your revenge,” said Ranuzi. “Your intentions may lead to the worst
consequences for us all. The great Frederick will never be a harmless
adversary till he is dead, and we would all be ignominiously punished
for any contempt shown the queen. You have a personal affair with
Fraulein Marshal; well, then, you must make her personally responsible;
but do not involve us all in your difficulties. It would be an easy
thing to forfeit even this appearance of freedom.”
“You are right,” said Giurgenow; “we might be banished from Berlin, and
that would be a bitter punishment for us all.”
“But look! the doors are being thrown open, and the queen and court
will appear; you will have the happiness of seeing your cruel fair one,”
whispered Ranuzi to the Frenchman.
“I assure you she shall repent of her cruelty to-night,” said
Belleville, gnashing his teeth. Exchanging a significant glance with
several French officers, who were standing not far off, he advanced
into the saloon to the outer circle, which was formed on both sides, and
through which the queen and court must pass.
Now the grand master of ceremonies appeared on the threshold, with his
golden staff. Behind him the queen and the Princess Amelia entered the
room; both appeared in all the pomp and splendor of their rank. A small
diamond-crown glittered in the blonde hair of the queen, a magnificent
necklace of diamonds and emeralds was clasped around her dazzlingly
white and beautifully formed throat.
Bielfeld had once declared that this necklace could purchase a kingdom.
A white robe worked with silver and a dark-red velvet shawl trimmed with
ermine fell in graceful folds around the noble and graceful figure
of the queen, whose bowed head, and quiet, modest bearing contrasted
strangely with the luxury and splendor which surrounded her.
Another striking contrast to the queen was offered in the presence of
the Princess Amelia. Like her royal sister, she appeared in complete
toilet, adorned with all her jewels--her arms, her throat, her hair,
and her hands flashed with diamonds. The festoons of her robe of silver
gauze were fastened up with diamond buttons, and beneath appeared a
green robe embroidered with silver. The princess knew full well that
all this splendor of toilet, all these flashing gems, would bring into
contemptuous notice her sharp, angular figure, and her poor deformed
visage; she knew that the eyes of all would be fixed upon her in
derision, that her appearance alone would be greeted as a cherished
source of amusement, and as soon as her back was turned the whole court
would laugh merrily. She assumed, as usual, a cold contemptuous bearing;
she met mockery with mockery, and revenged herself by sharp wit and
cutting irony for the derisive glances which plainly spoke what the
lips dared not utter. She no sooner entered the saloon than she began to
greet her acquaintances; every word contained a poisonous sting, which
inflicted a grievous wound. When she read in the faces of her victims
that her sharp arrows had entered the quivering flesh, a malicious fire
sparkled in her eyes, and a bitter smile played upon her lips.
Behind the queen and Princess Amelia appeared the Princess Henry. She
was also superbly dressed, but those who looked upon her thought not of
her toilet; they were refreshed, enraptured by her adorable beauty--by
the goodness and purity written on her rosy cheek. To-day, however, the
eyes of the princesses were less clear and dazzling than usual--a gleam
of sadness shadowed her fair brow, and her coral lips trembled lightly
as if in pain. Perhaps it was the remembrance of the beautiful and happy
days, past and gone like a dream, which made the lonely present seem so
bitter. Absentminded and thoughtful, she stepped forward without looking
to the right or left, regardless of the flashing orders and stars, of
the handsome officers and courtly circle bowing profoundly before her as
she passed on.
The court had now passed; the bowed heads were raised, and now the young
French officers cast impertinent, almost challenging glances, at the
ladies of the queen and the princesses, who drew near and bestowed here
and there stolen smiles and light greetings upon their admirers.
Fraulein Marshal did not seem to be aware that the insolent eyes of
these haughty Frenchmen were fixed upon her. Proudly erect she advanced;
her large blue eyes were turned toward the princess; she gave neither
glance nor smile to any one; her noble and beautiful countenance had a
stern, resolved expression--her lips were pouting, and her usually soft
eyes told tales of an angry soul. There was something Juno-like in her
appearance--she was lovely to behold, but cold and stern in her beauty.
As she passed by Count Belleville, he exclaimed with a sigh to his
neighbor: “Ah, look at this majestic Galatea, this beautiful marble
statue, which can only be awaked to life by kisses.”
Fraulein Marshal trembled slightly; a crimson blush suffused her face,
her shoulders, and even her back; but she did not hesitate or turn.
She moved on slowly, though she heard the officers laughing and
whispering--though she felt that their presumptuous eyes were fixed upon
her.
The queen and princesses made the grande tournee through the rooms, and
then mingled with the guests; all formal etiquette was now laid aside,
and a gay and unembarrassed conversation might be carried on till the
beginning of the concert. This seemed to degenerate, on the part of the
French officers, to an indiscreet, frenzied levity. They laughed and
talked boisterously--they walked arm in arm before the ladies, and
remarked upon them so boldly, that crimson blushes, or frightened
pallor, was the result. Even the queen remarked the strange and
unaccountable excitement of her guests, and to put an end to it, she
entered the concert-room and ordered the music to commence. Even this
had no effect. The royal capello played an overture composed by the
king, with masterly precision--the singers emulated them in an Italian
aria--but all this did not silence the noisy conversation of the
Frenchmen. They laughed and chatted without restraint; and neither the
amazed glances of the princesses nor the signs of the grand-master of
ceremonies, made the slightest impression upon them.
Suddenly there was a slight pause, and the Princess Amelia rose up from
her seat and beckoned with her fan to Baron Pollnitz. In a loud and
angry voice, she said: “Baron Pollnitz, I insist upon your forcing these
shrieking popinjays of the Marquise de Pompadour to silence. We cannot
hear the music for their loud chattering. The like birds may pass very
well in the gallant boudoir of a certain marquise, but not in a royal
palace of Berlin.”
Pollnitz shrank back in alarm, and fixed an imploring look upon the
princess. Amongst the French officers arose an angry murmur, swelling
louder and louder, more and more threatening, and completely drowning
the music which was just recommencing.
The queen bowed down to the princess. “I pray you, sister,” said she in
a low voice, “remember that we are poor, unprotected women, and not in
a condition to defend ourselves. Let us appear not to remark this
unmannerly conduct, and let us remember that the king has made it our
duty to receive the French officers with marked attention.”
“You, sister, are simply a slave to the commands of the king. He is more
truly your master than your husband,” said the princess, angrily.
The queen smiled sweetly. “You are right; I am his slave, and my soul
has chosen him for its lord. Blame me not, then, for my obedience.”
“Do you intend to allow the arrogant presumption of these haughty
Frenchmen to go unpunished?”
“I will take pains not to observe it,” said the queen, turning her
attention again to the music. During all this time, Count Belleville
stood behind Fraulein Marshal. While the concert was going on, he bowed
over her and spoke long and impressively. Fraulein Marshal did not
reply; neither his ardent love-assurances, nor his glowing reproaches,
nor his passionate entreaties, nor his bold and offensive insolence,
could draw from her one word, one look.
When the concert was over, and they were about to return to the saloon
where, until supper, they could dance and amuse themselves, the young
maiden turned with calm composure and indifference to Count Belleville.
“Sir, I forbid you to molest me with your presence, and I counsel you no
longer to offend my ears with these indecent romances, which you have
no doubt learned upon the streets of Paris. But if, believing that I am
unprotected, you still dare to insult me, I Inform you that my father
has this moment arrived, and will certainly relieve me from your
disagreeable and troublesome society.” She spoke aloud, and not only
Belleville, but the group of French officers who stood behind him,
heard every word. She passed by them with calm indifference and joined
a large, elderly officer, who was leaning against a pillar, and who
stretched out his hand smilingly toward her.
“Father,” she said, “God himself put it in your heart to come to Berlin
this day. You are by my side, and I have nothing to fear. I know you can
protect me.”
In the mean time, the musicians commenced to play the grave and at the
same time coquettish minuet, and the officers drew near the ladies
to lead them to the dance. This was done, however, in so bold and
unconstrained a manner, with such manifest nonchalance, the request was
made with such levity, the words were so little respectful, that the
ladies drew back frightened. Princess Amelia called Fraulein Marshal to
her side. She took her hand with a kindly smile.
“My child,” she said, “I rejoice that you have the courage to defy these
shameless coxcombs. Go on, and count upon my protection. Why are you not
dancing?”
“Because no one has asked me.”
At this moment an officer drew near with diligent haste, apparently to
lead her to the dance. While in the act of offering his hand to her he
made a sudden movement, as if he had just recognized the lady, turned
his back, and withdrew without a word of apology.
The princess was enraged. “I promise you they shall be punished for
this presumption.” She turned to Baron Marshal, who stood behind his
daughter: “Baron,” said she, “if this leads to a duel, I will be your
second!”
CHAPTER VII. IN THE WINDOW-NICHE.
While these events were occurring in the dancing-room, and the queen was
seated at the card-table, the Princess Wilhelmina, wife of Prince Henry,
stood in the window-niche of the ball-room and conversed with Count
Kalkreuth, the friend and adjutant of her husband. The count had been
sent home amongst the wounded, but he was now restored and about to
return to the camp. They spoke quickly and impressively together, but
the music drowned their words and made them indistinct to all others.
What said they to each other? Seemingly petty and indifferent things.
They had, perhaps, a deeper, secret meaning, for the countenance of
the princess and that of the count were grave, and the sweet smile
had vanished from the charming face of the princess. They spoke of
unimportant things, perhaps, because they had not the courage for the
great word which must be spoken--the word farewell!
“Your royal highness has then no further commission to give me for the
prince?” said the count, after a pause.
“No,” said the princess; “I wrote to him yesterday by the courier.
Describe the ball to him, and tell him how we are, and how you left me.”
“I must tell him, then, that your highness is perfectly gay, entirely
happy, and glowing with health and beauty,” said the count. These were
simple and suitable words, but they were spoken in a hard and bitter
tone.
The princess fixed her large soft eyes with an almost pleading
expression upon the count; then with a quick movement she took a wreath
of white roses, which she wore in her bosom, and held them toward him.
“As a proof that I am gay and happy,” said she, “take these flowers
to my husband, and tell him I adorned myself with them in honor of his
fete.”
The count pressed his lips convulsively together and looked angrily upon
the princess, but he did not raise his hand to take the flowers--did not
appear to see that she held them toward him.
“Well, sir,” said the Princess Wilhelmina, “you do not take the
flowers?”
“No,” said he, passionately, “I will not take them.” The princess looked
anxiously around; she feared some one might have heard this stormy “No.”
She soon convinced herself that there was no listener nearer than her
maid of honor; Fraulein Marshal was still near the Princess Amelia, and
she was somewhat isolated by etiquette; she saw, therefore, that she
dared carry on this conversation.
“Why will you not take my flowers?” she said, proudly.
The count drew nearer. “I will tell you, princess,” said he--“I will
tell you, if this passionate pain now burning in my breast does not slay
me. I will not take your flowers, because I will not be a messenger of
love between you and the prince; because I cannot accept the shame and
degradation which such an office would lay upon me. Princess you have
forgotten, but I remember there was a wondrous time in which I, and
not the prince, was favored with a like precious gift. At that time you
allowed me to hope that this glowing, inextinguishable feeling which
filled my heart, my soul, found an echo in your breast; that at least
you would not condemn me to die unheard, misunderstood.”
“I knew not at that time that my husband loved me,” murmured the
princess; “I thought I was free and justified in giving that heart which
no one claimed to whom I would.”
“You had no sooner learned that the prince loved you than you turned
from me, proud and cold,” said the count, bitterly; “relentlessly,
without mercy, without pity, you trampled my heart under your feet, and
not a glance, not a word showed me that you had any remembrance of the
past. I will tell you what I suffered. You have a cold heart, it will
make you happy to hear of any anguish. I loved you so madly I almost
hated you; in the madness of my passion I cursed you. I thanked God for
the war, which forced me to that for which I had never found the moral
strength to leave you. Yes, I was grateful when the war called me to the
field--I hoped to die. I did not wish to dishonor my name by suicide. I
was recklessly brave, because I despised life--I rushed madly into the
ranks of the enemy, seeking death at their hands, but God’s blessed
minister disdained me even as you had done. I was borne alive from the
battle-field and brought to Berlin to be nursed and kindly cared for.
No one knew that here I received daily new and bitter wounds. You were
always cruel, cruel even to the last moment; you saw my sufferings, but
you were inexorable. Oh, princess, it would have been better to refuse
me entrance, to banish me from your presence, than to make my heart
torpid under the influence of your cold glance, your polished speech,
which ever allured me and yet kept me at a distance. You have played a
cruel game with me, princess you mock me to the last. Shall I be your
messenger to the prince? You know well that I would give my heart’s
blood for one of those sweet flowers, and you send them by me to
another. My humility, my subjection is at an end; you have sinned
against me as a woman, and I have therefore the right to accuse you as a
man. I will not take these flowers! I will not give them to the prince!
And now I have finished--I beg you to dismiss me.”
The princess had listened tremblingly; her face became ever
paler--completely exhausted, she leaned against the wall.
“Before you go,” whispered she, “listen to a few words; it may be that
the death you seek may be found on the battle-field--this may be our
last interview in this world; in such a moment we dare speak the truth
to each other; from the souls which have been closely veiled, may cloud
and darkness be for one moment lifted. What I now say to you shall go as
a sacred secret with you to the grave, if you fall; but if God hears my
prayer, and you return, I command you to forget it, never to remind me
of it. You say I have a cold heart. Alas! I only choked the flame which
raged within me; I would have my honor and my duty burned to ashes. You
say that my eyes are never clouded, that they shed no tears. Ah! believe
me, I have wept inwardly, and the silent, unseen tears the heart weeps
are bitterer than all others. You reproach me for having received you
when you returned here sick and wounded, and for not having closed my
doors against you. I know well that was my duty, and a thousand times I
have prayed to God on my knees for strength to do this, but He did not
hear me or He had no mercy. I could not send you off; had my lips spoken
the fearful words, the shriek of my heart would have called you back.
My lips had strength to refuse an answer to the question which I read in
your face, in your deep dejection, but my heart answered you in silence
and tears. Like you, I could not forget--like you I remembered the
bounteous sweet past. Now you know all--go! As you will not take these
flowers to the prince, they are yours, were intended for you; I have
baptized them with my tears. Farewell!”
She gave him the flowers, and without looking toward him, without giving
him time to answer, she stepped forward and called her chamberlain.
“Count Saldow, be kind enough to accompany Count Kalkreuth, and give him
the books and papers my husband has ordered.”
Wilhelmina passed on proudly, calmly, with a smile on her lips, but no
one knew what it cost her poor heart. She did not look back. Kalkreuth
would have given years to take leave once more of the lovely face, to
ask pardon for the hard, rude words he had dared to say. The princess
had still the bashful timidity of virtue; after the confession she
had made she dared not look upon him. The count controlled himself; he
followed Saldow. He was bewildered, rapturously giddy. As he left the
castle and entered his carriage he looked up at the window and said: “I
will not die!--I will return!”--then pressed the bouquet to his lips and
sank back in the carriage.
CHAPTER VIII. THE NUTSHELLS BEHIND THE FAUTEUIL OF THE QUEEN.
Princess Wilhelmina, as we have said, did not look back; she stepped
silently through the ball-room, and approached the Princess Amelia. She
stood for a moment behind a couple who were dancing the Francaise. The
French officers had just taught this dance to the Prussian ladies as the
newest Parisian mode.
It was a graceful and coquettish dance, approaching and avoiding; the
ladies stood opposite their cavaliers, and advanced with smiling grace,
then appeared to fly from them in mocking haste. They were pursued in
artistic tours by their cavaliers; at the end of the dance their hands
were clasped in each other’s, and they danced through the room with the
graceful time and step of the minuet.
Princess Wilhelmina stood silent and unobservant; she knew not the dance
was ended; she knew not that the music was silenced. A softer, sweeter,
dearer melody sounded in her ears; she heard the echo of that voice
which had spoken scornfully, despairingly, and yet love had been the
sweet theme.
The sudden stillness waked her from her dream and she stepped forward.
The general silence was interrupted by the well-known coarse, stern
voice of the Princess Amelia.
“Does this dance please you, Baron Marshal? The French officers have
taught it to our ladies as a return for the dance which our brave
Prussian soldiers taught the French at Rossbach; at Rossbach, however,
they danced to a quicker, faster tempo. These Frenchmen are now calling
out, ‘En avant!’ but at Rossbach, I am told, ‘En arriere!’ was the word
of command.”
A death-like silence followed these sarcastic words of the princess,
and throughout the room her mocking, derisive laugh which followed these
words was distinctly heard. She rose, and leaning upon the arm of Baron
Marshal, advanced to meet the Princess Wilhelmina, and cast a fierce
glance at the officers, who were assembled in groups and talking in low
tones but earnestly with each other.
Suddenly Belleville, leaning on another officer, advanced from one of
these groups; they walked backward and forward, laughing and chattering
loudly, without regarding the presence of the princess. They then drew
near the orchestra, and called out in a jovial tone:
“Messieurs, have the kindness to play a Dutch waltz, but in the quick
time which the Austrians played at Hochkirch, when they drove the
Prussians before them; and in which Field-Marshal Broglie played at
Bergen, when he tramped upon the Prussians! Play on, messieurs! play
on!”
Belleville then danced forward with great levity of manner to Fraulein
Marshal, who stood by the side of her father; without saluting her, he
seized her hand.
“Come, ma toute belle,” said he, “you have played the marble statue long
enough for one day; it is time that you should awake to life in my arms.
Come, then, and dance with me your lascivious Dutch waltz, which no
respectable woman in France would dare to dance! Come! come!”
Belleville tried to drag Fraulein Marshal forward, but at the instant
a powerful and heavy arm was laid upon him, and his hand was dashed off
rudely.
“I have heard you to the end,” said Baron Marshal, calmly; “I wished
to see a little of the renowned gallantry of which the Frenchman is so
proud. It appears to me that a strange ton must now reign in Paris,
well suited, perhaps, to the boudoirs of mistresses, but not fitting or
acceptable to the ears of respectable women. I beg you therefore, sir,
not to assume this ton in Berlin; I am resolved not to endure it.”
Belleville laughed aloud, drew very near the baron, and looked him
insolently in the face.
“Who are you, monsieur, who dare take the liberty of begging me, who do
not know you, to do or not do any thing?”
“I am Baron Marshal, the father of this lady whom you have dared to
offend!”
Belleville laughed still louder than before.
“Aha! that is a beautiful fairy tale! You who are as hideous as a
baboon, and have borrowed the eyes of the cat!--you the father of the
lovely Galatea Marshal!--tell that tale to other ears--I do not believe
in such aberrations of Nature. I repeat my question: who are you? what
is your name?”
“I repeat to you, I am Baron Marshal, the father of this lady.”
“You are more credulous, sir, than I am, if you believe that,” said
Belleville, coarsely.
“Perhaps I am less credulous than you suppose,” said Marshal, quietly.
“It would, for example, be difficult for me to believe that you are a
nobleman. I can assure you, however, that I am not only noble, but a man
of honor.”
Belleville was in the act of giving a passionate answer, when the doors
of the supper-room were thrown open, and a sea of light irradiated the
room.
At this moment, the queen and her ladies entered from the card-room,
and, at her appearance, every word, every sound was hushed. Silently,
and with a conciliatory smile, the queen passed through the saloon, and
seated herself at the table; she then gave the sign to the grand-master,
that her guests should be seated. And now the servants, in golden
liveries, flew from side to side bearing silver plates, containing the
rare and fragrant viands which the inventive head of Baron Pollnitz had
ordered for the favored guests of her majesty the Queen of Prussia.
Nothing is so well calculated to quiet the perturbed soul as a costly
and well-prepared feast. The haughty Frenchmen soon forgot their
mortified vanity and resentment, and were well pleased to be seated at
the table of the “great Frederick.” They ate and drank right merrily in
honor of the bold and brave prince who had sent them here from Rossbach;
but if the rich dishes made them forget their mortification, the fiery
wine excited yet more their presumptuous levity. They forgot that
they were the guests of a queen. Louder and more extravagant was their
gayety, more boisterous, more indiscreet their unrestrained laughter.
In their frantic merriment they dared to sing aloud some of the little
ambiguous, equivocal chansons, which belonged to the gamins of Paris,
and at which the Marquise de Pompadour laughed till she shed tears when
sung sometimes by the merry courtiers.
In vain the grand-master besought them, in his most polished manner, not
to sing at table.
“We have been so long forced to listen to the dull, screeching discord
of your singers, that we must have some compensation!” said they.
“Besides,” said Belleville, in a loud voice, “it belongs now to bon
ton to sing at the table; and the Prussian court should thank us for
introducing this new Parisian mode.”
They sang, chatted, laughed, and almost overpowered the music by their
boisterous levity. Their presumptuous revelry seemed to be every moment
on the increase. The Austrian and Russian officers looked upon them with
disgust and alarm, and entreated them to desist; but the French officers
were regardless of all etiquette. During the dessert, Belleville and
some of his friends arose and drew near the table at which the queen
and the princesses were seated; this was in the middle of the room, and
slightly separated from the other tables. They gazed at the princesses
with insolent eyes, and, placing themselves behind the chair of the
queen, they began to crack nuts with their teeth, and throw the shells
carelessly upon the floor, near her majesty.
The queen continued a quiet conversation with the Princess Wilhelmina,
and appeared wholly unconscious of this rudeness and vulgarity; but her
face was pallid, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I pray your majesty to rise from the table!” said the Princess
Wilhelmina. “Look at the Princess Amelia; her countenance glows with
anger; there is a tempest on her brow, and it is about to burst upon
us.”
“You are right; that is the best way to end this torture.” She rose from
the table, and gave a sign for a general movement. When the queen and
her suite had left the room, Baron Marshal drew near Count Belleville.
“Sir.” said he. “I told you before that I was not sufficiently credulous
to take you for a nobleman. Your conduct at the table has proved that
I did well to doubt you. Yourself and friends have shown that you
are strangers to the duties of cavaliers, and utterly ignorant of the
manners of good society.”
“Ah!” cried Belleville, “this offence demands satisfaction.”
“I am ready to grant it,” said Baron Marshal; “name the time and place
of meeting.”
“You know well,” cried Belleville, “that I am a prisoner, and have given
my word of honor not to use my sword!”
“So you were impertinent and shameless, because you knew you were
safe? You knew that, thanks to your word of honor, you could not be
chastised!”
“Sir,” cried Belleville, “you forget that you speak not only to a
nobleman, but to a soldier.”
“Well, I know that I speak to a Frenchman, who lost his powder-mantle
and pomatum-pot at Rossbach.”
Belleville, beside himself with rage, seized his sword, and half drew it
from the scabbard.
“God be praised, I have a sword with which to revenge insult!” he cried.
“I have given my word not to use it on the battle-field against the
Prussians, but here we stand as private adversaries, man to man, and
I challenge you, sir--I challenge you to mortal combat. I will have
satisfaction! You have insulted me as a nobleman, as a Frenchman, and
as a soldier. No consideration shall restrain me. I dare not use my
sword--well, then, we will fight with pistols. As to time and place,
expect me to-morrow, at eight o’clock, in the Thiergarden.”
“I accept the conditions, and I will await you with your seconds,” said
Baron Marshal.
“If the baron has not chosen his seconds,” said a soft voice behind him,
“I beg to offer my services.”
Baron Marshal turned, and saw an officer in the Austrian uniform.
“Count Ranuzi,” cried Belleville, astonished; “how, monsieur! you offer
yourself as second to my adversary? I had thought to ask this service of
you.”
“I suspected so,” said Ranuzi, with his accustomed calm and quiet
manner, “therefore I anticipated you. The right is certainly on the side
of Baron Marshal, and in offering myself as his second. I do so in the
name of all the Austrian officers who are present. They have all seen
the events of this evening with painful indignation. Without doubt the
world will soon be acquainted with them; we wish to make an open,
public demonstration that we wholly disapprove the conduct of the French
officers. The nutshells thrown behind the fauteuil of the queen have
made us your adversaries, Count Belleville.”
“That is not the occasion of this duel, but the affront offered me by
Baron Marshal,” cried Belleville. “This being the case, will you still
be the second of my opponent?”
“I was compelled to insult you,” said Baron Marshal, “because you
would have given me no satisfaction for the nutshells thrown behind the
fauteuil of the queen; but be assured that I don’t fight with you in
order that you may wash out my offence with my blood, but wholly and
alone that your blood may wash away the nutshells from the feet of the
queen.”
Baron Marshal then turned to Ranuzi. “I accept your offer, sir, and
rejoice to make the acquaintance of a true nobleman. Have the goodness
to meet the seconds of Count Belleville, and make all necessary
arrangements. I will call for you early in the morning. I only say
further that it is useless to make any attempts at reconciliation--I
shall not listen to them. Prussia and France are at war. My great king
has made no peace--I also will not hear of it. The nutshells lie behind
the fauteuil of the queen, and only the blood of Count Belleville can
wash them away.”
He bowed to Ranuzi, and joined his daughter, who, pale and trembling,
awaited him in the next room.
“Oh, father,” said she, with tears gushing from her eyes, “your life is
in danger--you meet death on my account!”
“No, thank God, my child, your name will not be mixed up in this affair.
No one can say that the mortified father revenged an insult offered
to his daughter. I fight this duel not for you, but because of the
nutshells behind the fauteuil of the queen.”
CHAPTER IX. THE DUEL AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Early in the morning two horsemen dashed down the Linden. Their loud
conversation, their pert and noisy laughter, aroused the curiosity of
the porters who stood yawning in the house-doors, and the maids opened
the windows and gazed curiously at the two gallant French officers who
were taking such an early ride to the Thiergarden. When the girls were
young and pretty, Belleville threw them a kiss as he passed by, and
commanded them to give it with his tenderest greeting to their fair
mistress.
“Happily,” said his companion, “these good Berliners do not understand
our speech sufficiently to inform their mistresses of this last
insolence of Count Belleville.”
“They do not, but their mistresses do, and I cannot think that they are
still sleeping. No, I am convinced they have risen early, and are now
standing behind their maids, and watching us go by. In this street dwell
those who call themselves society; they were at the castle yesterday,
and know of this duel. I think our good marquise will one day reward
me richly for this duel, when I tell her I stood behind the queen and
cracked nuts like a gamin in Paris, and that I was shot at because
of the nutshells. She will laugh tears--tears which I will strive to
convert into diamonds for myself.”
“You feel assured that you will return unharmed from this duel?”
“Yes, I cannot doubt it. I always won the prize at our pistol-shooting
in Paris, and then, this stupid Dutchman is, without doubt, horrified at
the thought of shooting at a man, and not at a mark. No, vraiment, I do
not doubt but I shall be victorious, and I rejoice in anticipation of
that dejeuner dinatoire with which my friends will celebrate it.”
“But,” said his second, “let us for a moment suppose that you are not
victorious; one must ever be prepared in this poor world, ruled by
accident, for the worst that can befall. In case you fall, have you no
last commissions to give me?”
Count Belleville stopped his horse as they were in the act of entering
the garden.
“You positively insist on burying me? Well, then. I will make my last
will. In case I fall go instantly to my quarters, open my writing-desk,
and press upon a small button you will see on the left side; there you
will find letters and papers; tie them carefully, and send them in the
usual way to Countess Bernis. As to my heritage, you know I have no
gold; I leave nothing but debts My clothes you can give to my faithful
servant, Francois; for the last year I have paid him no wages Now my
testament is made--no, stop, I had forgotten the most important item.
Should the inconceivable, the unimaginable happen, should this Dutch
village--devil slay me, I make it the duty of the French officers here
to revenge me on the haughty daughter of my adversary, and on all
these dull and prudish beauties. They must carry out what I intended
yesterday. I have drawn a few sketches and added a few notes; make as
many copies as are required, and paste them on the designated places.
If I fall, this must be done the following night, that my wandering soul
may find repose in the sweet consciousness of revenge. If my enemy’s
ball strikes me, hasten forward, and, before any one dares lay his hand
upon me, take from my breast-pocket a paper, which you will find there,
and conceal it; it is the drawing, and it is my legacy to my comrades.
Swear to me to do as I have said.”
“I swear!”
“And now, mon ami, let us forget this stupid thought of death, and look
life saucily and merrily in the face. Life will not have the courage to
break with a brave son of la belle France.”
Belleville drew his bridle suddenly, and sprang through the gate into
the garden; turning to the right, they rode for some time under the
shadow of the trees, then through a side allee, which led to an open
place surrounded by lofty oaks. At this moment he heard the roll of an
open carriage, and turning, he saluted gayly the two gentlemen who were
seated in it; he checked his horse suddenly in order to ride by their
side, and provoking the beautiful and noble beast by the rude use of his
spurs, he forced it into many difficult and artistic evolutions. Arrived
at the place of rendezvous, he sprang lightly from the saddle and
fastened his horse to a tree, then drew near Baron Marshal, who, with
Ranuzi, was just descending from the carriage.
“No man could be more prudent than yourself, sir,” said he, laughing,
“to come to a rendezvous in a carriage; truly, that is a wise and, I
think on this occasion, well-grounded precaution.”
“A forethought which I have exercised on your account,” said the baron,
gravely. “You, sir, will require a carriage, and knowing you, as a
stranger, had no carriage in Berlin, I brought mine. It shall be at your
service.”
“Vraiment! you are too good! I hope, however, not to make use of your
offer.”
Now, according to custom, Ranuzi drew near the baron to make a last
attempt at reconciliation. He answered sternly: “You know that I am not
to blame, and therefore will take no step in this matter. I suppose,
Count Belleville is as little disposed as myself to make apologies.”
“I intend to prove to you, sir baron, that I am a nobleman and a brave
one; and as to the nuts which I cracked behind the queen, my only regret
is, that they, like every thing else in your detested Berlin, were
hollow--”
“No, sir, they were not at all hollow,” said Baron Marshal, drawing up
the cock of his pistol; “in one of those nuts I saw a death-worm, which
will soon bore into your flesh.”
He bowed to Belleville and took the place pointed out by his second. The
second of Belleville then drew near, and led him to the outermost point
of the line.
The Frenchman laughed aloud. “How,” said he, “you will take me to the
end of the world to secure me from the ball of my enemy?”
“Sir,” said the grave and solemn voice of the baron, “you will still be
too near me.”
“Well, sir baron, I give you precedence,” said Belleville, laughing,
“though, I believe, I have the right; but age must have the
precedence--fire, sir.”
“No, young man,” said Marshal, sadly; “I will grant you one more glance
at the glad sun and the fresh, green earth; you shall fire first, and I
council you to lay aside your levity; let your hand be firm and your aim
steady; if you fail, you are lost. I am a good shot, and I am without
mercy.”
There was something so convincing, so gloomy in his tone, that
Belleville was involuntarily affected by it. For the first time his brow
was clouded, and a slight pallor took possession of his cheek; but he
forced back this prophetic shudder quickly, and raised his pistol with a
firm hand.
Far away, in the still park, sounded the echo of his shot; but opposite
to him stood his adversary, firm and calm as before, with his eye fixed
steadily upon him.
Belleville threw his pistol to the ground, and drawing his gold
snuff-box from his vest-pocket with his small white hands, adorned with
cuffs of lace, he played carelessly upon the lid; then opened it, and
slowly and gracefully took a pinch of snuff, saying, coolly, “I await
your ball.”
Marshal raised his pistol and aimed directly at the head of his enemy,
who looked him firmly in the eye. The appearance of this youthful,
fresh, and brave face softened, against his will, the noble and
magnanimous soul of this good man. He let his arm fall. “Sir,” said he,
“you are so young, perhaps your life may improve. I will not kill you.
But you need for this life a great, impressive lesson and a lasting
warning. I will therefore shoot you through the right leg, just above
the knee.” [Footnote: The words of Baron Marshal.--See Thiebault.]
He raised the pistol quickly, and fired. As the smoke was lifted,
Belleville was seen lying bleeding on the ground. The shot had gone
right through the knee and broken the knee-pan.
As his second bowed over him, Belleville whispered, with broken eyes and
trembling lips: “My legacy! do not forget my legacy! I believe I shall
die; this pain is horrible.”
The Frenchman took the paper from his pocket and concealed it “I will
be avenged,” said Belleville, with a convulsive smile, then sank into
unconsciousness.
Belleville was placed in the carriage of Baron Marshal and carried to
the city. Baron Marshal went immediately to the commandant of Berlin,
gave notice of what had taken place, and declared himself under arrest.
The commandant took his hand kindly. “The laws forbid duelling, and I
must consider you under arrest until I receive further orders. That
is to say, house-arrest; you must give me your word not to leave your
house. I will send a courier immediately to the king. I was in the
castle last night, and witness to all the circumstances which led to
this duel, witnessed the conduct of these Frenchmen, and in your place I
would have acted just as you have done.”
The French officers fulfilled the vow they had made to their wounded
comrade; they had promised to revenge him on Fraulein Marshal and the
other ladies of the court.
The morning after the duel, on the corners of all the principal streets,
placards were pasted, which were soon surrounded by crowds of men,
exhibiting astonishment and indignation. These placards contained a
register of all the young and beautiful women of the court and city; to
these names were added a frivolous and voluptuous personal description
of every lady, and to this the name of the French officer which each was
supposed to favor. [Footnote: Thiebault, p. 90.]
An outcry of scorn and rage was heard throughout Berlin; every one was
excited at the boundless shamelessness of the French officers, and on
this occasion the mass of the people took the part of the rich and
the distinguished, whom generally they envied and despised. They felt
themselves aggrieved by the contempt and ridicule which these Frenchmen
had cast upon the daughters of Prussians, and no police force was
necessary to tear these placards from the walls; they were torn off and
trampled under foot, or torn into a thousand pieces and scattered to
the winds. If a Frenchman dared to show himself on the street, he was
received with curses and threats, and the police were obliged to forbid
them to appear in any public place, as they feared they would not be
able to protect them from the fierce indignation of the people. The
doors of all the prominent houses, in which heretofore they had received
so much attention, were now closed against them. The commandant of
Berlin had sent a detailed account of the conduct of the French officers
to the king, and the answer had been received.
Eight days after the placards had been pasted up by the Frenchmen,
exactly upon the same places new placards were to be found, around which
the people were again assembled; on every face was seen a happy smile,
from every lip was heard expressions of harmony and approbation. This
was a greeting of the king not only to his Berliners, but to Prussia and
to the world; he was now “the Great Frederick,” and all Europe listened
when he spake. Frederick’s greeting read thus:
“It is known to all Europe that I have provided every possible comfort
to all officers who are prisoners of war. Swedes, Frenchmen, Russians,
Austrians I have allowed to pass the time of their captivity at my
capital. Many among them have taken advantage of the confidence reposed
in them and carried on a forbidden correspondence; they have also,
by unmannerly and presumptuous conduct, greatly abused the privileges
allowed them; I therefore feel myself constrained to send them to
Spandau, which city must not be confounded with the fortress of the same
name at Spandau; they will be no more restricted than in Berlin, but
they will be more closely watched.”
“For this decision I cannot be blamed. The law of nations and the
example of my allied enemies justify me fully. The Austrians have not
allowed any of my officers who have fallen into their hands to go to
Vienna. The Russians have sent their captives to Kasan. My enemies lose
no opportunity to give a false aspect to my acts; I have, therefore,
thought it wise to make known the causes which lead me to change my
policy with regard to the prisoners of war.”
“FREDERICK.”
Two of the officers, with whom we are acquainted, were not included in
this sentence of banishment.
One was Count Belleville. On the day that his comrades, deprived of
their swords, left Berlin, his corpse was carried through the outer
gate. The shot of Baron Marshal made an amputation necessary, and
death was the consequence. While his friends, whose condemnation he
had brought about, marched sadly to Spandau, his body was laid in
the “Friedhof.” To the corpse had been granted a favor denied to the
living--his sword was allowed to deck his coffin.
The Austrian officer, Ranuzi, because of his wise and prudent conduct
and the powerful support he gave to Baron Marshal, was permitted to
remain in Berlin. Ranuzi received this permission with triumphant joy.
As he looked from his window at the prisoners marching toward Spandau,
he said with a proud smile--“It is written, ‘Be wise as a serpent.’
These fools have not regarded the words of Holy Writ, and therefore they
are punished, while I shall be rewarded. Yes, my work will succeed! God
gives me a visible blessing. Patience, then, patience! A day will come
when I will take vengeance on this haughty enemy of the Church. On that
day the colors of the apostolic majesty of Austria shall be planted on
the fortress of Magdeburg!”
CHAPTER X. THE FIVE COURIERS.
It was the morning of the thirteenth of August. The streets of Berlin
were quiet and empty. Here and there might be seen a workman with his
axe upon his shoulder, or a tradesman stepping slowly to his comptoir.
The upper circle of Berlin still slumbered and refreshed itself after
the emotions and excitements of yesterday.
Yesterday had been a day of rejoicing; it had brought the news of
the great and glorious victory which the crown prince, Ferdinand of
Brunswick, had gained at Minden, over the French army under Broglie and
Contades.
The crown prince had ever remembered that great moment in the beginning
of the war, when his mother took leave of him in the presence of the
Brunswick regiments. Embracing him for the last time, she said: “I
forbid you to appear before me till you have performed deeds of valor
worthy of your birth and your allies!” [Footnote: Bodman.]
Her son, the worthy nephew of Frederick the Great had now bought the
right to appear before his mother.
By the victories of Gotsfeld and Minden he had now wiped out the defeat
at Bergen, and the laurels which Brissac had won there were now withered
and dead.
Berlin had just received this joyful news. After so much sorrow, so much
humiliation and disappointment, she might now indulge herself in a day
of festal joy, and, by public declarations and testimonials, make known
to the world how dear to her heart was this victory of her king and his
generals, and how deep and warm was the sympathy she felt.
All work was set aside in honor of this great celebration--the people
were spread abroad in the meadows and woods, shouting and rejoicing,
playing and dancing; the rich and the distinguished joined them
without ceremony, to prove to the world that in such great moments, all
differences of rank were forgotten--that they were all members of one
body--united in joy and in sorrow by an electric chain.
So they slumbered on; the streets were still empty, the windows still
closed.
But see! There comes a horseman through the Frankfort gate, dusty and
breathless; his glowing face was radiant with joy! As he dashed through
the streets he waved a white handkerchief high in the air, and with a
loud and powerful voice, cried out, “Victory! victory!”
This one word had a magic influence. The windows flew up, the doors were
dashed open, and shouting and screaming crowds of men rushed after the
horseman. At a corner they surrounded his horse and compelled him to
stop. “Who is victorious?” cried they tumultuously.
“The king--the great Frederick! He has whipped the Russians at
Kunersdorf!”
A cry of rapture burst from every lip. “The king is victorious! he has
defeated the Russians!”
Onward flew the courier to the palace; after him streamed the mad
people. “The days of mourning are over--the blood of our sons has
not been shed in vain, they are the honored dead--their death brought
victory to the fatherland; they have drenched the soil with the blood of
our barbarous enemies. We whipped the French at Minden, the Russians
at Kunersdorf, and now we have defeated the Austrians and won back the
trophies of their victory at Hochkirch!”
The people surrounded the castle shouting and triumphing. The courier
had entered to give to the queen the joyful news. Soon the royal
messengers were flying into every corner of the city to summon the
ministers and officers of state to the castle. On foot, on horseback,
in carriages, they hastened on, and the people received them with joyful
shouts. “The king is victorious; the Russians are defeated!”
And now a door opened on a balcony, and Minister Herzberg stepped out.
He waved his hat joyfully high in the air. The people returned this
greeting with a roar like an exulting lion. He waved his hand, and the
lion ceased to roar--there was death-like silence. He then told them
that the king had offered battle to the Russians, yesterday, not far
from Frankfort. The Russian army was greatly superior in numbers; they
received the Prussians with a fearful, deadly fire! Unrestrainable,
regardless of cannon-balls, or of death, the Prussians rushed on,
stormed all the strongholds, and drove the Russian militia with fearful
slaughter back to the graveyard of Kunersdorf. At five o’clock the king
sent off the courier and the victory was assured.
“The victory was assured!” reechoed the mighty voice of the people. With
warm and kindly eyes they looked upon each other. Proud, glad, happy,
men who did not know each other, who had never met, now felt that they
were brothers, the sons of one fatherland, and they clasped hands, and
shouted their congratulations.
Suddenly, at the end of the street, another horseman appeared. He drew
nearer and nearer. It is a second courier, a second message of our king
to his family and his Berliners.
The people looked at him distrustfully, anxiously. What means this
second courier? What news does he bring?
His countenance gay, his brow clear, with a flashing smile he greets the
people. He brings news of victory--complete, assured victory.
Like the first courier, he dashed on to the castle, to give his
dispatches to the queen and the ministers. The people were drunk with
joy. The equipages of the nobles rolled by. Every one whose rank gave
him the privilege wished to offer his personal congratulations to the
queen.
And now in the Konigstrasse was seen a venerable procession. The
magistrates of Berlin--in front the burgomasters with their long
periwigs and golden chains, behind them the worthy city council--all
hastened to the castle to offer congratulations in the name of the city.
The crowd drew back respectfully before the worthy city fathers, and
opened a path for them, then fixed their eyes again upon the balcony
where Minister Herrberg again appeared, and called for silence.
He will give us the news of the second courier. The victory is absolute.
The Russians completely defeated. They had retreated to Kunersdorf. In
this village they proposed to defend themselves. But the Prussians were
unceasingly pressing upon them. Seven redoubts, Kirchhof, Spitzberg, and
one hundred and eighty-six cannon had been taken. The enemy had suffered
a monstrous loss, and was in the greatest confusion. The fate of the
day seemed conclusive. This was owing to the heroic courage of the army,
whom neither the blazing heat of the sun nor the unexampled slaughter
could for a moment restrain. At six o’clock, when the king sent off this
second courier, the enemy had retreated behind his last
intrenchments, and taken refuge at Gudenberg. [Footnote: Frederick the
Great.--Thiebault]
A loud hurrah broke from the people as Herzberg finished and left the
balcony. Now there was no room for doubt. The enemy was overwhelmed and
had fled to his last intrenchment. Would the king leave him unmolested,
and would he not still drive the hated enemy further?
While groups of men were assembled here and there, discussing these
weighty questions, and others, intoxicated, drunk with joy at this great
victory over their hereditary enemy, were making eloquent addresses to
the people, a third courier appeared in sight.
Breathless with expectation and anxiety, they would not give him time to
reach the castle. They must--they would know the news he brings. There
should be no delay, no temporizing, no mysteries. The people were one
great family. They awaited the message of their father. They demanded
news of their distant sons and brothers.
The third courier brings renewed assurances. The Russians are routed.
The king will give them no rest. He will drive them from their last
stronghold. With his whole army, with cavalry and militia, with all his
cannon, he was in the act of storming Gudenberg. This is the message of
the third courier.
The people are proud and happy. No one thinks of going home. In fact,
they have no home but the streets. Every house would be too small
for this great family which feels a thirst to express its joy and its
rapture to each other. And then it was possible the king might send
another courier. Who could go home till they knew that the Russians
were driven from their last stronghold, that Gudenberg was drenched in
Russian blood?
No one doubted that this news would come--must come. Not the slightest
fear, the least doubt troubled the proud, pure joy of this hour. The
victory was achieved, but it was still charming to hear it confirmed; to
receive these heavenly messages. Every open space was filled with men.
Each one would see and hear for himself. No man thought himself too
distinguished, too sick, too weak, to stand for hours in the burning
sun, carried about involuntarily by this fluctuating wave of humanity.
Side by side with the laborer stood the elegant lady in her silk robes;
near the poor beggar in his ragged jacket were seen the high official
and the wealthy banker in their rich dresses.
Move than fifty thousand men were now assembled and waiting--waiting for
what they knew not--for news--for a courier who could give the details.
It was not enough to know that the king had conquered; they wished to
know the extent and the significance of this victory; and lastly,
they would know the bloody offering which this victory had cost. The
dinner-hour was passed. What cared this happy people for dinner? They
hungered for no earthly food; they thirsted for no earthly drink; they
were satisfied with the joy of victory. The clock struck three. Yes,
there comes a horseman, his bridle is hanging loose--he is covered with
dust--but how, what means this? His face is pale as death; his eyes
are misty; he looks around shame-faced and confused. No happy news is
written upon this dark and clouded brow. What means this messenger of
death in the midst of joy, triumph, and proud consciousness of victory?
They seek to hold him, to question him, but he gives no answer. He spurs
his wearied horse till he springs aloft, and the men in rash terror are
crushed against each other; but the horseman makes no sign. Silently he
dashes on through the laughing, chatting crowd, but wherever he passes,
laughter and smiles disappear, and speech is silenced.
It seemed as if the angel of death had touched his brow, and the happy
ones shuddered at his untimely presence. Now he has reached the castle,
he descends from his horse. In breathless silence, pallid, trembling
they know not why, those who have seen this dumb messenger look up
shudderingly to the balcony. At last, after long waiting, the Minister
Herzberg appeared once more.
But, O God! what means this? he is pale--his eyes are filled with tears.
He opens his mouth to speak, but strength has left him. He holds on to
the bars of the balcony, otherwise he would sink. At last he collects
himself. It is not necessary to ask for silence; the silence of the
grave is upon those torpid men. He speaks! his voice is faint and weak,
and trembles--oh, so fearfully! only a few in the first rank can hear
his words.
“The battle is lost! The Russians have conquered! The Austrians came to
their assistance! The presence of the Austrians was not known, they had
their tents in holes in the ground! As our militia rushed upon the last
intrenchment at Judenberg and were only a hundred steps distant, Loudon
suddenly advanced with his fresh troops, against the worn-out and
exhausted victors. He received the Prussians with so murderous a fire,
that their ranks faltered, wavered, and, at last, broke loose in wild
flight, pursued furiously by the raging enemy. The fortunes of the day
had turned; we lost the battle. But all is not lost. The king lives! he
is slightly wounded; three horses were shot under him. He lives, and so
long as he lives, there is hope. In the far distance, in the midst of
the terrible disaster? which have befallen himself and his army, he
thinks of his Berliners. He sends you a father’s greeting, and exhorts
every one of you to save his possessions, as far as possible. Those who
do not feel safe in Berlin, and who fear the approaching enemy, the king
counsels to withdraw, if possible, with their money, to Magdeburg, where
the royal family will take refuge this evening.”
The minister was silent, and the people who had listened, dumb with
horror, now broke out in wild cries of anguish and despair. Terror was
written in every face; tears gushed from every eye. Cries of unspeakable
agony burst from those lips, which, a few moments before, were eloquent
with hope and gladness.
As if it were impossible to believe in these misfortunes without further
confirmation, some men called loudly for the messenger, and the distant
crowd, as if inspired with new hope, roared louder and louder:
“The courier! the courier! we will ourselves speak with the courier!”
The demand was so threatening, so continuous, it must be complied with.
Herzberg stepped upon the balcony, and informed the crowd that the
courier would at once descend to the public square. A breathless silence
succeeded; every eye was fixed upon the castle-gate, through which the
courier must come. When he appeared, the crowd rushed forward toward
him in mad haste. Cries of woe and suffering were heard. The people,
with--mad with pain, beside themselves with despair, had no longer
any mercy, any pity for each other. They rushed upon the messenger
of misfortune, without regarding those who, in the midst of this wild
tumult, were cast down, and trodden under foot.
The messenger began his sad story. He repeated all that the minister had
said; he told of the deadly strife, of the bloody havoc, of the raging
advance of the Austrians, and of the roar for vengeance of the reassured
Russians. He told how the cannon-balls of the enemy had stricken down
whole ranks of Prussians; that more than twenty thousand dead and
wounded Prussians lay upon the battle-field; that all the cannon and all
the colors had fallen into the hands of the enemy.
The people received this news with tears, cries, and lamentations.
The courier spoke also of the king. He, himself, had belonged to the
body-guard of the king--had been ever near him. He had seen the king
standing in the midst of the thickest shower of balls, when his two
adjutants fell at his side. At last, a ball came and wounded the king’s
horse--the Vogel--so fearfully, that the brave steed fell. Frederick
mounted another horse, but remained upon the same spot; a second ball
wounded this horse, and the king quietly mounted that of Captain Gotzen.
At this moment, a bullet struck the king in the breast, but the golden
etui which the king carried in his pocket, had turned it aside, and thus
saved his life. In vain had the generals and adjutants entreated him to
leave this place, and think of his personal safety. His answer was--“We
must seek, at this point, to win the battle. I must do my duty here with
the rest.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--See Thiebault, p. 214.]
Many voices cried out--“Where is the king now?”
The courier did not answer; but the question was so fiercely, so
stormily repeated, that he was compelled to go on.
“The king, in the midst of the confusion and horror of the flight, had
called him, and commanded him to gallop to Berlin, and bear the fatal
news to Minister Herzberg. He had then galloped by him, exactly against
the enemy, as if he wished their balls to strike him; a little troop of
his most faithful soldiers had followed!”
“The king is lost! the king is a prisoner--wounded--perhaps dead!” cried
the terrified people.
Suddenly, the mad tumult was interrupted by loud shouts of joy, which
swelled and thundered like an avalanche from the other side of the
square. A fifth courier had arrived, and brought the news of the
complete defeat of the Russians, and a glorious Prussian victory. Now,
one of those memorable, wondrous--grand scenes took place, which no
earthly phantasy could contrive or prepare, to which only Providence
could give form and color. As if driven by the storm-winds of every
powerful earthly passion, this great sea of people fluctuated here and
there. At one point, thousands were weeping over the news which the
unhappy messenger had brought. Near by, thousands were huzzaing and
shouting over the joyful intelligence brought by the fifth courier,
while those who had been near enough to the fourth courier to understand
his words, turned aside to give the sad news to those who were afar off.
Coming at the same time from the other side, they were met by a mighty
mass of men, who announced, with glad cries, the news of victory,
brought by the fifth courier. Here you could see men, with their arms
raised to heaven, thanking God for the hardly-won victory. A little
farther on, pale, frightened creatures, motionless, bowed down, and
grief-stricken. Here were women, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes,
shouting over their hero king. There, the people wept and moaned; their
king had disappeared, was a prisoner, or dead. As at the Tower of Babel,
the people spoke in a thousand tongues, and no one listened to another;
every one was lost--blinded by his own passionate hopes and fears.
At last the two couriers were called upon to come face to face and
decide these important questions. Strong men lifted them upon their
shoulders and brought them together; a profound and fearful silence
ensued, every man felt that he stood upon the eve of a mighty
revelation; fifty thousand men were waiting breathlessly for news of
happiness beyond compare, or of unspeakable woe. The conversation of the
two horsemen standing upon the shoulders of their townsmen was quick and
laconic.
“At what hour did the king send you off?” said the fourth courier to the
fifth.
“At six. The king himself commissioned me.”
“Where stood our army at that time?” said the fourth courier.
“They stood before the hollow ground, and the Russians had withdrawn
to the intrenchments of Zudenberg; we had taken a hundred and twenty
cannon, and many of our soldiers were wandering about the battle-field
looking at the batteries they had taken.” [Footnote: Bodman.]
“Yes,” said the fourth courier, sadly, “that was at six, but at seven
we were in full flight. Loudon had risen from the ground, and the
frightened, conquered Russians had recovered themselves. You left at
six, I at eight; I have ridden more rapidly than you. Unhappily, I am
right, the battle is lost!”
“The battle is lost!” howled the people; “the king is also lost! Woe!
woe!”
At this moment the royal equipages were seen making their way slowly
through the crowd, and the advance guard were praying the people to
open a way for the travelling carriages to reach the castle. These words
excited new alarm. “We are lost! Let us fly, let us fly! The court, the
queen, and the princesses flee--let us save ourselves! The Russians
will come to Berlin--they will annihilate us. We are deserted and lost,
lost!--no one knows where our king is!”
As if driven by madness, the crowds rushed against each other, like the
sea when it divides, and in billowy streams pours itself out here and
there; and the cry of anguish which now rang out from the castle square,
found its echo in every street and every house.
CHAPTER XI. AFTER THE BATTLE.
The cannon were silenced, the discharges of musketry had ceased. On the
great plain of Kunersdorf, where, a few hours before, a bloody battle
had been raging, all was quiet. Could this be called repose? How cruel
was the tranquillity which rested now upon this fearful battle-field!
It was the peace of death--the stillness which the awful messenger of
Heaven presses as a sign and seal of his love upon the pale lips of the
dead. Happy they whose immortal spirits were quickly wafted away by the
dread kiss--they no longer suffer. Woe to those who yet live, though
they belong to death, and who lie surrounded by grinning corpses! The
cold bodies of their comrades are the pillows upon which they lay their
bloody heads. The groans of the dying form the awful melody which awakes
them to consciousness; and the, starry sky of this clear, transparent
summer night is the only eye of love which bows down to them and looks
upon them in their agony.
Happy those whom the murderous sword and the crushing ball carried off
in an instant to the land of spirits! Woe, woe to those lying upon the
battle-field, living, breathing, conscious of their defeat and of their
great agony! Woe! woe! for they hear the sound of the tramping and
neighing of horses--they come nearer and nearer. The moon throws the
long, dark shadows of those advancing horse-men over the battle-field.
It is fearful to see their rash approach; spurring over thousands
of pale corpses, not regarding the dying, who breathe out their last
piteous sighs under the hoofs of these wild horses.
The Cossack has no pity; he does not shudder or draw back from this
monstrous open grave, which has received thousands of men as if they
were one great corpse. The Cossack has come to rob and to plunder; he
spares neither friend nor foe. He is the heir of the dead and of the
dying, and he has come for his inheritance. If he sees a ring sparkling
upon the hand of a grinning corpse, he springs from his horse and tears
it off. If his greedy, cruel eye rests upon a rich uniform he seizes it,
he tears it off from the bleeding, wounded body, no matter whether it is
dead or still breathing and rattling.
Look at that warrior who, groaning with anguish, his limbs torn to
pieces, bleeding from a thousand wounds, is lying in an open grave;
he is wounded to death; he still holds his sword in his left hand--his
right arm has been torn off by a cannon-ball, a shot that he might not
be trampled upon by the horses’ hoofs; they are forced to leave him in
the hands of God and to the mercy of man.
But the Cossack knows no mercy. That is a word he has never heard in his
Russian home; he has no fear of God before his eyes--he fears the Czar
and his captain, and above all other things, he fears the knout. He
knows nothing of pity, for it has never been shown him--how then should
he exercise it?
When the Cossack saw the Prussian officer in his gold-embroidered
uniform, he sprang from his horse and threw the bridle over him, a
shrill whistle told the wild steed, the Cossack’s better half, that he
must stand still. He sprang into the grave where the Prussian warrior,
the German poet, was laid to rest. Yes, a great German poet lies
there--a poet by the grace of God. All Germany knows him, “their
songster of the spring.” All Germany had read and been inspired by his
lays. The Austrian and the Saxon considered the Prussian Major Ewald
von Kleist their enemy, but they loved and admired the poet, Ewald von
Kleist. The people are never enemies to poesy, and even politics are
silent before her melodious voice.
There he lies, the gallant warrior, the inspired, noble poet; his broken
eyes are turned to heaven; his blue, cold lips are opened and wearily
stammering a few disconnected words. Perhaps he thinks in this last hour
of the last words of his last poem. Perhaps his stiffening lips murmured
these words which his mangled hand had written just before the battle:
“Death for one’s fatherland is ever honorable.
How gladly will I die that noble death
When my destiny calls!”
Yes, death might have been beautiful, but fate is never propitious to
German poets. It would have been noble and sweet to die in the wild
tumult of battle, under the sound of trumpets, amid the shouts of
victory; sweet thus, with a smile upon the lip to yield up the immortal
spirit.
Ewald von Kleist, the German poet, received his death-wound upon the
field of battle, but he did not die there; he lives, he knows that the
battle is lost, that his blood has been shed in vain. The Cossack has
come down into his grave--with greedy eyes he gazes at the rich booty.
This bleeding, mangled body--this is to the Cossack not a man, it is
only a uniform which is his; with hands trembling with greed he tears it
from the quivering, bleeding form. What to him is the death-rattle and
the blood--even the bloody shirt dying frame. [Footnote: “History of the
Seven Years’ War.”--Thiebault, 363.] The Prussian warrior, the German
poet, lay there naked, his own blood alone covered his wounded body,
wrapped it in a purple mantle, worthy of the poet’s crown with which his
countrymen had decked his brow.
But Ewald von Kleist is no longer a poet or a hero--he is a poor,
suffering, tortured child of earth; he lies on the damp ground, he
pleads for a few rags to cover his wounds, into which the muddy water of
the hole in which he lies is rushing.
And now fate seems favorable. A Russian officer is riding by--he takes
pity on the naked man with the gaping wounds; he throws him a soldier’s
old mantle, a piece of bread, and a half gulden. [Footnote: “Seven
Years’ War,” 353.] The German poet receives the alms of the Russian
thankfully--he covers himself with the cloak, he tries to eat the bread.
But destiny is never propitious to German poets. The Cossacks swarm
again upon the battle-field, and again they approach the groaning
warrior in the open grave; he has no longer a glittering uniform, but
the Cossack takes all; the poor old mantle excites his greed--he tears
it from the unresisting soldier; he opens his hands and takes out the
half gulden which Ewald von Kleist had received from the Russian hussar.
Again he lies naked, again the muddy water forces into his wounds, and
adds cruel torture to the agonies of death. So lies he till the next
day, till the enemy takes pity upon him and carries him as a prisoner
to Frankfort. [Footnote: Ewald von Kleist died a few days after this,
on the 24th of August. The Russians gave him an honorable burial; and as
there was no sword upon his coffin, Captain Bulow, chief of the Russian
dragoons, took his own from his side and placed it upon the bier,
saying, “So worthy an officer shall not be buried without every mark of
honor.”--Archenholtz, 262.]
Happy those who meet with sudden death. It is true all the living did
not share the cruel fate of Ewald von Kleist, but all those thousands
who were borne wounded and bleeding from the battle-field were conscious
of their sufferings and their defeat.
The little village of Octshef near the battle-field was a hospital.
During the battle all the inhabitants had fled. The wounded had taken
possession of the huts and the surgeons were hastening from house to
house giving relief where it was possible. No one entered into those
two little huts which lay at the other end of the village, somewhat
separated from the others. And yet those huts contained two wounded men.
They had been brought here during the battle--the surgeon had examined
their wounds and gone out silently, never to return. Groaning from time
to time, these two wounded men lay upon the straw, their eyes fixed
upon the door, longing for the surgeon to bring them help, or at least
alleviation.
And now the door was indeed opened, and an officer entered. Was it the
obscurity of twilight, or had blood and pain blinded the eyes of the
wounded men so that, they could not recognize the stranger? It was
true his noble and generally cheerful face was now grave and stern, his
cheeks were ashy pale, and his great, flashing eyes were dim; but
there was still something inexpressibly majestic and commanding in
his appearance--though defeated and cast down, he was still a hero, a
king--Frederick the Great!
Frederick had come to take up his quarters in this lonely hut, to be
alone in his great grief; but when he saw the two wounded men, his
expression changed to one of earnest sympathy. With hasty steps he drew
near to the two officers, bowed over and questioned them kindly. They
recognized his voice--that voice which had so often inspired them to
bold deeds in the wild whirl of battle, but whose tones were now mild
and sympathetic.
“The king!” cried both in joyful surprise, and forgetting their wounds
and helplessness, they strove to rise, but sank back with hollow groans,
with the blood streaming anew from their wounds.
“Poor children,” said Frederick, “you are badly wounded.”
“Yes,” groaned Lieutenant von Grabow, “badly wounded, but that is of
small consequence, if, your majesty, we only knew that we had gained the
day. We had taken two redoubts, and were storming the third, when this
misfortune befell us. Tell us, your majesty, is it not true? Is not the
victory ours?”
A dark shadow passed over the face of the king, but soon disappeared.
“You must now think only of yourselves. You have proved that you are
brave--the rest is accident or fate. Do not despond, all will be well.
Have your wounds been dressed? Have you been fed?”
“Ah, sire, no devil will dress our wounds,” groaned Lieutenant von
Hubenfall.
“How,” cried the king, “have they left you here without care and
assistance?”
“Yes, sire, there is no earthly hope for us.”
The king was about to answer, when several people, bearing hand-barrows,
accompanied by a surgeon, entered.
“What do you wish?” said the king, angrily.
“Sire,” answered the surgeon, “we will remove the wounded, as your
majesty will make your night-quarters here.”
The king threw a scornful glance upon them.
“And you suppose that I will allow this? The wounded men remain here. I
will seek shelter elsewhere. But, above all things, examine the wounds
of these two officers at once, and dress them.”
The surgeon advanced, and examined them carefully, then drew near the
king.
“Your majesty,” said he, shrugging his shoulders, “it would be all in
vain. A cannon-ball has torn off the right arm of one of these men, and
he must die of gangrene. The other has a cartridge-load of iron in his
face and in his body. It is impossible to bind up these wounds.”
The king did not answer him. He stepped hastily to the straw-bed, and
took both the wounded men by the hand. Then, turning to the surgeon, he
said--
“Look, now, these two men are young and powerful--they have no fever.
With such young blood and fresh hearts Nature often does wonders. Dress
them, and bind up their wounds, and, above all things, see that they
have nourishment--they have need of it.”
“Ah, yes, your majesty; we have been hungry and thirsty a long time,”
said Grabow.
The king smiled. “See, now, you think they are lost, and yet they have
healthy stomachs; so long as a man is hungry he will not die.”
The surgeon opened his case of instruments and commenced to dress the
wounds. The king watched him for a long time, then stooped down and
said, tenderly, “Children, do not despair; I will learn how it goes with
you, and if you are no longer fit for service, I will take care of you.
Believe that I will not forget you.” He bowed kindly and left the room.
His adjutants were awaiting him at the door of the tent. [Footnote: The
king’s own words. The whole scene is historical. These two officers,
whom the king saved in this way from death, recovered rapidly. After
they were completely restored, they again took part in the contest,
and were again severely wounded at Kolberg. They served until peace
was declared, and then retired on the invalid list, and, by the express
order of the king, were most kindly cared for.--See Nicolai.] The king
signed to them to follow him, and stepping rapidly through the village,
he passed by the huts from which loud cries of anguish and low murmurs
were heard.
“Ah,” cried Frederick, “Dante did not know all the horrors of hell, or
he forgot to paint those I now suffer.” He hastened on--on--on, in the
obscure twilight of the summer night, pursued by the sighs and groans
of his dying and wounded soldiers; a deep, immeasurable sadness lay
upon his brow; his lips were trembling; cold perspiration stood upon his
forehead; his eyes wandered over the battle-field, then were raised
to heaven with a questioning and reproachful expression. Already the
village lay far behind him; but he hurried on, he had no aim, no object;
he wished only to escape this hell, this cry of despair and woe from the
condemned. An adjutant dared at last to step forward and awake him from
his sad mood.
“Sire,” said he, “the Cossacks are swarming in every direction, and if
your majesty goes on, the most fearful results may be anticipated. The
Cossacks shoot at every man who wears a good coat.”
The king shook his head sadly. “There is no ball for me,” said he in a
low tone; “I have in vain called upon death. I have prayed in mercy for
a ball; it came, but it only grazed my breast. No, no--there is no ball
for me!” He advanced, and the adjutant dared once more to interrupt him.
“Sire,” said he, “will not your majesty seek night-quarters?”
Frederick raised his head, and was in the act of answering hastily, then
said: “Yes, I need night-quarters.” He looked around and saw an empty
peasant’s house by the wayside, drew near and entered silently.
CHAPTER XII. A HEROIC SOUL.
“I will pass the night here,” said he, “the place appears deserted; we
will disturb no one.”
The king was right. The miserable old hut was empty. No one advanced to
meet him as he entered. In one corner of the room there was some dirty
straw; in the other a wooden table and stool--this was all.
“It suffices for me,” said the king, smiling. “I will pass the night
here. Have you my writing materials with you?”
“I sent Adjutant von Goltz for them, sire, as I did not wish to leave
you alone.”
Goltz now entered with the king’s portfolio, and informed him that he
had brought two grenadiers to guard the house.
“Have I still grenadiers?” murmured the king, in a trembling voice. His
head fell upon his breast, and he stood thus lost in deep thought for a
while. “Gentlemen,” said he, at length, “inspect the house. See if there
is a more comfortable room than this; if not, I suppose we can manage
to sleep here. Send one of the guard for some soldiers, by whom I can
forward my dispatches.”
The adjutants bowed, and left the room. The king was alone. He could at
last give way to his despair--his grief.
“All, all is lost!” murmured the king, and a voice within him answered:
“When all is lost, there is no escape but death! It is unworthy to
continue a life without fame, without glory. The grave alone is a
resting-place for the broken-hearted, humiliated man!”
The king listened attentively to this voice. He had borne with patience
the sorrows and deprivations of the past years, but he could not survive
the ruin of his country. His country was lost. There was no chance of
saving it; his army was gone. The victorious enemy had taken all the
neighboring provinces. The Russians could now march undisturbed to
Berlin. They would find no resistance, for the garrison there consisted
of invalids and cripples.
Berlin was lost! Prussia was lost! The king was resolved to die, for he
was a king without a crown, a hero without laurels. He wished to die,
for he could not survive the destruction of his country. But first he
must arrange his affairs, make his will, and bid adieu to his friends.
The king opened the door hastily, and desired that a light should
be brought--it was no easy thing to procure in this dismal, deserted
village. The adjutant succeeded at last, however, in getting a few
small tallow candles, and placing them in old bottles, in the absence of
candlesticks of any description, he carried them to the king. Frederick
did not observe him; he stood at the open window, gazing earnestly
at the starry firmament. The bright light aroused him; he turned, and
approached the table.
“My last letters!” murmured he, sinking upon the wooden stool, and
opening his portfolio.
How his enemies would have rejoiced, could they have seen him in that
wretched hovel! He first wrote to General Fink, to whom he wished to
leave the command of his army. He must fulfil the duties of state,
before those of friendship. It was not a letter--rather an order to
General Fink, and read as follows:
“General Fink will find this a weary and tedious commission. The army
I leave is no longer in a condition to defend itself from the Russians.
Haddeck will hasten to Berlin. Loudon also, I presume. If you intercept
them, the Russians will be in your rear; if you remain by the Oder,
Haddeck will surround you. I nevertheless believe, were Loudon to come
to Berlin, you could attack and defeat him. This, were it possible,
would give you time to arrange matters, and I can assure you, time
is every thing, in such desperate circumstances as ours. Koper, my
secretary, will give you the dispatches from Torgau and Dresden. You
must acquaint my brother, whom I make general-in-chief of the army, with
all that passes. In the mean time, his orders must be obeyed. The army
must swear by my nephew. This is the only advice I am able to give. Had
I any resources, I would stand fast by you. FREDERICK.” [Footnote: The
king’s own words.]
“Yes, I would have stood by them,” murmured the king, as he folded and
addressed his letter. “I would have borne still longer this life of
oppression and privation; but now, honor demands that I should die.”
He took another sheet of paper. It was now no order or command, but a
tender, loving, farewell letter to his friend, General Finkenstein.
“This morning, at eleven o’clock, I attacked the enemy; we drove them
back to Gudenberg. All my men performed deeds of daring and bravery,
but, at the storming of Gudenberg, a terrific number of lives were lost.
My army became separated. I reassembled them three times, but in vain.
At last, they fled in wild disorder. I very nearly became a prisoner,
and was obliged to leave the field to the enemy. My uniform was torn by
the cannon-balls, two horses were shot underneath me, but death shunned
me; I seemed to bear a charmed life; I could not die! From an army
of forty-eight thousand men, there now remains three thousand. The
consequences of this battle will be more fearful than the battle itself.
It is a terrible misfortune, and I will not survive it. There is no
one to whom I can look for help. I cannot survive my country’s ruin.
Farewell!”
“And now,” said the king, when he had sealed and directed his letter,
“now I am ready; my worldly affairs are settled. I am at the end of my
sufferings, and dare claim that last, deep rest granted by Nature to
us all. I have worked enough, suffered enough; and if, after a life of
stormy disasters, I seek my grave, no one can say it was cowardly not
to live--for all the weight of life rolled upon me, forced me to the
ground, and the grave opened beneath my feet. I continued to hope,
when overwhelmed with defeat at every point. Every morning brought new
clouds, new sorrows. I bore it courageously, trusting that misfortune
would soon weary, the storms blow over, and a clear, cloudless sky
envelop me. I deceived myself greatly; my sorrows increased. And now,
the worst has happened; my country is lost! Who dares say I should
survive this loss? To die at the proper time is also a duty. The Romans
felt this, and acted upon it. I am a true scholar of the old masters,
and wish to prove myself worthy of them. When all is lost, the liberty
to die should not be denied. The world has nothing more to do with me,
and I laugh at her weak, unjust laws. Like Tiberius, will I live and
die! Farewell, then, thou false existence; farewell, weak man! Ah!
there are so many fools--so few men amongst you; I have found so many
faithless friends, so many traitors, so few honest men! In the hour of
misfortune they all deserted me! But, no!” said he; “one remained true.
D’Argens never deceived me, and I had almost forgotten to take leave of
him. Well, death must wait for me, while I write to D’Argens!”
A heavenly inspiration now beamed on his countenance; his eyes shone
like stars. The holy muse had descended to comfort the despairing hero,
to whisper loving and precious words to him. Thus standing at death’s
portals, Frederick wrote his most beautiful poem, called “Ami le sort
en est jete’.” A great wail of woe burst from his soul. The sorrows, the
grievances hid until now from all, he portrayed in touching, beautiful
words to his absent friend. He pictured to him his sufferings, his
hopes, his struggles, and finally, his determination to die. When all
this had been painted in the most glowing colors, when his wounds were
laid bare, he wrote a last and touching farewell to his friend:
“Adieu, D’Argens! dans ce tableau,
De mon trepas tu vois la cause;
Au moins ne pense pas du neant du caveau,
Que j’aspire a l’apotheose.
Tout ce que l’amitie par ces vers propose,
C’est que tant qu’ici-bas le celeste flambeau;
Eclairera tes jours tandis que je repose,
Et lorsque le printemps paraissant de nouveau.
De son sein abondant t’offre les fleurs ecloses,
Chaque fois d’un bouquet de myrthes et de roses,
Tu daignes parer mon tombeau.”
[Footnote:
“Adieu, D’Argens! In this picture
Thou wilt see the cause of my death;
At least, do not think, a nothing in the vault,
That I aspire to apotheosis.
All that friendship by these lines proposes
Is only this much, that here the celestial torch
May clear thy days while I repose,
And each time when the Spring appears anew
And from her abundant breast offers thee the flowers there enclosed
That thou with a bouquet of myrtle and rose
Wilt deign to decorate my tomb.”]
“Ah!” murmured the king, as he folded and addressed his poetical letter,
“how lovely it must now be at Sans-Souci! Well, well! my grave shall
be there, and D’Argens will cover it with flowers. And have I no other
friends at Sans-Souci? My good old hounds, my crippled soldiers! They
cannot come to me, but I will go to them.”
The king then arose, opened the door, and asked if a messenger was in
readiness; receiving an answer in the affirmative, he gave the three
letters to the adjutant. “And now my work is finished,” said he, “now I
can die.” He took from his breast-pocket a small casket of gold which he
always carried with him, and which, in the late battle, had served him
as a shield against the enemy’s balls. The lid had been hollowed in by a
ball; strange to say, this casket, which had saved his life, was now to
cause his death. For within it there was a small vial containing three
pills of the most deadly poison, which the king had kept with him since
the beginning of the war. The king looked at the casket thoughtfully.
“Death here fought against death; and still how glorious it would have
been to die upon the battle-field believing myself the victor!” He held
the vial up to the light and shook it; and as the pills bounded up
and down, he said, smiling sadly, “Death is merry! It comes eagerly to
invite me to the dance. Well, well, my gay cavalier, I am ready for the
dance.”
He opened the vial and emptied the pills into his hand. Then arose and
approached the window to see once more the sky with its glittering stars
and its brightly-beaming moon, and the battle-field upon which thousands
of his subjects had this day found their death. Then raised the hand
with the pills. What was it that caused him to hesitate? Why did his
hand fall slowly down? What were his eyes so intently gazing on?
The king was not gazing at the sky, the stars, or the moon; but far
off into the distance, at the Austrian camp-fires. There were the
conquerors, there was Soltikow and Loudon with their armies. The king
had observed these fires before entering the hut, but their number had
now increased, a sign that the enemy had not advanced, but was resting.
How? Was it possible that the enemy, not taking advantage of their
victory, was not following the conquered troops, but giving them time
to rally, to outmarch them, perhaps time to reach the Spree, perhaps
Berlin?
“If this is so,” said the king, answering his own thoughts, “if the
enemy neglects to give me the finishing-blow, all is not lost. If there
is a chance of salvation for my country, I must not die; she needs me,
and it is, my duty to do all in my power to retrieve the past.”
He looked again at the camp-fires, and a bright smile played about his
lips.
“If those fires speak aright,” said he, “my enemies are more
generous--or more stupid--than I thought, and many advantages may still
be derived from this lost battle. If so, I must return to my old motto
that ‘life is a duty.’ And so long as good, honorable work is to be
done, man has no right to seek the lazy rest of the grave. I must
ascertain at once if my suspicions are correct. Death may wait awhile.
As long as there is a necessity for living, I cannot die.”
He returned the pills to the vial and hid the casket in its former
resting-place. Then passing hastily through the room, he opened the
door. The two adjutants were sitting upon the wooden bench in front of
the hut; both were asleep. The grenadiers were pacing with even tread up
and down before the house; deep quiet prevailed. The king stood at the
door looking in amazement at the glorious scene before him. He inhaled
with delight the soft summer air; never had it seemed to him so balmy,
so full of strengthening power, and he acknowledged that never had the
stars, the moon, the sky looked as beautiful. With lively joy he felt
the night-wind toying with his hair. The king would not tire of all
this; it seemed to him as if a friend, dead long since, mourned and
bewailed, had suddenly appeared to him beaming with health, and as if he
must open his arms and say, “Welcome, thou returned one. Fate separated
us; but now, as we have met, we will never leave one another, but cling
together through life and death, through good and evil report.”
Life was the friend that appeared to Frederick, and he now felt his
great love for it. Raising his eyes in a sort of ecstasy to the sky, he
murmured, “I swear not to seek death unless at the last extremity, if,
when made a prisoner, I cannot escape. I swear to live, to suffer, so
long as I am free.”
He had assumed the harness of life, and was determined to battle bravely
with it.
CHAPTER XIII. THE TWO GRENADIERS.
Smiling, and with elastic step, the king advanced to meet the two
grenadiers, who stood rooted to the spot as he approached them.
“Grenadiers,” said he, “why are you not with your comrades?”
“Our comrades fled,” said one.
“It is dishonorable to fly,” said the other.
The king was startled. These voices were familiar, he had surely heard
them before.
“I ought to know you,” said he, “this is not the first time we have
spoken together. What is your name, my son?”
“Fritz Kober is my name,” said the grenadier.
“And yours?”
“Charles Henry Buschman,” said the other.
“You are not mistaken, sir king! we have met and spoken before, but it
was on a better night than this.”
“Where was it?” said the king.
“The night before the great, the glorious battle of Leuthen,” said Fritz
Kober, gravely; “at that time, sir king, you sat at our tent-fire
and ate dumplings with us. Charles Henry knows how to cook them so
beautifully!”
“Ah! I remember,” said the king; “you made me pay my share of the
costs.”
“And you did so, like a true king,” said Fritz Kober. “Afterward you
came back to our tent-fire, and Charles Henry Buschman told you fairy
tales, nobody can do that so beautifully as Charles Henry, and you slept
refreshingly throughout.”
“No, no, grenadier,” said the king, “I did not sleep, and I can tell you
to-day all that Charles Henry related.”
“Well, what was it?” said Fritz Kober, with great delight.
The king reflected a moment, and then said, in a soft voice:
“He told of a king who was so fondly loved by a beautiful fairy, that
she changed herself into a sword when the king went to war and helped
him to defeat his enemies! Is that it. Fritz Kober?”
“Nearly so, sir king; I wish you had such a fairy at your side to-day.”
“Still, Fritz,” whispered Charles Henry Buschman, “our king does not
need the help of a fairy; our king can maintain his own cause, and God
is with his sword.”
“Do you truly believe that, my son?” said the king, deeply moved. “Have
you still this great confidence in me? Do you still believe that I can
sustain myself and that God is with me?”
“We have this confidence, and we will never lose it!” cried Charles
Henry, quickly. “Our enemies over there have no Frederick to lead them
on, no commander-in-chief to share with them hunger and thirst, and
danger and fatigue; therefore they cannot love their leaders as we do
ours.”
“And then,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “I am always thinking that
this war is like a battle of the cats and hounds. Sometimes it looks as
if the little cats would get the better of the great bulldogs; they have
sharp claws, and scratch the dogs in the face till they can neither
see nor hear, and must for a while give way; they go off, however, give
themselves a good shake, and open their eyes, and spring forward as
great and strong and full of courage as ever; they seize upon the poor
cats in the nape of the neck and bite them deadly with their strong,
powerful teeth. What care they if the cats do scratch in the mean while?
No, no, sir king, the cats cannot hold out to the end; claws are neither
so strong nor so lasting as teeth.”
“Yes,” said the king, laughing, “but how do you know but our foes over
there are the hounds and we are the little cats?”
“What!” cried Fritz Kober, amazed, “we shall be the cats? No, no, sir
king, we are the great hounds.”
“But how can you prove this?”
“How shall I prove it?” said Fritz Kober, somewhat embarrassed. After
a short pause, he cried out, gayly, “I have it--I will prove it. Those
over there are the cats because they are Russians and Austrians, and do
not serve a king as we do; they have only two empresses, two women. Now,
sir king, am I not right? Women and cats, are they not alike? So those
over there are the cats and we are the bull dogs!”
Frederick was highly amused. “Take care,” said he, “that ‘those over
there’ do not hear you liken their empresses to cats.”
“And if they are empresses,” said Fritz Kober, dryly, “they are still
women, and women are cats.”
The king looked over toward the camp-fires, which were boldly shining on
the horizon.
“How far is it from here to those fires?” said he.
“About an hour,” said Charles Henry, “not more.”
“One hour,” repeated the king, softly. “In one hour, then, I could know
my fate! Listen, children, which of you will go for me?”
Both exclaimed in the same moment, “I will!”
“It is a fearful attempt,” said the king, earnestly; “the Cossacks are
swarming in every direction, and if you escape them, you may be caught
in the camp and shot as spies.”
“I will take care that they shall not recognize me as an enemy,” said
Charles Henry, quietly.
“I also,” said Fritz Kober, zealously. “You stay, Charles Henry, we dare
not both leave the king. You know that only this evening, while upon
the watch, we swore that, even if the whole army of the enemy marched
against us, we would not desert our king, but would stand at our post
as long as there was a drop of blood in our veins or a breath in our
bodies.”
The king laid his hands upon the two soldiers and looked at them with
much emotion. The moon, which stood great and full in the heavens,
lighted up this curious group, and threw three long, dark shadows over
the plain.
“And you have sworn that, my children?” said the king, after a long
pause. “Ah, if all my men thought as you do we would not have been
defeated this day.”
“Sir king, your soldiers all think as we do, but fate was against us.
Just as I said, the cats outnumbered us to-day, but we will bite them
bravely for it next time. And now tell me, sir king, what shall I do
over there in the camp?”
Before the king could answer, Charles Henry laid his hand upon his arm.
“Let me go,” said he, entreatingly; “Fritz Kober is so daring, so
undaunted, he is not cautious; they will certainly shoot him, and then
you have lost the best soldier in your army.”
“Your loss, I suppose, would not be felt; the king can do without you.”
“Listen, children,” said the king, “it is best that you both go; one can
protect the other, and four ears are better than two.”
“The king is right, that is best--we will both go.”
“And leave the king alone and unguarded?”
“No,” said the king, pointing to the two sleepers, “I have my two
adjutants, and they will keep guard for me. Now, listen to what I have
to say to you. Over there is the enemy, and it is most important for
me to know what he is doing, and what he proposes to do. Go, then, and
listen. Their generals have certainly taken up their quarters in the
village. You must ascertain that positively, and then draw near their
quarters. You will return as quickly as possible, and inform me of all
that you hear and see.”
“Is that all?” said Fritz Kober.
“That is all. Now be off, and if you do your duty well, and return fresh
and in good order, you shall be both made officers.” Fritz Kober laughed
aloud. “No, no, sir king, we know that old story already.”
“It is not necessary that you should promise us any thing, your
majesty,” said Charles Henry; “we do not go for a reward, but for
respect and love to our king.”
“But tell me, Fritz Kober, why you laughed so heartily?” said the king.
“Because this is not the first time that your majesty has promised to
make us officers. Before the battle of Leuthen, you said if we were
brave and performed valiant deeds, you would make us officers. Well, we
were brave. Charles Henry took seven prisoners, and I took nine; but we
are not officers.”
“You shall be to-morrow,” said the king. “Now, hasten off, and come back
as quickly as possible.”
“We will leave our muskets here,” said Charles Henry; “we dare not visit
our enemies in Prussian array.”
They placed their arms at the house door, and then clasping each other’s
hands, and making a military salute, they hastened off. The king looked
after them till their slender forms were lost in the distance.
“With fifty thousand such soldiers I could conquer the world,” murmured
he; “they are of the true metal.”
He turned, and stepping up to the two sleepers, touched them lightly on
the shoulders. They sprang up alarmed when they recognized the king.
“You need not excuse yourselves,” said Frederick kindly, “you have had
a day of great fatigue, and are, of course, exhausted. Come into the
house, the night air is dangerous; we will sleep here together.”
“Where are the two grenadiers?” said Goltz.
“I have sent them off on duty.”
“Then your majesty must allow us to remain on guard. I have slept well,
and am entirely refreshed.”
“I also,” said the second lieutenant. “Will your majesty be pleased to
sleep? we will keep guard.”
“Not so,” said the king, “the moon will watch over us all. Come in.”
“But it is impossible that your majesty should sleep thus, entirely
unguarded. The first Cossack that dashes by could take aim at your
majesty through the window.”
Frederick shook his head gravely. “The ball which will strike me will
come from above, [Footnote: The king’s own words.--See Nicolai, p. 118.]
and that you cannot intercept. No, it is better to have no watch before
the door; we will not draw the attention of troops passing by to this
house. I think no one will suppose that this miserable and ruinous
barrack, through which the wind howls, is the residence of a king.
Come, then, messieurs.” He stepped into the hut, followed by the two
adjutants, who dared no longer oppose him. “Put out that light,” said
the king, “the moon will be our torch, and will glorify our bed of
straw.” He drew his sword, and grasping it firmly in his right hand, he
stretched himself upon the straw. “There is room for both of you--lie
down. Good-night, sirs.”
Frederick slightly raised his three-cornered hat in greeting, and then
laid it over his face as a protection from the moonlight and the cold
night air. The adjutants laid down silently at his feet, and soon
no sound was heard in the room but the loud breathing of the three
sleepers.
CHAPTER XIV. THE RIGHT COUNSEL.
Hand in hand the two grenadiers advanced directly toward the
battle-field. Before they could approach the enemy’s camp they must
borrow two Austrian uniforms from the dead upon the plain. It was not
difficult, amongst so many dead bodies, to find two Austrian officers,
and the two Prussian grenadiers went quickly to work to rob the dead and
appropriate their garments.
“I don’t know how it is,” said Charles Henry, shuddering, “a cold chill
thrills through me when I think of putting on a coat which I have just
taken from a dead body. It seems to me the marble chillness of the
corpse will insinuate itself into my whole body, and that I shall never
be warm again.”
Fritz Kober looked up with wide-open eyes! “You have such curious
thoughts, Charles Henry, such as come to no other man; but you are
right, it is a frosty thing.” And now he had removed the uniform and
was about to draw off his own jacket and assume the white coat of the
Austrian. “It is a great happiness,” said he, “that we need not change
our trousers, a little clearer or darker gray can make no difference in
the night.”
Charles Henry was in the act of drawing on the coat of the dead man,
when Fritz Kober suddenly seized his arm and held him back. “Stop,” said
he, “you must do me a favor--this coat is too narrow, and it pinches
me fearfully; you are thinner than I am, and I think it will fit you
exactly; take it and give me yours.” He jerked off the coat and handed
it to his friend.
“No, no, Fritz Kober,” said Charles Henry, in a voice so soft and sweet,
that Fritz was confused and bewildered by it. “No, Fritz, I understand
you fully. You have the heart of an angel; you only pretend that this
coat is too narrow for you that you may induce me to take the one you
have already warmed.”
It was well that Fritz had his back turned to the moon, otherwise his
friend would have seen that his face was crimson; he blushed as if
detected in some wicked act. However, he tore the uniform away from
Charles Henry rather roughly, and hastened to put it on.
“Folly,” said he, “the coat squeezes me, that is all! Besides, it is not
wise to fool away our time in silly talking. Let us go onward.”
“Directly over the battle-field?” said Charles Henry, shuddering.
“Directly over the battle-field,” said Kober, “because that is the
nearest way.”
“Come, then,” said Charles, giving him his hand.
It was indeed a fearful path through which they must walk. They passed
by troops of corpses--by thousands of groaning, rattling, dying men--by
many severely wounded, who cried out to them piteously for mercy and
help! Often Charles Henry hesitated and stood still to offer consolation
to the unhappy wretches, but Fritz Kober drew him on. “We cannot help
them, and we have far to go!” Often the swarming Cossacks, dashing
around on their agile little ponies, called to them from afar off in
their barbarous speech, but when they drew near and saw the Austrian
uniforms, they passed them quietly, and were not surprised they had not
given the pass-word.
At last they passed the battle-field, and came on the open plain, at
the end of which they perceived the camp-fires of the Russians and
Austrians. The nearer they approached, the more lively was the scene.
Shouts, laughter, loud calls, and outcries--from time to time a word of
command. And in the midst of this mad confusion, here and there soldiers
were running, market-women offering them wares cheap, and exulting
soldiers assembling around the camp-fires. From time to time the regular
step of the patrouille was heard, who surrounded the camp, and kept a
watchful eye in every direction.
Arm in arm they passed steadily around the camp. “One thing I know,”
whispered Fritz Kober, “they have no thought of marching. They will pass
a quiet, peaceful night by their camp-fires.”
“I agree with you,” said Charles Henry, “but let us go forward and
listen a little; perhaps we can learn where the generals are quartered.”
“Look, look! it must be there,” said Fritz Kober, hastily.
“There are no camp-fires; but there is a brilliant light in the
peasants’ huts, and it appears to me that I see a guard before the
doors. These, certainly, are the headquarters.”
“Let us go there, then,” said Charles Henry; “but we must approach the
houses from behind, and thus avoid the guard.”
They moved cautiously around, and drew near the houses. Profound quiet
reigned in this neighborhood; it was the reverence of subordination--the
effect which the presence of superior officers ever exercises upon their
men. Here stood groups of officers, lightly whispering together--there
soldiers were leading their masters’ horses; not far off orderlies were
waiting on horseback--sentinels with shouldered arms were going slowly
by. The attention of all seemed to be fixed upon the two small houses,
and every glance and every ear was turned eagerly toward the brilliantly
lighted windows.
“We have hit the mark exactly,” whispered Fritz Kober; he had succeeded
with his friend in forcing his way into the little alley which separated
the two houses. “We have now reached the head-quarters of the generals.
Look! there is an Austrian sentinel with his bear’s cap. Both the
Austrian and Russian generals are here.”
“Let us watch the Russians a little through the window,” said Charles
Henry, slipping forward.
They reached the corner, and were hidden by the trunk of a tree which
overshadowed the huts. Suddenly they heard the word of command, and
there was a general movement among the files of soldiers assembled
about the square. The officers placed themselves in rank, the soldiers
presented arms; for, at this moment, the Austrian General Loudon,
surrounded by his staff, stepped from one of the small houses into the
square. The Cossacks, who were crouched down on the earth before the
door, raised themselves, and also presented arms.
While Loudon stood waiting, the two Prussian grenadiers slipped slyly to
the other hut.
“Let us go behind,” whispered Charles Henry. “There are no sentinels
there, and perhaps we may find a door, and get into the house.”
Behind the hut was a little garden whose thick shrubs and bushes gave
complete concealment to the two grenadiers. Noiselessly they sprang
over the little fence, and made a reconnoissance of the terrain--unseen,
unnoticed, they drew near the house. As they stepped from behind
the bushes, Fritz Kober seized his friend’s arm, and with difficulty
suppressed a cry of joy.
The scene which was presented to them was well calculated to rejoice the
hearts of brave soldiers. They had reached the goal, and might now hope
to fulfil the wishes of their king. The quarters of the Russian general
were plainly exposed to them. In this great room, which was evidently
the ball-room of the village, at a long oak-table, in the middle of the
room, sat General Soltikow, and around him sat and stood the generals
and officers. At the door, half a dozen Cossacks were crouching, staring
sleepily on the ground. The room was brilliantly illuminated with
wax-lights, and gave the two grenadiers an opportunity of seeing it in
every part. Fate appeared to favor them in every way, and gave them an
opportunity to hear as well as see. The window on the garden was opened
to give entrance to the cool night air, and near it there was a thick
branch of a tree in which a man could conceal himself.
“Look there,” said Charles Henry, “I will hide in that tree. We will
make our observations from different stand-points. Perhaps one of us may
see what escapes the other. Let us attend closely, that we may tell all
to our king.”
No man in this room guessed that in the silent little garden four
flashing eyes were observing all that passed.
At the table sat the Russian commander-in-chief, surrounded by his
generals and officers. Before him lay letters, maps, and plans, at which
he gazed from time to time, while he dictated an account of the battle
to the officer sitting near him, Soltikow was preparing a dispatch
for the Empress Elizabeth. A few steps farther off, in stiff military
bearing, stood the officers who were giving in their reports, and whose
statements brought a dark cloud to the brow of the victorious commander.
Turning with a hasty movement of the head to the small man with the
gold-embroidered uniform and the stiffly-frizzed wig, he said--
“Did you hear that, sir marquis? Ten thousand of my brave soldiers lie
dead upon the battle-field, and as many more are severely wounded.”
“It follows then,” said the Marquis Montalembert, the French
commissioner between the courts of Vienna, Petersburg, and Paris, “it
follows then, that the king of Prussia has forty thousand dead and
wounded, and, consequently, his little army is utterly destroyed.”
“Who knows?” said Soltikow; “the king of Prussia is accustomed to sell
his defeats dearly. I should not be at all surprised if he had lost
fewer soldiers than we have.” [Footnote: Soltikow’s own words--See
Archenholtz, p 206.] “Well, I think he has now nothing more to lose,”
said the marquis, laughing; “it rests with you to give the last coup de
grace to this conquered and flying king, and forever prevent--”
The entrance of an officer interrupted him. The officer announced
General von Loudon.
Soltikow arose, and advanced to the door to welcome the Austrian
general. A proud smile was on his face as he gave his hand to Loudon; he
did this with the air of a gracious superior who wished to be benevolent
to his subordinate.
The quick, firm glance of Loudon seemed to read the haughty heart of
his ally, and, no doubt for this reason, he scarcely touched Soltikow’s
hand. With erect head and proud step he advanced into the middle of the
room.
“I resolved to come to your excellency,” said Loudon, in a sharp,
excited tone; “you have a large room, while in my hut I could scarcely
find accommodation for you and your adjutants.”
“You come exactly at the right hour,” said Soltikow, with a haughty
smile; “you see, we were about to hold a council of war, and consider
what remains to be done.”
A dark and scornful expression was seen in Loudon’s countenance, and his
eyes rested fiercely upon the smiling face of Soltikow.
“Impossible, general! you could not have held a council of war without
me,” said he, angrily.
“Oh, be composed, general,” said Soltikow, smiling, “I would, without
doubt, have informed you immediately of our conclusions.”
“I suppose you could not possibly have come to any conclusion in my
absence,” said Loudon, the veins in whose forehead began to swell.
Soltikow bowed low, with the same unchanged and insolent smile.
“Let us not dispute about things which have not yet taken place, your
excellency. The council of war had not commenced, but now that you are
here, we may begin. Allow me, however, first to sign these dispatches
which I have written to my gracious sovereign, announcing the victory
which the Russian troops have this day achieved over the army of the
King of Prussia.”
“Ah, general, this time I am in advance of you,” cried Loudon; “the
dispatches are already sent off in which I announced to my empress the
victory which the Austrian troops gained over the Prussians.”
Soltikow threw his head back scornfully, and his little gray eyes
flashed at the Austrian.
Loudon went on, calmly: “I assure your excellency that enthusiasm at
our glorious victory has made me eloquent. I pictured to my empress
the picturesque moment in which the conquering Prussians were rushing
forward to take possession of the batteries deserted by the flying
Russians, at which time the Austrian horsemen sprang, as it were, from
the ground, checked the conquerors, and forced them back; and by deeds
of lionlike courage changed the fate of the day.”
While Loudon, seeming entirely cool and careless, thus spoke, the face
of the Russian general was lurid with rage. Panting for breath, he
pressed his doubled fist upon the table.
Every one looked at him in breathless excitement and horror--all knew
his passionate and unrestrained rage. But the Marquis Montalembert
hastened to prevent this outburst of passion, and before Soltikow found
breath to speak, he turned with a gay and conciliating expression to
Loudon.
“If you have painted the battle of to-day so much in detail,” said he,
“you have certainly not forgotten to depict the gallant conduct of
the Russian troops to describe that truly exalted movement, when the
Russians threw themselves to the earth, as if dead, before advancing
columns of the Prussian army, and allowed them to pass over them; then,
springing up, shot them in the back.” [Footnote: Archenholtz, Seven
Years’ War, p. 257.]