, it touches the general honor. The whole French army, all France,

is insulted in my person. It is necessary we should have satisfaction,

not only from this presumptuous lady, but from all the ladies of the

court! We will have our revenge this evening! We will show to these dull

dames what we think of their prudery. And the queen shall see that we

are not at all inclined to bow down to her stiff ceremonies. She is,

in our eyes, not a queen--simply the wife of an enemy over whom we will

soon triumph gloriously.”