To one of these grottoes Louise now led her husband. “We will rest here

awhile,” said she. “This grotto has one advantage--it lies at the corner

of the wall and has but one open side, and leafy bushes are thickly

grouped about it. We have no listeners to fear, and may chat

together frankly and harmlessly. And now, first of all, welcome, my

husband--welcome to your home!”

“God be thanked, Louise--God be thanked that you have at last known how

to speak one earnest word, and welcome me to your side! Believe me, when

I say that through all these weary years, each day I have rejoiced

at the thought of this moment. It has been my refreshment and my

consolation. I truly believe that the thought of you and my ardent

desire to see you was a talisman which kept death afar off. It seemed

to me impossible to die without seeing you once more. I had a firm

conviction that I would live through the war and return to you. Thus

I defied the balls of the enemy, and have returned to repose on your

heart, my beloved wife--after the storms and hardships of battle to fold

you fondly in my arms and never again to leave you.” He threw his arms

around her waist, and pressed his lips with a tender kiss upon her

mouth.

Louise suffered this display of tenderness for one moment, then slipped

lightly under his arms and retreated a few steps.

“Do you know,” said she, with a low laugh, “that was a true, respectable

husband’s kiss; without energy and without fire; not too cold, not too

warm--the tepid, lukewarm tenderness of a husband who really loves his

wife, and might be infatuated about her, if she had not the misfortune

to be his wife?”

“Ah! you are still the old Louise,” said the major merrily; “still the

gay, coquettish, unsteady butterfly, who, with its bright, variegated

wings, knows how to escape, even when fairly caught in the toils. I love

you just as you are, Louise; I rejoice to find you just what I left you.

You will make me young again, child; by your side I will learn again

to laugh and be happy. We have lost the power to do either amidst the

fatigues and hardships of our rude campaigns.”

“Yes, yes,” said Louise; “we dismissed you, handsome, well-formed

cavaliers, and you return to us clumsy, growling bears; good-humored but

savage pets, rather too willing to learn again to dance and sing. The

only question is, will the women consent to become bear-leaders, and

teach the uncultivated pets their steps?”

“Well, they will be obliged to do this,” said the major, laughing. “It

is their duty.”

“Dear friend, if you begin already to remind us of our duty, I fear your

cause is wholly lost. Come, let us sit here awhile upon this grass plot

and talk together.”

“Yes, you will be seated, but I do not see exactly why we should talk

together. I would much rather close your laughing, rosy lips with

kisses.” He drew her to his side, and was about to carry out this

purpose, but Louise waved him off.

“If you do not sit perfectly quiet by my side,” said she, “I will unfold

the gay wings, of which you have just spoken, and fly far away!”

“Well, then, I will sit quietly; but may I not be permitted to ask my

shy prudish mistress why I must do so?”

“Why? Well, because I wish to give my savage pet his first lecture after

his return. The lecture begins thus: When a man remains absent from

his wife seven years, he has no right to return as a calm, confident,

self-assured husband, with his portion of home-baked tenderness; he

should come timidly, as a tender, attentive, enamoured cavalier,

who woos his mistress and draws near to her humbly, tremblingly, and

submissively--not looking upon her as his wife, but as the fair lady

whose love he may hope to win.”

“But why, Louise, should we take refuge in such dissimulation, when we

are assured of your love?”

“You are assured of nothing! How can you be so artless as to believe

that these seven years have passed by and left no trace, and that we

feel exactly to-day as we did before this fearful war? When you have

opened the door and given liberty to the bird whose wings you have cut,

and whose wild heart you have tamed in a cage; when the captive flies

out into the fresh, free air of God, floats merrily along in the midst

of rejoicing, laughing Nature--will he, after years have passed, will

lie, if you shall please to wish once more to imprison him, return

willingly to his cage? I believe you would have to entice him a long

time--to whisper soft, loving, flattering words, and place in the cage

the rarest dainties before you could induce him to yield up his golden

freedom, and to receive you once more as his lord and master. But if you

seek to arrest him with railing and threats--with wise and grave essays

on duty and constancy--he will swing himself on the lofty branch of a

tree, so high that you cannot follow, and whistle at you!”

“You are right, I believe,” said Du Trouffle, thoughtfully. “I see

to-day a new talent in you, Louise; you have become a philosopher.”

“Yes, and I thirst to bring my wisdom to bear against a man,” said

Louise, laughingly. “I hope you will profit by it! Perhaps it may

promote your happiness, and enable you to recapture your bird. You

will not at least make shipwreck on the breakers against which the good

prince dashed his head to-day: he was wounded and bleeding, and will

carry the mark upon his brow as long as he lives.”

“What has he done which justifies so melancholy a prognostication?”

“What has he done? He returned to his wife, not as a lover but as

a husband; he did not kiss her hand tremblingly and humbly and

timidly--seek to read in her glance if she were inclined to favor him;

he advanced with the assurance of a conquering hero, and before the

whole world he gave her a loud, ringing kiss, which resounded like the

trump of victory. The good prince thought that because the outside

war was at an end and you had made peace with your enemies, all other

strifes and difficulties had ceased, and you had all entered upon an

epoch of everlasting happiness; that, by the sides of your fond and

faithful wives, you had nothing to do but smoke the calumet of peace.

But he made a great and dangerous mistake, and he will suffer for it. I

tell you, friend, the war which you have just closed was less difficult,

less alarming than the strife which will now be carried on in your

families. The wicked foe has abandoned the battle-field to you, but he

is crouched down upon your hearths and awaits you at the sides of your

wives and daughters.”

“Truly, Louise, your words, make me shudder! and my heart, which was

beating so joyfully, seems now to stand still.”

Louise paid no attention to his words, but went on:

“You say the war is at an end. I believe it has just begun. It will be

carried on fiercely in every house, in every family; many hearts will

break, many wounds be given, and many tears be shed before we snail have

household peace. All those fond ties which united men and women,

parents and children, have been shaken, or torn apart; all contracts

are destroyed or undermined. In order to endure, to live through

these fearful seven years, every one gave himself up to frivolity--the

terrible consequence is, that the whole world has become light-minded

and frivolous. We do not look upon life with the same eyes as formerly.

To enjoy the present moment--to snatch that chance of happiness from

the fleeting hour, which the next hour is chasing and may utterly

destroy--seems the only aim. Love is an amusement, constancy a phantom,

in which no one believes--which is only spoken of in nursery fairy

tales. The women have learned, by experience, that their husbands and

lovers did not die of longing to see them; that they themselves, after

the tears of separation, which perhaps flowed freely a long time, were

once quenched, could live on alone; that independence had its bright

side and was both agreeable and comfortable. The history of the widow

of Ephesus is repeated every day, my friend. The women wept and were

melancholy a long time after the separation from their husbands, but

at last they could not close their ears to the sweet, soft words of

consolation which were whispered to them; at last they realized that

incessant weeping and mourning had its wearisome and monotonous

side, that the dreary time flew more swiftly if they sought to amuse

themselves and be happy. They allowed themselves to be comforted, in the

absence of their husbands, by their lovers, and they felt no reproach

of conscience; for they were convinced that their truant husbands were

doing the same thing in their long separation--were making love to ‘the

lips that were near.’”

“Did you think and act thus, Louisa?” said Major du Trouffle, in a sad

and anxious tone, looking his wife firmly in the eye.

Louisa laughed with calm and unconcern.

“My friend,” said she, “would I have told all this to you, if I had

committed the faults I charge upon others? I have been inactive but

observant; that has been my amusement, my only distraction, and my

observations have filled me with amazement and abhorrence. I have drawn

from these sources profound and philosophic lessons. I have studied

mankind, and with full conviction I can assure you the war is not at

an end, and, instead of the palm of peace, the apple of discord will

flourish. Men no longer believe in constancy or honesty, every man

suspects his neighbor and holds him guilty, even as he knows himself to

be guilty. Every woman watches the conduct of other women with malicious

curiosity; she seems to herself less guilty when she finds that others

are no better than herself; and when, unhappily, she does not find that

her friend is false or faithless, she will try to make her appear so; if

the truth will not serve her purpose, she will, by slander and scandal,

draw a veil over her own sins. Never was there as much treachery and

crime as now. Calumny stands before every door, and will whisper such

evil and fearful things in the ears of every returned soldier, that

he will become wild with rage, and distrust his wife, no matter how

innocent she may be.”

“I shall not be guilty of this fault,” said Major du Trouffle. “If I

find slander lying in wait at my door, I will kick it from me and enter

my home calmly and smilingly, without having listened to her whispers,

or, if I have heard them involuntarily, without believing them.”

“Then there will be at least one house in Berlin where peace will

reign,” said Louise, sweetly, “and that house will be ours. I welcome

you in the name of our lares, who have been long joyfully awaiting you.

I have also an agreeable surprise for you.”

“What surprise, Louise?”

“You often told me that my daughter Camilla disturbed your happiness,

that she stood like a dark cloud over my past, which had not belonged to

you.”

“It is true! I could not force my heart to love her; her presence

reminded me always that you had been loved by another, had belonged to

another, and had been made thoroughly wretched.”

“Well then, friend, this cloud has been lifted up, and this is the

surprise which awaited your return home. Camilla has been married more

than a year.”

“Married’” cried the major, joyfully; “who is the happy man that has

undertaken to tame this wilful child, and warm her cold heart?”

“Ask rather, who is the unhappy man who was enamoured with this lovely

face, and has taken a demon for an angel?” sighed Louise. “He is a

young, distinguished, and wealthy Englishman, Lord Elliot, an attache

of the English embassy, who fulfilled the duties of minister during

the absence of the ambassador, Lord Mitchel, who was generally at the

headquarters of the king.”

“And Camilla, did she love him?”

Louise shrugged her shoulders.

“When he made his proposals, she declared herself ready to marry him;

but, I believe, his presence was less agreeable and interesting to her

than the splendid gifts he daily brought her.”

“But, Louise, it was her free choice to marry him? You did not persuade

her? you did not, I hope, in order to humor my weakness, induce her by

entreaties and representations to marry against her will?”

“My friend,” said Louise, with the proud air of an injured mother,

“however fondly I may have loved you, I would not have sacrificed for

you the happiness of an only child. Camilla asked my consent to her

marriage after she had obtained her father’s permission, and I gave it.

The marriage took place three days after the engagement, and the young

pair made a bridal-trip to England, from which they returned a few

months since.”

“And where are they now?”

“They live in Berlin in an enchanting villa, which Lord Elliot has

converted into a palace for his young wife. You will see them this

evening, for they are both here, and--”

Louise ceased to speak; a well-known voice interrupted the silence, and

drew nearer and nearer. “Ah,” whispered she, lightly, “the proverb is

fulfilled, ‘Speak of the wolf, and he appears.’ That is Lord Elliot and

Camilla speaking with such animation. Let us listen awhile.”

The youthful pair had now drawn near, and stood just before the grotto.

“I find it cruel, very cruel, to deny me every innocent pleasure,” said

Camilla, with a harsh, displeased voice. “I must live like a nun who has

taken an eternal vow; I am weary of it.”

“Oh, my Camilla, you slander yourself when you say this; you are not

well, and you must be prudent. I know you better than you know yourself,

my Camilla. Your heart, which is clear and transparent as crystal, lies

ever unveiled before me, and I listen with devout love to its every

pulse. I am sure that you do not wish to dance to-day, my love.”

“I wish to dance, and I will dance, because it gives me pleasure.”

“Because you are like a sweet child and like the angels,” said Lord

Elliot, eagerly; “your heart is gay and innocent. You are like a

fluttering Cupid, sleeping in flower-cups and dreaming of stars and

golden sunshine; you know nothing of earthly and prosaic thoughts. I

must bind your wings, my beauteous butterfly, and hold you down in the

dust of this poor, pitiful world. Wait, only wait till you are well;

when your health is restored, you shall be richly repaid for all your

present self-denial. Every day I will procure you new pleasures, prepare

you new _fetes_; you shall dance upon carpets of roses like an elfin

queen.”

“You promise me that?” said Camilla; “you promise me that you will not

prevent my dancing as much and as gayly as I like?”

“I promise you all this, Camilla, if you will only not dance now.”

“Well,” sighed she, “I agree to this; but I fear that my cousin, Count

Kindar, will be seriously displeased if I suddenly refuse him the dance

I promised him.”

“He will excuse you, sweetheart, when I beg him to do so,” said Lord

Elliot, with a soft smile. “I will seek him at once, and make your

excuses. Be kind enough to wait for me here, I will return immediately.”

He kissed her fondly upon the brow, and hastened off.

Camilla looked after him and sighed deeply; then, drawing back the long

leaves of the palm, she entered the grotto; she stepped hastily back

when she saw that the green divan was occupied, and tried to withdraw,

but her mother held her and greeted her kindly. Camilla laughed aloud.

“Ah, mother, it appears as if I am to be ever in your way; although I

no longer dwell in your house, I still disturb your pleasures. But I am

discreet; let your friend withdraw; I will not see him, I will not know

his name, and when my most virtuous husband returns, he will find only

two modest gentlewomen. Go, sir; I will turn away, that I may not see

you.”

“I rather entreat you, my dear Camilla, to turn your lovely face toward

me, and to greet me kindly,” said Major du Trouffle, stepping from

behind the shadow of the palm, and giving his hand to Camilla.

She gazed at him questioningly, and when at last she recognized him, she

burst out into a merry peal of laughter. “Truly,” said she, “my mother

had a rendezvous with her husband, and I have disturbed an enchanting

marriage chirping. You have also listened to my married chirp, and know

all my secrets. Well, what do you say, dear stepfather, to my mother

having brought me so soon under the coif, and made her wild, foolish

little Camilla the wife of a lord?”

“I wish you happiness with my whole soul, dear Camilla, and rejoice to

hear from your mother that you have made so excellent a choice, and are

the wife of so amiable and intellectual a man.”

“So, does mamma say that Lord Elliot is all that? She may be right,

I don’t understand these things. I know only that I find his lordship

unspeakably wearisome, that I do not understand a word of his

intellectual essays, though my lord declares that I know every thing,

that I understand every thing, and have a most profound intellect.

Ah, dear stepfather, it is a terrible misfortune to be so adored and

worshipped as I am; I am supposed to be an angel, who by some rare

accident has fallen upon the earth.”

“Truly a misfortune, for which all other women would envy you,” said the

major, laughing.

“Then they would make a great mistake,” sighed Camilla. “I for my part

am weary of this homage; I have no desire to be, I will not consent

to be an angel; I wish only to be a beautiful, rich young woman and to

enjoy my life--. Do what I will, my husband looks at every act of folly

from an ideal stand-point, and finds thus new material for worship; he

will force me at last to some wild, insane act in order to convince him

that I am no angel, but a weak child of earth.”

“You were almost in the act of committing such a folly this evening,”

said her mother, sternly.

“Ah, you mean that I wished to dance. But only think, mamma, with whom I

wished to dance, with my cousin, whom all the world calls ‘the handsome

Kindar,’ and who dances so gloriously, that it is a delight to see him,

and bliss to float about with him. He only returned this evening, and

he came at once to me and greeted me so lovingly, so tenderly; you know,

mamma, we have always loved each other fondly. When I told him I was

married, he turned pale and looked at me so sorrowfully, and tears were

in his eyes. Oh, mamma, why was I obliged to wed Lord Elliot, who is

so grave, so wise, so learned, so virtuous, and with whom it is ever

wearisome? Why did you not let me wait till Kindar returned, who is

so handsome, so gay, so ignorant, before whom I should never have been

forced to blush, no matter how foolish I had been, and with whom I

should never have been weary?”

“But how did you know that the handsome Kindar wished to marry you?”

said Louise, laughing.

“Oh, yes, mamma, I knew it well; he has often told me so, even when I

was a little girl and he was a cadet. This dreadful war is the cause of

all my misery; it led to his promotion, then he must join his regiment;

then, alas! I must marry another before his return.”

“Yes, but a noble, intellectual, and honorable cavalier, who does honor

to your choice,” said Du Trouffle.

“Lord Elliot has red hair, squints with both eyes, and is so long and

meagre that he looks more like an exclamation-point than a man. When

he appears before me in his yellow-gray riding costume, I am always

reminded of the great windspeil you gave me once, stepfather, who had

such long, high legs, I used to creep under them; and when he lies like

a windspeil at my feet, and squints at me, his eyes seem tied up in

knots, and I never know if he is really looking at me, or is about to

fall into a swoon. Now, stepfather, do you not find that Lord Elliot

does honor to my taste?”

“Certainly, and all the more because your choice proves that you

appreciate the true dignity and beauty of a man, and his outward

appearance seems to you comparatively insignificant.”

“Alas, alas! now you begin also to attribute noble and exalted motives

to me,” said Camilla pathetically. “No, no, stepfather, I am not so

sublime as you think, and I should not have married Lord Elliot if mamma

and myself had not both indulged the ardent wish to be released from

each other. Mamma is too young and too beautiful to be willing to have

a grown-up daughter who is not ugly by her side, and I was too old to

be locked up any longer in the nursery, so I stepped literally from the

nursery to the altar, and became the wife of Lord Elliot; so mamma and

myself were freed from the presence of each other, and I thought that

a time of joy and liberty would bloom for me. But, alas, I have only

changed my cage; formerly I was confined in a nursery, now my prison is

a temple, because my husband says I am too elevated, too angelic to come

in contact with the pitiful world. Ah. I long so for the world; I am so

thirsty for its pleasures, I would so gladly take full draughts of joy

from its golden cup! My husband comes and offers me a crystal shell,

filled with heavenly dew and ether dust, which is, I suppose, angels’

food, but he does not remark that I am hungering and thirsting to death.

Like King Midas, before whose thirsty lips every thing turned to gold,

and who was starving in the midst of all his glory, I beseech you,

stepfather, undertake the role of the barber, bore a hole and cry out in

it that I have ass’s ears--ears as long as those of King Midas. Perhaps

the rushes would grow again and make known to my lord the simple fact,

which up to this time he refuses to believe, that I am indeed no angel,

and he would cease to worship me, and allow me to be gay and happy upon

the earth like every other woman. But come, come, stepfather, I hear

the earnest voice of my husband in conversation with my merry, handsome

cousin. Let us go to meet them, and grant me the pleasure of introducing

Lord Elliot to you--not here, but in the brilliantly lighted saloon.

Afterward I will ask you, on your word of honor, if you still find I

have made a happy choice, and if my windspeil of a husband is of more

value than my handsome cousin?”

She took the arm of the major with a gay smile, and tried to draw him

forward.

“But your mother,” said Du Trouffle, “you forget your mother?”

“Listen now, mamma, how cruel he is, always reminding you that you are

my mother; that is as much as to say to you, in other words, that you

will soon be a grandmother. Mamma, I could die of laughter to think of

you as a grandmother. I assure you, mamma, that in the midst of all my

sorrows and disappointments this thought is the only thing which diverts

and delights me. Only think, I shall soon make you a worthy grandmother.

Say now, grandmother, will you come with us?”

“No, I will remain here, your gayety has made me sad--I do not feel

fit for society. I will await my husband here, and we will return to

Berlin.”

“Adieu, then, mamma,” said Camilla, rapidly drawing the major onward.

Louise du Trouffle remained alone in the grotto; she leaned her head

against the palm-tree, and looked sorrowfully after the retreating form

of her daughter. It seemed to her that a shudder passed through her

soul; that a cold, dead hand was laid upon her heart, as if a phantom

pressed against her, and a voice whispered: “This is thy work. Oh,

mother worthy of execration, you alone have caused the destruction of

your daughter; through you that soul is lost, which God intrusted to

you, and which was endowed with the germ of great and noble qualities.

It was your duty to nourish and build them up. God will one day call you

to account, and ask this precious soul of you, which you have poisoned

by your evil example, which is lost--lost through you alone.”

Louise shuddered fearfully, then rousing herself she tried to shake off

these fearful thoughts, and free herself from the stern voices which

mastered her. They had so often spoken, so often awaked her in the

middle of the night, driven sleep from her couch, and tortured her

conscience with bitter reproaches!

Louise knew well this gray phantom which was ever behind her or at her

side; ever staring at her with dark and deadly earnestness, even in the

midst of her mirth and joyousness; the harsh voice was often so loud

that Louise was bewildered by it, and could not hear the ring of joy

and rapture which surrounded her. She knew that this pale spectre

was conscience; press it down as she would, the busy devil was ever

mounting, mounting. But she would not listen, she rushed madly on after

new distractions, new pleasures; she quenched the warning voice under

shouts of mirth and levity; she threw herself in the arms of folly and

worldly pleasures, and then for long months she escaped this threatening

phantom, which, with raised finger, stood behind her, which seemed

to chase her, and from which she ever fled to new sins and new guilt.

Sometimes she had a feeling as if Death held her in his arms, and turned

her round in a wild and rapid dance, not regarding her prayers, or her

panting, gasping breath; she would, oh how gladly, have rested; gladly

have laid down in some dark and quiet corner, away from this wild

gayety. But she could not escape from those mysterious arms which held

her captive in their iron clasp, which rushed onward with her in the

death-dance of sin. She must go onward, ever onward, in this career of

vice; she must ever again seek intoxication in the opium of sin, to save

herself from the barren, colorless nothingness which awaited her; from

that worst of all evils, the weariness with which the old coquette

paints the terrible future, in which even she can no longer please; in

which old age with a cruel hand sweeps away the flowers from the hair

and the crimson from the cheek, and points out to the mocking world the

wrinkles on the brow and the ashes in the hair.

“It is cold here,” said Louise, shuddering, and springing up quickly

from the grass-plot--“it is cold here, and lonely; I will return to the

saloon. Perhaps--”

Hasty steps drew near, and a voice whispered her name. Madame du

Trouffle drew back, and a glowing blush suffused her cheek, and as she

advanced from the grotto she was again the gay, imperious coquette--the

beautiful woman, with the cloudless brow and the sparkling eyes,

which seemed never to have been over-shadowed by tears. The

conscience-stricken, self-accusing mother was again the worldly-wise

coquette.

Her name was called the second time, and her heart trembled, she knew

not if with joy or horror.

“For God’s sake, why have you dared to seek me here? Do you not know

that my husband may return at any moment?”

“Your husband is entertaining Prince Henry while the princess dances the

first waltz with Count Kalkreuth. All the world is dancing, playing, and

chatting, and, while looking at the prince and princess, have for one

moment forgotten the beautiful Louise du Trouffle. I alone could not do

this, and as I learned from Lady Elliot that you were here, I dared

to follow you, and seek in one glance a compensation for what I have

endured this day. Ah, tell me, worshipped lady, must I be forever

banished from your presence.”

The words of the young man would have seemed insincere and artificial to

every unprejudiced ear, but they filled the heart of the vain Louise du

Trouffle with joy; they convinced her that she was yet beautiful enough

to excite admiration.

“All will be well, Emil,” said she; “I have convinced my husband that

I am wise as Cato and virtuous as Lucretia. He believes in me, and will

cast all slander from his door. Remain here, and let me return alone to

the saloon. Au revoir, man ami.”

She threw him a kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers, and hastened

away.

CHAPTER IV. THE KING IN SANS-SOUCI. The ceremonies and festivities of

the reception were ended. The king could at length indulge himself in

that quiet and repose which he had so long vainly desired. At length, he

who had lived so many years to perform the duties of a king, who had

in reality lived for his country, might after so many cares and

sorrows seek repose. The warrior and hero might once more become the

philosopher; might once more enjoy with his friends the pleasure of

science and art.

The king entered the carriage which was to bear him to Sans-Souci with

a beaming countenance--his deeply-loved Sans-Souci, which had seemed a

golden dream to him during the dreary years of the war--a bright goal

before him, of which it consoled and strengthened him even to think.

Now he would again behold it; now he would again enter those beautiful

rooms, and the past would once more become a reality.

He seemed enraptured with the road which led him to Sans-Souci. Every

tree, every stone appeared to welcome him, and when the palace became

visible, he was entirely overcome by his emotions, and sank back in his

carriage with closed eyes.

The Marquis d’Argens, however, the only one who had been allowed to

accompany the king in this drive, sprang from his seat, and waving his

hat in greeting, exclaimed:

“I greet you, Sans-Souci, you temple of wisdom and happiness! Open wide

your portals, for your lord is returning to you. Let your walls resound

as did Memnon’s pillar, when the sun’s rays first greeted it, after a

long night. Your night is passed, Sans-Souci; you will be again warmed

by the sunbeams from your master’s eyes!”

The king smilingly drew his enthusiastic friend back to his seat.

“You are, and always will be a child--an overgrown child.”

“Sire,” said D’Argens, “that is because I am pious. It is written, ‘If

you do not become as little children you cannot enter the kingdom of

heaven!’ Now, Sans-Souci is my kingdom! I have become as the children,

that I might be received at the side of my king, and begin once more the

days of happiness.”

The king gently shook his head. “Oh, I fear, my friend, that the days of

happiness will not recommence; the sun which once illumined Sans-Souci

has set. Our lips have forgotten how to smile, and joy is dead in our

hearts. How many illusions, how many hopes and wishes I still indulged,

when I last descended the steps of Sans-Souci; how poor, and weak, and

depressed I shall feel in ascending them!”

“What? your majesty poor! You who return so rich in fame, crowned with

imperishable laurels?”

“Ah, marquis, these laurels are bathed in blood, and paid for bitterly

and painfully with the lives of many thousands of my subjects. The

wounds are still gaping which my land received during the war, and they

will require long years to heal. Do not speak to me of my laurels; fame

is but cold and sorrowful food! In order to prize fame, one should lay

great weight on the judgment of men; I have lost all faith in them.

Too many bitter experiences have at length destroyed my faith and

confidence. I can no longer love mankind, for I have ever found them

small, miserable, and crafty. Those for whom I have done most have

betrayed and deceived me the most deeply. Think of Chafgotch, he whom

I called friend, and who betrayed me in the hour of danger! Remember

Warkotch, whom I preferred to so many others, whom I overloaded with

proofs of my love, and who wished to betray and murder me! Think of the

many attempts against my life, which were always undertaken by those

whom I had trusted and benefited! Think of these things, marquis, and

then tell me if I should still love and trust mankind!”

“It is true, sire,” said the marquis, sadly; “your majesty has had

a wretched experience, and mankind must appear small to you, who are

yourself so great. The eagle which soars proudly toward the sun, must

think the world smaller and smaller, the higher he soars; the objects

which delight us poor earth-worms, who are grovelling in the dust, and

mistake an atom floating in the sunshine for the sun itself, must indeed

appear insignificant to you.”

“Do not flatter me, marquis! Let us, when together, hear a little of

that truth which is so seldom heard among men, and of which the name

is scarcely known to kings. You flattered me, because you had not the

courage to answer my question concerning the unworthiness of mankind,

when I said I could no longer love or trust them! You feel, however,

that I am right, and you will know how to pardon me, when I appear

to the world as a cold, hard-hearted egotist. It is true my heart has

become hardened in the fire of many and deep sufferings! I loved mankind

very dearly, marquis; perhaps that is the reason I now despise them so

intensely; because I know they are not worthy of my love!”

“But, sire, you love them still; for your heart is possessed of that

Godlike quality--mercy--which overlooks and pardons the faults and

failings of mankind. Intolerance is not in the nature of my king, and

forgiveness and mercy are ever on his lips.”

“I will endeavor to verify your words, dear friend,” said the king,

offering D’Argens his hand. “And should I not succeed, you must forgive

me, and remember how deeply I have suffered, and that my heart is

hardened by the scars of old wounds. But I will indulge such sad

thoughts no longer. Only look how Sans-Souci gleams before us! Every

window which glitters in the sunlight seems to greet me with shining

eyes, and the whispering leaves appear to bid me welcome. There are the

windows of my library, and behind them await the great spirits of my

immortal friends, who look at me and shake their gray heads at the

weak child who has returned to them old and bowed down. Csesar looks

smilingly at the laurels I have brought, and Virgil shakes his curly

locks, and lightly hums one of his divine songs, which are greater than

all my victories. Come, marquis, come! we will go, in all modesty and

humility to these gifted spirits, and entreat them not to despise us,

because we are so unlike them.”

As the carriage reached the lowest terrace, Frederick sprang out with

the elasticity of youth, and began to ascend the steps so lightly and

rapidly, that the marquis could scarcely follow him.

From time to time the king stood still, and gazed around him, and then

a bright smile illumined his countenance, and his eyes beamed with

pleasure. Then hastening onward, he turned his head toward the house

that looked so still and peaceful, and seemed, with its open doors,

ready to welcome him.

At length, having reached the summit, he turned once more with beaming

eyes to look at the lovely landscape which was spread before him

in smiling luxuriousness. He then hastily entered the house and the

beautiful room in which he had spent so many gay and happy hours with

his friends. Now his footsteps echoed in the lonely room, and none of

his friends were there to welcome the returning king--none but D’Argens,

the dearest, the most faithful of all.

The king now turned to him, and a shadow overspread his countenance,

which had been so bright.

“D’Argens,” he said, “we are very poor; the most of our friends have

left us forever. The prior of Sans-Souci has returned, but his monks

have all left him but you, marquis!”

“Does your majesty forget my Lord Marshal, the most amiable and

intellectual of your monks? It needs but a sign from his beloved prior

to recall him from Neufchatel!”

“It is true,” said the king, smiling; “I am not so deserted as I

thought. Lord Marshal must return to us, and he must live here in

Sans-Souci, as you will. I must surround myself with those who deserve

my confidence; perhaps, then, I can forget how bitterly I have been

deceived by others. Come, marquis, give me your arm, and we will make a

tour of these rooms.”

He placed his hand upon the arm of the marquis, and they passed through

the silent, deserted rooms, which seemed to greet the king with a

thousand remembrances. Perhaps it was that he might the more distinctly

hear the whispers of memory that he had commanded that no one should

receive him in Sans-Souci, that no servant should appear until called

for. Without noise or ceremony, he desired to take possession of this

house, in which he had not been the king, but the philosopher and poet.

He wished to return here, at least, as if he had only yesterday left the

house. But the seven years of care and sorrow went with him; they crept

behind him into these silent, deserted halls. He recognized them in the

faded furniture, in the dusty walls, and in the darkened pictures. They

were not merely around, but within him, and he again felt how utterly he

had changed in these years.

As they entered the room which Voltaire had occupied, Frederick’s

countenance was again brightened by a smile, while that of the marquis

assumed a dark and indignant expression.

“Ah, marquis, I see from your countenance that you are acquainted with

all the monkey-tricks of my immortal friend,” said the king, gayly;

“and you are indignant that so great a genius as Voltaire should have

possessed so small a soul! You think it very perfidious in Voltaire to

have joined my enemies when I was in trouble, and then to send me his

congratulations if I happened to win a victory!”

“Does your majesty know that also?” asked the astonished marquis.

“Dear marquis, have we not always good friends and servants, who take

a pleasure in telling bad news, and informing us of those things which

they know it will give us pain to hear? Even kings have such friends,

and mine eagerly acquainted me with the fact that Voltaire wished all

manner of evil might befall his friend ‘Luc,’ as it pleased him to

call me. Did he not write to D’Argental that he desired nothing more

fervently than my utter humiliation and the punishment of my sins, on

the same day on which he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in

honor of my victory at Leuthen? Did he not write on another occasion to

Richelieu, that the happiest day of his life would be that on which the

French entered Berlin as conquerors, and destroyed the capital of

the treacherous king who dared to write to him twice every month the

tenderest and most flattering things, without dreaming of reinstating

him as chamberlain with the pension of six thousand thalers? He wished

that I might suffer ‘la damnation eternelle,’ and proudly added. ‘Vous

voyez, que dans la tragedie je veux toujours que le crime soit puni.’”

“Yes,” replied D’Argens, “and at the same time he wrote here to Formay:

‘Votre roi est toujours un homme unique, etonnant, inimitable; il fait

des vers charmants dans de temps ou un autre ne pourrait faire un ligne

de prose, il merite d’etre heureux.’”

The king laughed aloud. “Well, and what does that prove, that Voltaire

is the greatest and most unprejudiced of poets?”

“That proves, sire, that he is a false, perfidious man, a faithless

ungrateful friend. All his great poetical gifts weigh as nothing in the

scale against the weakness and wickedness of his character. I can no

longer admire him as a poet, because I despise him so utterly as a man.”

“You are too hard, marquis,” said Frederick, laughing. “Voltaire has a

great mind, but a small heart, and that is, after all, less his fault

than his Creator’s. Why should we wish to punish him, when he is

innocent? Why should we demand of a great poet that he shall be a good

man? We will allow him to have a bad heart, he can account to Madame

Denis for that; and if we cannot love him, we can at least admire him

as a poet. We can forgive much wickedness in men, if it is redeemed by

great virtues.”

“Ah, sire, that is very sad,” sad D’Argens, “and could only be uttered

by one who had the most profound love or the greatest contempt for

mankind.”

“Perhaps the two are combined in me,” said the king. “As Christ said of

the Magdalen, ‘She has loved much, much will be forgiven her,’ so let us

say of Voltaire. He has written much, much will be forgiven him. He has

lately rendered an immortal service, for which I could almost love him,

were it possible to love him at all. He undertook with bold courage the

defence of the unhappy Jean Calas, who was murdered by fanatical French

priests. The priests, perhaps, will condemn him; we, however, honor

him.”

“Did not your majesty do the same thing?” asked D’Argens. “Did you not

also take pity on the unhappy family of Jean Calas? Did you not send

them a considerable amount of money and offer them an asylum in your

dominions?”

“That I did, certainly; but what is that in comparison with what

Voltaire has done? He gave them the strength of his mind and his work,

his best possession, while I could only give them gold. Voltaire’s gift

was better, more beautiful, and I will now take a vow for his sake, that

the persecuted and oppressed shall always find aid and protection in my

land, and that I will consider liberty of spirit a sacred thing as long

as I live. Freedom of thought shall be a right of my subjects. I will

call all free and liberal minded persons to come to me, for liberty of

thought brings liberty of will, and I prefer to rule a thinking people,

to a mass of thoughtless slaves, who follow me through stupid obedience.

Prussia shall be the land of liberty and enlightenment. The believers

and the unbelievers, the pietists and the atheists may speak alike

freely; the spirit of persecution shall be forever banished from

Prussia.”

“Amen,” cried D’Argens solemnly, as he glanced at the excited, beaming

countenance of the king. “The spirit of love and of freedom hears your

words, my king, and they will be written with a diamond-point in the

history of Prussia.”

“And now, marquis,” said the king, “we will visit my library, and then

we will repose ourselves that we may enjoy our meal. In the evening I

invite you to the concert. My musicians are coming from Berlin, and we

will see if my lips, which have been accustomed so long to rough words

of discipline, are capable of producing a few sweet notes from my

flute.”

Thus speaking, the king took the arm of the marquis, and they passed

slowly through the room, whose desolate silence made them both sad.

“The world is nothing more than a great, gaping grave, on the brink of

which we walk with wild courage,” said the king, softly. “There is no

moment that some one does not stumble at our side and fall into the

abyss, and we have the courage to continue in the path until our

strength fails and we sink, making room for another. Almost all of those

who formerly occupied these rooms have vanished. How long will it be ere

I shall follow them?”

“May that wretched moment be very distant!” exclaimed D’Argens, with a

trembling voice. “Your majesty is still so young and full of life--you

have nothing to do with death.”

“No,” said the king; “I am very old, for I have become indifferent to

the world. Things which would have deeply distressed me formerly, now

pass unheeded over my soul. I assure you, marquis, I have made great

progress in practical philosophy. I am old; I stand at the limits of

life, and my soul is freeing itself from this world, which, it is to be

hoped, I will soon leave.”

“Ah, sire,” said D’Argens, smiling, “you are ten years younger than I

am, and each time that you speak of your rapidly advancing age, I ask

myself how it is possible that a man so much younger than I should

complain of old age. Only wait, sire; here, in the quiet of Sans-Souci,

in a few months you will feel ten and I fifteen years younger. In the

happiness and comforts of our existence, you will live to the age of

Abraham and I to that of Jacob.”

“But I am much older than you, marquis. During the last seven years, I

have had nothing but destroyed hopes, undeserved misfortunes, in short,

all that the caprice of Fortune could discover to distress me. After

such experiences it is allowable, when one is fifty years old, to say

that he is old, that he will no longer be the play-thing of Fortune,

that he renounces ambition and all those follies which are merely the

illusions of inexperienced youth. But no more of these sad thoughts,

for here we are at last at the door of my tusculum. Fold your hands,

you unbelieving son of the Church; the gods and heroes await us in this

temple, and you will at least believe in these.”

They entered the library, and as the door closed behind them and they

were separated from the whole world, as they stood in the centre of

the room whose only ornament consisted of rows of books, upon which

glittered in golden letters the names of the great minds of all ages,

whose only splendor consisted in the marble busts of Caesar and Virgil,

of Cicero and Alexander, the king said, with beaming eyes:

“I am at last in the republic of minds, and I, as a humble citizen,

approach the great presidents, who look down so graciously upon me.”

And, as the king seated himself in his arm-chair before his writing

table, he recovered his sparkling humor, his gay wit, and recounted

with a bright smile to the marquis that he intended to work most

industriously, that he would certainly write a history of this war which

he had just closed, and that he intended always to live at Sans-Souci,

as its quiet and repose seemed more agreeable to him than the noise and

turmoil of the great city. He then dismissed the marquis for a short

time, that he might rest before going to the table.

But the king did not rest. Too many and too powerful thoughts were

surging in his breast. Leaning back in his arm-chair, he thought of the

future. He recalled his own life and arranged his future course. After

sitting thus for a long time, he suddenly arose, his countenance bright

with a firm and energetic expression.

“Yes, thus it shall be,” he said aloud. “I will be the father of my

people. I will live for them, forgetting the wickedness of men, or only

avenging myself on them by the prickings of a needle. I have no family,

therefore my people shall be my family. I have no children, therefore

every one who needs my aid shall become my child, and for them I will

do the duties of a father. My country bleeds from a thousand wounds--to

heal these wounds shall be the task of my life.”

True to this resolution, the king called together his ministers the next

day, and commanded them to obtain exact accounts of the condition of his

provinces; to inform him of the wants and necessities of the people; and

to assist him in relieving them. True to this resolution, the king was

untiring in his work for the good of his people. He wished to see

all, to prove all. He desired to be the source from which his subjects

received all their strength and power.

Therefore he must know all their griefs--he must lend an open ear to all

their demands.

His first command was, that any one who asked for an interview should

be admitted. And when one of his ministers dared to express his

astonishment at this order. “It is the duty of a king,” said Frederick,

“to listen to the request of the most insignificant of his subjects.

I am a regent for the purpose of making my people happy. I do not dare

close my ears to their complaints.” And he listened sympathizingly to

the sorrows of his people, and his whole mind and thoughts were given to

obtain their alleviation. He was always willing to aid with his counsel

and his strength. Untiring in the work, he read every letter, every

petition, and examined every answer which was written by his cabinet

council. He and he alone, was the soul of his government.

A new life began to reign in this land, of which he was the soul. He

worked more than all of his ministers or servants, and music and science

were his only pleasure and recreation. He was a hero in peace as well

as in war. He did not require, as others do, the distraction of gay

pleasures. Study was his chief recreation--conversation with his friends

was his greatest pleasure. Even the hunt, the so-called “knightly

pleasure,” had no charms for him.

“Hunting,” said the king, “is one of the senseless pleasures which

excites the body but leaves the mind unemployed. We are more cruel than

the wild beasts themselves. He who can murder an innocent animal in

cold blood, would find it impossible to show mercy to his fellow-man.

Is hunting a proper employment for a thinking creature? A gentleman who

hunts can only be forgiven if he does so rarely, and then to distract

his thoughts from sad and earnest business matters. It would be wrong

to deny sovereigns all relaxation, but is there a greater pleasure for

a monarch than to rule well, to enrich his state, and to advance all

useful sciences and arts? He who requires other enjoyments is to be

pitied.”

CHAPTER V. THE ENGRAVED CUP.

Princess Amelia was alone in her boudoir--she was ever alone. She lay

upon the sofa, gazed at the ceiling, and in utter despair reflected upon

her miserable fate. For years she had looked anxiously forward to the

conclusion of this unhappy war in which Austria and Prussia were so

fiercely opposed. So long as they were active enemies, Trenck must

remain a prisoner. But she had said to herself, “When peace is declared,

the prisoners of war will be released, and Maria Theresa will demand

that her captain, Frederick von Trenck, be set at liberty.”

Peace had been declared four months, and Trenck still lay in his

subterranean cell at Magdeburg. All Europe was freed from the fetters of

war. Trenck alone was unpardoned and forgotten. This thought made Amelia

sad unto death, banished sleep from her couch, and made her a restless,

despairing wanderer during the day. Amelia had no longer an object--the

last ray of hope was extinguished. Peace had been concluded and Trenck

was forgotten! God had denied her the happiness of obtaining Trenck’s

freedom; He would not even grant her the consolation of seeing him

released through others. For nine years Trenck had languished in

prison--for nine years Amelia’s only thought, only desire, was to enable

him to escape. Her life was consecrated to this one object. She thought

not of the gold she had sacrificed--she had offered up not only her

entire private fortune, but had made debts which her income was utterly

inadequate to meet. Money had no value except as it was consecrated

to her one great aim. She felt now that her heart had been crushed and

broken in her useless efforts-that her hopes were trampled in the dust,

and her existence worthless. Peace had visited all hearts but hers

with new assurance of hope. It brought to her nothing but despair

and desolation. While all others seemed to recommence life with fresh

courage and confidence, Amelia withdrew to her apartments, brooding in

dark discontent--hating all those who laughed and were glad-spurning

from her with angry jealousy the contented and happy. The world was

to her a vast tomb, and she despised all those who had the mad and

blasphemous courage to dance on its brink.

Amelia avenged herself on those who avoided her, by pursuing them with

spiteful jests and bitter sarcasm, hoping in this way to be relieved

wholly from their presence. She wished to be alone and always alone. Her

soul within her was desolate, and the outward world should take the same

dark hue. She lived like a prisoner secluded in her own apartments; and

when some great court festival compelled her to appear in public, she

revenged herself by wounding all who approached her. The sufferings of

others were a balsam to her heart, and she convinced herself that the

pain she inflicted assuaged her own torments.

Amelia was alone; her maid of honor had just read aloud one of Moliere’s

biting, satirical comedies, and received leave of absence for a few

hours. The princess had also dismissed her chamberlain till dinner, and

he had left the castle; only two pages waited in the anteroom, which

was separated by two chambers from the boudoir. Amelia had the happy

consciousness of being alone in her grief, and, fearing no disturbance,

she could sigh and lament aloud. She dared give words to her rage and

her despair; there were no other listeners than these dead, voiceless

walls--they had been long her only confidants. The stillness was

suddenly broken by a gentle knock at the door, and one of the pages

entered.

With a frightened look, and begging earnestly to be pardoned for having

dared to disturb the princess, he informed her that a stranger was

without, who pleaded eagerly to be admitted.

“What does he wish?” said Amelia, roughly. “I have neither office nor

dignity to bestow, and, at present, I have no money! Tell him this, and

he will go away cheerfully.”

“The stranger says he is a jeweller, your highness,” said the page. “It

is of great importance to him that you should look at his collection of

gems; and if you will have the goodness to purchase a few trifles, you

will make them the fashion in Berlin, and thus make his fortune.”

“Tell him he is a fool!” said Amelia, with a coarse laugh; “I have no

desire to see his jewels! Dismiss him, and do not dare disturb me again.

Well, why do you hesitate? Why are you still here?”

“Ah, princess, the poor man begs so earnestly for admittance; he

says your highness knew him at Magdeburg, and that the governor, the

Landgrave of Hesse, expressly charged him to show the jewels to your

highness.”

These magical words aroused Amelia from her apathy. With a quick

movement she arose from the sofa; she was endowed with new energy and

vitality; she advanced toward the door, then paused, and looked silent

and thoughtful.

“Admit the stranger!” said she, “I will see his treasures.”

The page left the room, and Amelia gazed after him breathlessly, and

with a loudly-beating heart. It seemed to her an eternity before the

stranger entered.

A tall, slender man, in simple but elegant costume, approached. He stood

at the door, and bowed profoundly to the princess. Amelia looked at him

steadily, and sighed deeply; she did not know this man. Again her hopes

had deceived her.

“You said the Landgrave of Hesse sent you to me?” said she, roughly.

“Yes, princess,” said the man; “he commanded me to seek your highness as

soon as I arrived in Berlin, and show you my collection, in order that

you might have the privilege of selecting before all others.”

Amelia looked once more questioningly and fiercely upon the stranger,

but he remained cold and indifferent.

“Well, sir, show me your gems!”

He placed a large casket upon a table in the middle of the room; he

then unlocked it, and threw back the lid. In the different compartments,

splendid jewels of wondrous beauty were to be seen--rings, pins,

bracelets, and necklaces of rare workmanship and design.

“Diamonds,” cried Amelia, contemptuously; “nothing but diamonds!”

“But diamonds of a strange fire and wondrous design,” said the strange

jeweller. “Will not your highness graciously draw nearer, and observe

them?”

“I have no use for them: I wear no diamonds!” said Amelia: “if you have

nothing else to show me, close the casket; I shall make no purchase.”

“I have, indeed, other and rarer treasures; some beautiful carved work,

by Cellini, some ivory carving of the middle ages, and a few rare and

costly cameos. Perhaps these may please the taste of your highness?”

The jeweller raised the first compartment, and taking out a number of

beautiful and costly articles, he laid them upon the table, explained

the workmanship and design of each piece, and called the attention of

the princess to their wondrous beauty.

Amelia listened carelessly to his words. These things had no interest

for her; she looked only at one object--a round packet, rolled in paper,

which the stranger had taken with the other articles from the casket;

this must be something particularly costly. It was carefully wrapped in

silk paper, while every thing else lay confusedly together, and yet this

seemed the only treasure which the jeweller did not seem disposed to

exhibit. Amelia, however, remarked that he raised this mysterious packet

several times, as if it was in his way; changed its place, but every

time brought it nearer to her. It now lay immediately in front of her.

“What does that paper contain?” said she.

“Oh, that has no interest for your royal highness; that is a worthless

object! Will you have the goodness to examine this seal? It represents

the holy Saint Michael, treading the dragon under his feet, and it is

one of the most successful and beautiful works of Benvenuto Cellini.”

Amelia did not look at the seal; she stretched out her hand toward the

mysterious packet, and giving a searching look at the jeweller, she

raised and opened it.

“A cup! a tin cup!” she exclaimed, in astonishment.

“As I remarked to your highness, a worthless object; unless the rare

beauty of the workmanship should give it some value. The carving is

indeed beautiful and most wonderful, when you know that it was done with

a common nail, and not even in daylight, but in the gloom and darkness

of a subterranean cell.”

Amelia trembled so violently, that the cup almost fell from her hand.

The stranger did not remark her emotion, but went on quietly.

“Observe, your highness, how finely and correctly the outlines are

drawn; it is as artistically executed as the copperplate of a splendid

engraving. It is greatly to be regretted that we cannot take impressions

from this tin cup; they would make charming pictures. The sketches

are not only well executed, but they are thoughtfully and pathetically

conceived and illustrated with beautiful verses, which are worthy of a

place in any album. If your highness takes any interest in such trifles,

I beg you will take this to the light and examine it closely.”

The princess did not answer: she stepped to the window, and turning her

back to the jeweller, looked eagerly at the cup.

It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art and industry. The surface was

divided by small and graceful arabesques into ten departments, each one

of which contained an enchanting and finely-executed picture. No chisel

could have drawn the lines more correctly or artistically, or produced

a finer effect of light and shade. Under each picture there was a

little verse engraved in such fine characters, that they could only be

deciphered with difficulty.

Amelia’s eyes seemed to have recovered the strength and power of earlier

days. A youthful, vigorous soul lay in the glance which was fixed upon

this cup; she understood every thing.

There was a cage with an imprisoned bird; beneath this a verse:

“Ce n’est pas un moineau,

Garde dans cette cage,

C’est un de ces oiseaux,

Qui chantent dans L’orage.

Ouvrez, amis des sages,

Brisez fers et verroux;

Les chants dans vos bocages,

Rejailliront pour vous.”

[Footnote: “This is not a sparrow

Kept in this cage.

It is one of those birds

Who sing in storms.

Open, friend of the wise,

Break iron and bolts,

The songs in your woods

Shall fly back to you.”]

In the next compartment was again a cage, containing a bird, and on the

branch of a tree under which the cage was placed, perched another bird,

with fluttering wings and open beak; underneath was written--

“Le rossignol chante, voici la raison,

Pourquoi il est pris pour chanter en prison;

Voyez le moineau qui fait tant de dommage,

Jouir de la vie sans craindre la cage.

Voila un portrait,

Qui montre l’effet

Du bonheur des fripons du desastre des sages.”

[Footnote: “The nightingale sings, and this is the reason

That he is taken to sing in a prison.

See now the sparrow, who does so much evil,

Plays with life without fear of cages.

See in this portrait,

Which shows the effect

Of the good luck of rogues, and the misfortune of sages.”]

Amelia could not control herself; she could look no longer. She rarely

wept, but now her eyes were filled with tears. They fell upon the cup,

as if to kiss the letters which had recalled so many touching and sad

remembrances. But she had no time for tears, she must read on! With an

involuntary movement, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and fixed them

steadily upon the cup.

Here was another picture. In a cell lay a skeleton form, the hands and

the feet bound with heavy chains. The figure had raised itself slightly

from the straw bed and gazed with an agonized expression at the grating

in the wall, behind which the grim-bearded face of a soldier was seen,

who, with wide-open mouth seemed to be calling angrily to the prisoner.

Beneath this stood some verses in German. [Footnote: See memoirs of

Trenck, Thiebault, in which Trenck describes one of these cups and the

fate which befell it. One of them was engraved for the Landgrave of

Hesse, and in this way fell into the hands of the Emperor Joseph the

Second, who kept it in his art cabinet. Another, which had been once

in possession of the wife of Frederick the Great, Trenck afterward

recovered in Paris. Some of these cups are still to be seen in art

collections in Germany, and some are in the museum in Berlin.] “Oh

fearful! most fearful!” sobbed Amelia; and, completely overcome, her

head sank upon her breast. She cared not that the strange jeweller saw

her tears and heard the despairing cry of her heart; she had nothing to

fear; she had no more to lose. The assembled world might hear and see

her great grief. But no, no; this must not be. His agony, his tortures,

might perhaps be increased to punish her through him! She must not weep;

she must not complain. Trenck lived; although in prison and in chains,

he still lived; so long as he lived, she must conquer the despair of her

heart.

As she thought thus, she dried her tears, and raised her head with proud

resolve. She would be calm and self-possessed; perhaps this man, sent to

her by the landgrave, had something still to say to her. She half turned

her head toward him; he appeared not to be thinking of her, but was

quietly engaged placing his treasures again in his casket.

“Can you tell me who engraved this cup?”

“Certainly, your royal highness. A poor prisoner, who has been confined

for nine years in a subterranean cell in the fortress of Magdeburg,

engraved it. He is called Frederick von Trenck. Your highness has

perhaps never heard the name, but in Magdeburg every child knows it, and

speaks it with wonder and admiration! No one has seen him, but every

one knows of his daring, his heroism, his unfaltering courage, and

endurance, his herculean strength, and his many and marvellous attempts

to escape. Trenck is the hero of the nursery as well as the saloon. No

lady in Magdeburg is acquainted with him, but all are enthusiastic in

his praise, and all the officers who know him love and pity him. Many

are ready to risk their lives for him!”

The princess sighed deeply, and a ray of joy and hope lighted up her

countenance. She listened with suppressed breath to the jeweller’s

words--they sounded like far-off music, pleasant but mournful to the

soul.

The stranger continued: “Some time since, in order to dispel the

tediousness of his prison-life, he began to engrave poems and figures

upon his tin cup with a nail which he had found in the earth while

making his last attempt to undermine the floor of his cell. During one

of his visits of observation, the commandant discovered this cup; he

was delighted with the engravings, took the cup and sent Trenck another,

hoping he would continue the exercise of his art. Trenck seized the

occasion joyfully, and since then he has been constantly occupied as

an engraver. Every officer desires to have a cup engraved by him, as a

souvenir. Every lady in Magdeburg longs for one, and prefers it to the

most costly jewel. These cups are now the mode--indeed, they have become

an important article in trade. If one of the officers can be induced to

sell his cup, it will cost twenty louis d’or. Trenck gets no money for

his work, but he has gained far greater advantages. These cups give him

the opportunity of making known to the world the cruel tortures to which

he is subject; they have given him speech, and replaced the writing

materials of which they have deprived him. They have answered even a

better and holier purpose than this,” said the jeweller, in a low voice,

“they have procured him light and air. In order to give him sufficient

light for his work, the officers open the doors into the first corridor,

in which there is a large window; one of the upper panes of this window

is open every morning. As the days are short in the casemates, the

commandant looks through his fingers, when the officers bring lights to

the poor prisoner. Trenck feels as if his wretched prison-cell was now

changed into the atelier of an artist.”

Amelia was silent and pressed the cup tenderly to her lips; the stranger

did not regard her, but continued his recital quietly.

“An officer of the garrison told me all this, your highness, when he

sold me this cup. They make no secret of their admiration and affection

for Trenck; they know they would be severely punished if the higher

authorities discovered that they allowed Trenck any privileges or

alleviations, but they boast of it and consider it a humane action.”

“May God reward them for it!” sighed Amelia. “I will buy this cup, sir.

I do not wish to be behind the ladies of Magdeburg, and as it is the

mode to possess a cup engraved by Trenck, I will take this. Name your

price.”

The jeweller was silent for a moment, then said:

“Pardon me, your highness, I dare not sell you this cup, or rather I

implore your highness not to desire it. If possible, I will make it an

instrument for Trenck’s release.”

“How can this be done?” said Amelia, breathlessly.

“I will take this cup to General Riedt, the Austrian ambassador in

Berlin. As all the world is interesting itself for Trenck, I do not

see why I should not do the same, and endeavor to obtain his release.

I shall therefore go to General Riedt with this cup. I am told he is

a noble gentleman and a distant relation of Trenck; he cannot fail

to sympathize with his unfortunate cousin. When he hears of his cruel

sufferings he will certainly strive to deliver him. General Riedt is

exactly the man to effect this great object; he is thoroughly acquainted

with all the by-ways and intrigues of the court of Vienna. Maria Theresa

classes him among her most trusted confidants and friends. Whoever

desires to free Trenck must consult with General Riedt and win him.”

Amelia raised her head and looked up quickly at the stranger; his eyes

were fixed upon her with a searching and significant expression; their

glances met and were steadily fixed for one moment, then a scarcely

perceptible smile flitted over the face of the jeweller, and the

princess nodded her head. Each felt that they were understood.

“Have you nothing more to say?” said Amelia.

“No, your highness, I have only to beg you will pardon me for not

selling you this cup. I must take it to General Riedt.”

“Leave it with me,” said Amelia, after a few moments’ reflection. “I

myself will show it to him and seek to interest him in the fate of his

unhappy relative. If I succeed, the cup is mine, and you will not wish

to sell it to General Riedt Do you agree to this? Go, then, and return

to me at this hour to-morrow, when I will either pay you the price of

the cup, or return it to you, if I am so unhappy as to fail.”

The jeweller bowed profoundly. “I will punctually obey your highness’s

commands. To-morrow at this hour I will be here.”

The stranger took his casket and left the room. The princess gazed after

him till the door closed.

“That man is silent and discreet, I believe he can be trusted,” she

murmured. “I will write at once, and desire an interview with General

Riedt.”

CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCESS AND THE DIPLOMATIST.

An hour later the page of the princess announced General von Riedt,

Austrian ambassador at the court of Berlin. Amelia advanced to meet

him, and gazed with a sharp, piercing glance at the general, who bowed

respectfully before her.

“I have sent for you, general,” said the princess, “to repair an injury.

You have been announced twice, and both times I declined receiving you.”

“That was no injury, your royal highness,” said the general, smiling. “I

ventured to call on you because etiquette demands that a new ambassador

should introduce himself to every member of the royal house. Your royal

highness declined to receive me, it was not agreeable, and you were

perfectly justifiable in closing your doors against me.”

“And now you must wonder why I have sent for you?”

“I never allow myself to wonder. Your order for me to come has made me

happy--that is sufficient.”

“You have no suspicion why I sent for you?”

“Your royal highness has just informed me you kindly wished to indemnify

me for my two former visits.”

“You are a good diplomatist; you turn quickly about, are as smooth as

an eel, cannot be taken hold of, but slip through one’s fingers. I am

accustomed to go at once to the point--I cannot diplomatize. See here,

why I wished to see you--I wished to show you this cup.”

She took the cup hastily from the table, and gave it to the ambassador.

He gazed at it long and earnestly; he turned it around, looking at

every picture, reading every verse. Amelia watched him keenly, but his

countenance betrayed nothing. He was as smiling, as unembarrassed as

before. When he had looked at it attentively, he placed it on the table.

“Well, what do you think of the workmanship?” said Amelia.

“It is wonderful, worthy of an artist, your royal highness.”

“And do you know by what artist it was made?”

“I suspect it, your royal highness.”

“Give me his name?”

“I think he is called Frederick von Trenck.”

“It is so, and if I do not err, he is your relative?”

“My distant relative--yes, your royal highness.”

“And can you bear to have your relative in chains? Does not your heart

bleed for his sufferings?”

“He suffers justly, I presume, or he would not have been condemned.”

“Were he the greatest criminal that lived, it would still be a crime to

make him suffer perpetually. A man’s sleep is sacred, be he a criminal

or a murderer. Let them kill the criminal, but they should not murder

sleep. Look at this picture, general; look at this prisoner lying

upon the hard floor; he has been torn from his dreams of freedom and

happiness by the rough voice of the soldier standing at his door. Read

the verse beneath it--is not every word of it bathed in tears? Breathes

there not a cry of terror throughout so fearful, so unheard-of, that it

must resound in every breast? And you, his relative, you will not hear

him? You will do nothing to free this unfortunate man from his prison?

You, the Austrian ambassador, suffer an officer of your empress

to remain a prisoner in a strange land, without a trial, without a

hearing.”

“When my empress sent me here, she gave me her instructions, and she

informed me of the extent and character of my duties. She did not

request me to exert myself for the release of this unfortunate prisoner,

that is entirely beyond my sphere of action, and I must be discreet.”

“You must be careful and discreet when the life of a man, a relative, is

concerned? You have, then, no pity for him?”

“I pity him deeply, your royal highness, but can do nothing more.”

“Perhaps not you! Perhaps another! Perhaps I?”

“I do not know if your royal highness interests herself sufficiently in

the prisoner to work for him.”

“You know not whether I interest myself sufficiently in Trenck to serve

him,” cried Amelia, with a harsh laugh. “You well know it; the whole

world knows it; no one dares speak of it aloud, for fear of the

king’s anger, but it is whispered throughout the whole land why Trenck

languishes in prison. You, you alone, should be ignorant of it! Know,

then, that Trenck is imprisoned because I love him! Yes, general, I

love him! Why do you not laugh, sir? Is it not laughable to hear an old,

wrinkled, broken-down creature speak of love--to see a wan, trembling

form, tottering to her grave on a prop of love? Look at this horribly

disfigured countenance. Listen to the rough, discordant voice that dares

to speak of love, and then laugh, general, for I tell you I love Trenck.

I love him with all the strength and passion of a young girl. Grief and

age have laid a fearful mask upon my countenance, but my heart is still

young, there burns within it an undying, a sacred flame. My thoughts,

my desires are passionate and youthful, and my every thought, my every

desire is for Trenck. I could tell you of all the agony, all the despair

I have endured for his sake, but it would be useless. There is no

question of my sufferings, but of his who through me has lost his youth

and his freedom--his all! Nine years he has lain in prison; for nine

years my one aim has been to release him. My existence, my soul, my

heart, are bound up in his prison walls. I only live to release him.

Though I have ceased to look for human assistance, my heart still prays

earnestly to God for some way of escape. If you know any such, general,

show it to me, and were it strewed with thorns and burning irons, I

would wander upon it in my bare feet.”

She raised her hands and fixed an imploring glance upon the general, who

had listened to her in silence. When she had ceased speaking, he raised

his head and looked at her. Amelia could have cried aloud for joy, for

two bright, precious tears gleamed in his eye.

“You weep,” cried she; “you have some pity.”

The general took her hand, and kneeling reverentially before her

he said: “Yes, I weep, but not over you. I weep over your great,

self-sacrificing soul. I do not pity you--your grief is too great, too

sacred--it is above pity. But I bow profoundly before you, for your

suffering is worthy of all reverence. To me you appear much more

beautiful than all the women of this court who dance giddily through

life. It is not the diplomatist but the man who kneels before you and

offers you his homage.”

Gently Amelia bade him rise. “With a sweet, happy smile upon her lip she

thanked him for his sympathy, and hoped they would be good friends and

counsel with each other.”

The general was silent for a few moments. “The feelings of the empress

must be worked upon--she must intercede with King Frederick for Trenck.

He cannot refuse her first request.”

“Will you undertake to effect this?” said Amelia, hastily. “Will you

intercede for your unfortunate relative?”

“I had done so long ago had it been possible. Alas, I dared not. Trenck

is my relative--my request would, therefore, have been considered as

that of a prejudiced person. My exalted empress possesses so strong

a sense of right that it has become a rule of hers never to fulfil a

request made by any of her own intimate and confidential friends for

their families or relatives. She would have paid no attention to my

request for Trenck’s release. Moreover, I would have made enemies of a

powerful and influential party at court--with a party whose wish it is

that Trenck may never be released, because he would then come and demand

an account of the gold, jewels, and property left him by his cousin,

the colonel of the pandours, thus causing a great disturbance amongst

several noble families at court. These families are continually

filling the ear of the empress with accusations against the unfortunate

prisoner, well knowing that he cannot defend himself. You must appear

to have forgotten that poor Trenck is languishing in prison while his

property is being guarded by stewards who pay themselves for their

heavy labor with the old colonel’s money. It is dangerous, therefore, to

meddle with this wasp’s nest. To serve Trenck, the interceder must be so

harmless and insignificant that no one will consider it worth while to

watch him, so that Trenck’s enemies, not suspecting him, can place no

obstacles in his path.”

“Lives there such a one?” said the princess.

“Yes, your royal highness.”

“Where is he? What is his name? What is he?”

“The fireman in the apartments of the empress. He is a poor Savoyard,

without name, without rank, without position, but with credit and

influence.”

“A fireman?” cried the princess, with amazement.

“An old, ugly, deformed fellow, called by the other servants Gnome

because of his stubborn silence, his want of sociability, his rough

manner and voice, his caring for nothing but his service, which he

performs with great method. Every morning at six he enters her majesty’s

apartment, makes the fire, throws back the curtain to admit the light,

arranges the chairs, and then withdraws without the least noise. All

this he does without committing the slightest indiscretion; always the

same; never lingering beyond his time--never leaving before. He is like

a clock that maintains always the same movement and sound. The empress,

accustomed for thirty years to see him enter daily her apartments, has

become used to his homeliness, and often in the kindness of her heart

enters into conversation with him. His answers are always laconic, in

a tone of perfect indifference--at times brusque, even harsh--but they

have a sensible and often a deep meaning. When the empress speaks with

him, he does not cease his work for a moment, and when he has finished

he does not remain a minute longer, but goes without asking if she

desires to continue the conversation. For thirty years he has had the

same duties and has fulfilled them in the same manner. He has never been

accused of a mistake--he has never been guilty of inquisitiveness or

intrigue. Thus the empress has great and firm confidence in him. She is

so convinced of his truth, disinterestedness, and probity, that he has

gained a sort of influence over her, and as she knows that he is to

be won neither by gold, flattery, promises of position and rank, she

constantly asks his opinion on matters of importance, and not seldom is

biassed by its strong, sensible tone.”

“But if this man is so honest and disinterested, how are we to influence

him?”

“We must seek to win his heart and his head. He must become interested

in the fate of the unfortunate prisoner--he must become anxious for his

release. When we have done this much, we can question his self-interest

and offer him gold.”

“Gold? This wonder of probity and truth is susceptible to bribes?”

“He never has, perhaps never may be. He himself has no desires, no

necessities; but he has one weakness--his daughter. She is a young and

lovely girl, whom he, in his dark distrust of all at court in the form

of men, has had educated in a convent far from Vienna. She is now living

with some respectable family in Vienna, but she never visits him, never

enters the castle to inquire for him for fear she should be seen by

some of the court gentlemen. This girl has now formed an attachment to

a young doctor. They would like to marry, but he has no practice, she

no money. Her father has saved nothing, but spent all his wages on her

education, and has no dowry for his daughter.”

“And he intends to plead with the empress for this dower?”

“If such a thought came to him he would put it away with contempt, for

his only ambition consists in making no requests, receiving no gifts

from the empress. Nor would he now act for this gold alone contrary to

his idea of right, were his daughter to die of sorrow. As I said

before, his heart and head must first be won, then only must we speak of

reward.”

“If this man has a heart, we cannot fail to win it when we tell him all

that Trenck has suffered and still endures,” cried the princess. “The

agony and despair that have been heaped upon the head of one poor mortal

will surely touch both head and heart. When we have succeeded, we will

give his daughter a handsome dower. God has so willed it that I am right

rich now, and can fulfil my promises. My pension as abbess and my salary

as princess were both paid in yesterday. There is a little fortune in my

desk, and I shall add more to it. Do you think four thousand louis d’or

will be sufficient to win the Savoyard’s heart?”

“For any other it would be more than sufficient; but to win this honest

heart, your offer is not too great.”

“But is it enough?”

“It is.”

“Now, all that we need is some sure, cunning messenger to send to him;

a man whose heart and head, soul and body are bound up in the cause he

advocates. General, where shall we find such a man?”

General Riedt laughed. “I thought your royal highness had already found

him.”

The princess looked at him in amazement.

“Ah,” cried she, “the jeweller; the man who brought me the cup; who

referred me to you in so wise and discreet a manner.”

“I think you desired him to return early to-morrow morning?”

“How do you know that? Are you acquainted with him?”

General Riedt bowed smilingly. “I ventured to send him to your royal

highness.”

“Ah! I now understand it all, and must acknowledge that the jeweller is

as great a negotiator as you are a diplomatist. The cup I showed you,

you sent to me?”

“I received it from the Governor of Magdeburg, the Landgrave of Hesse;

as I could do nothing with it, I ventured to send it to your royal

highness.”

“And I thank you, general, for sending it in so discreet, so wise a

manner. We may, perhaps, succeed in keeping all this secret from my

brother, so that he cannot act against us. Hasten away, general, and

give the jeweller, or whatever else he may be, his instructions. Send

him to me early in the morning for his reward.” [Footnote: The princess

succeeded in winning the influence of the fireman. How he succeeded with

the empress, can be seen in “Thiebault’s Souvenirs de Vingt Ans,” vol.

iv.]

CHAPTER VII. THE ROYAL HOUSE-SPY.

The next morning, a carriage drew up before the garden of Sans-Souci,

and a gentleman, in a glittering, embroidered court uniform, crept out

slowly and with much difficulty. Coughing and murmuring peevish words to

himself, he slipped into the allee leading to the terraces. His back was

bent, and from under the three-cornered hat, ornamented with rich gold

lace, came sparsely, here and there, a few silver hairs. Who could have

recognized, in this doubled-up, decrepit form, now with tottering

knees creeping up the terrace, the once gay, careless, unconcerned

grand-master of ceremonies, Baron von Pollnitz? Who could have supposed

that this old weatherbeaten visage, deformed with a thousand wrinkles,

once belonged to the dashing cavalier? And yet, it was even so. Pollnitz

had grown old, and his back was bowed down under the yoke which the

monster Time lays at last upon humanity; but his spirit remained

unchanged. He had preserved his vivacity, his malice, his egotism. He

had the same passion for gold--much gold; not, however, to hoard, but

to lavish. His life was ever divided between base covetousness and

thoughtless prodigality. When he had revelled and gormandized through

the first days of every month, he was forced, during the last weeks,

to suffer privation and hunger, or to borrow from those who were

good-natured and credulous enough to lend him. There was also one other

source of revenue which the adroit courtier knew how to use to his

advantage. He was a splendid ecarte player; and, as it was his duty,

as grand-master of ceremonies, to provide amusements for the court, to

choose places and partners for the card-tables, he always arranged it so

as to bring himself in contact with wealthy and eager card-players,

from some of whom he could win, and from others borrow a few louis d’or.

Besides this, since the return of the king, Pollnitz had voluntarily

taken up his old trade of spy, and informed Frederick of all he saw and

heard at court; for this, from time to time, he demanded a small reward.

“Curious idea,” he said, as, puffing and blowing, he clambered up the

terrace. “Curious idea to live in this wearisome desert, when he has

respectable and comfortable castles in the midst of the city, and on a

level plain. One might truly think that the king, even in life, wishes

to draw nearer to heaven, and withdraws from the children of man, to

pray and prepare himself for paradise.”

The baron laughed aloud; it seemed to him a droll idea to look at the

king as a prayerful hermit. This conception amused him, and gave him

strength to go onward more rapidly, and he soon reached the upper

platform of the terrace, upon which the castle stood. Without

difficulty, he advanced to the antechamber, but there stood Deesen, and

forbade him entrance to the king.

“His majesty holds a cabinet council,” said he, “and it is expressly

commanded to allow no one to enter.”

“Then I will force an entrance,” said Pollnitz, stepping boldly to the

door. “I must speak to his majesty; I have something most important to

communicate.”

“I think it cannot be more important than that which now occupies the

king’s attention,” said the intrepid Deesen. “I am commanded to allow no

one to enter; I shall obey the order of the king.”

“I am resolved to enter,” said Pollnitz, in a loud voice; but Deesen

spread his broad figure threateningly before the door. An angry dispute

arose, and Pollnitz made his screeching voice resound so powerfully,

he might well hope the king would hear him, and in this he was not

deceived; the king heard and appeared at once upon the threshold.

“Pollnitz,” said he, “you are and will always be an incorrigible fool;

you are crowing as loud as a Gallic cock, who is declaring war against

my people. I have made peace with the Gauls, mark that, and do not dare

again to crow so loud. What do you want? Do your creditors wish to cast

you in prison, or do you wish to inform me that you have become a Jew,

and wish to accept some lucrative place as Rabbi?”

“No, sire, I remain a reformed Christian, and my creditors will never

take the trouble to arrest me; they know that would avail nothing. I

come on most grave and important matters of business, and I pray your

majesty to grant me a private audience.”

Frederick looked sternly at him. “Listen, Pollnitz, you are still a

long-winded and doubtful companion, notwithstanding your seventy-six

years. Deliberate a moment; if that which you tell me is not important,

and requiring speedy attention, I will punish you severely for having

dared to interrupt me in my cabinet council; I will withhold your salary

for the next month.”

“Your majesty, the business is weighty, and requires immediate

attention; I stake my salary upon it.”

“Come, then, into my cabinet, but be brief,” said Frederick, stepping

into the adjoining room. “Now speak,” said he, as he closed the door.

“Sire, first, I must ask your pardon for daring to allude to a subject

which is so old that its teeth are shaky and its countenance wrinkled.”

“You wish, then, to speak of yourself?” said Frederick.

“No, sire; I will speak of a subject which bloomed before the war, and

since then has withered and faded in a subterranean prison; but it now

threatens to put forth new buds, to unfold new leaves, and I fear your

majesty will find that undesirable.”

“Speak, then, clearly, and without circumlocution. I am convinced it

is only some gossiping or slander you wish to retail. You come as a

salaried family spy who has snapped up some greasy morsels of scandal.

Your eyes are glowing with malicious pleasure, as they always do when

you are about to commit some base trick. Now, then, out with it! Of whom

will you speak?”

“Of the Princess Amelia and Trenck,” whispered Pollnitz.

The king gazed at him fiercely for a moment, then turned and walked

silently backward and forward.

“Well, what is your narrative?” said Frederick, at last, turning his

back upon Pollnitz, and stepping to the window as if to look out.

“Sire, if your majesty does not interfere, the Princess Amelia will

send a negotiator to Vienna, who undertakes to induce the Empress Maria

Theresa to apply to you for the release of Trenck. This negotiator is

richly provided with gold and instructions; and the Austrian ambassador

has pointed out to the princess a sure way to reach the ear of the

empress, and to obtain an intercessor with her. She will appeal to

the fireman of the empress, and this influential man will undertake to

entreat Maria Theresa to ask for Trenck’s release. This will take place

immediately; an hour since the messenger received his instructions from

General Riedt, and a quarter of an hour since he received four thousand

louis d’or from the princess to bribe the fireman. If the intrigue

succeeds, the princess has promised him a thousand louis d’or for

himself.”

“Go on,” said the king, as Pollnitz ceased speaking.

“Go on!” said Pollnitz, with a stupefied air. “I have nothing more to

say; it seems to me the history is sufficiently important.”

“And it seems to me a silly fairy tale,” said Frederick, turning angrily

upon the grand-master. “If you think to squeeze gold out of me by such

ridiculous and senseless narratives, you are greatly mistaken. Not one

farthing will I pay for these lies. Do you think that Austria lies on

the borders of Tartary? There, a barber is minister; and you, forsooth,

will make a fireman the confidential friend of the empress! Why,

Scheherezade would not have dared to relate such an absurd fairy tale to

her sleepy sultan, as you, sir, now seek to impose upon me!”

“But, sire, it is no fairy tale, but the unvarnished truth. The page

of the princess listened, and immediately repeated all that he heard to

me.”

“Have you paid the page for this intelligence, which he asserts he

overheard?”

“No, sire.”

“Then go quickly to Berlin and reward him by two sound boxes on the ear,

then go to bed and drink chamomile tea. It appears to me your head is

weak.”

“But, sire, I have told you nothing but the pure truth; no matter how

fabulous it may appear.”

Frederick gazed at him scornfully. “It is a silly tale,” he cried, in

a loud commanding voice. “Do not say another word, and do not dare to

repeat to any one what you have now related. Go, I say! and forget this

nonsense.”

Pollnitz crept sighing and with bowed head to the door, but, before he

opened it, he turned once more to the king.

“Sire, this is the last day of the month, this wretched October has

thirty-one days. Even if in your majesty’s wisdom you decide this story

to be untrue, you should at least remember my zeal.”

“I should reward you for your zeal in doing evil?” said Frederick,

shaking his head. “But truly this is the way of the world; evil is

rewarded and good actions trodden under foot. You are not worth a kick!

Go and get your reward; tell my servant to give you ten Fredericks

d’or--but on one condition.”

“What condition?” said Pollnitz, joyfully.

“As soon as you arrive in Berlin, go to the castle, call the page of the

princess, and box him soundly for his villany. Go!”

The king stood sunk in deep thought in the window-niche, long after

Pollnitz had left the room; he appeared to forget that his ministers

were waiting for him; he thought of his sister Amelia’s long, sad life,

of her constancy and resignation, and a profound and painful pity filled

his heart.

“Surely I dare at length grant her the poor consolation of having

brought about his release,” said he to himself. “She has been so long

and so terribly punished for this unhappy passion, that I will give her

the consolation of plucking a few scentless blossoms from the grave of

her heart. Let her turn to the fireman of the empress, and may my

pious aunt be warmed up by his representations and prayers! I will

not interfere; and if Maria Theresa intercedes for Trenck, I will not

remember that he is a rebellious subject and a traitor, worthy of death.

I will remember that Amelia has suffered inexpressibly for his sake,

that her life is lonely and desolate--a horrible night, in which one

feeble ray of sunshine may surely be allowed to fall. Poor Amelia! she

loves him still!”

As Frederick stepped from the window and passed into the other room, he

murmured to himself:

“There is something beautiful in a great, rich human heart. Better to

die of grief and disappointment than to be made insensible by scorn and

disdain--to be turned to stone!”

CHAPTER VIII. THE CLOUDS GATHER.

While the king lived alone and quiet in Sans-Souci, and occupied himself

with his studies and his government, the gayeties and festivities

continued uninterrupted in Rheinsberg. It seemed that Prince Henry had

no other thought, no other desire than to prepare new pleasures, new

amusements for his wife. His life had been given up for so many years

to earnest cares, that he now sought to indemnify himself by an eager

pursuit after pleasure. Fete succeeded fete, and all of the most elegant

and accomplished persons in Berlin, all those who had any claim to

youth, beauty, and amiability, were invariably welcome at the palace of

the prince.

It was late in the autumn, and Prince Henry had determined to conclude

the long succession of wood and garden parties by a singular and

fantastic entertainment. Before they returned to the saloons, the

winter-quarters of pleasure, they wished to bid farewell to Nature. The

nymphs of the wood and the spring, the hamadryads of the forests, the

fauns and satyrs should reign once more in the woods before they placed

the sceptre in the hands of winter. The guests of Rheinsberg should once

more enjoy the careless gayety of a happy day, before they returned to

the winter saloons, on whose threshold Etiquette awaited them, with her

forced smile, her robes of ceremony and her orders and titles.

The ladies and gentlemen had been transformed, therefore, into gods and

goddesses, nymphs, and hamadryads, fauns, satyrs, and wood-spirits.

The horn of Diana resounded once more in the wood, through which the

enchanting huntress passed, accompanied by Endymion, who was pursued

by Actaeon. There was Apollo and the charming Daphne; Echo and the vain

Narcissus; and, on the bank of the lake, which gleamed in the midst of

the forest, the water-nymphs danced in a fairy-circle with the tritons.

The prince had himself made all the arrangements for this fantastic

fete; he had selected the character, and appointed the place of every

one, and, that nothing should fail, he had ordered all to seek their

pleasures and adventures as they would--only, when the horn of the

goddess Diana should sound, all must appear on the shore of the lake

to partake of a most luxurious meal. The remainder of the day was to be

given to the voluntary pleasures which each one would seek or make for

himself, and in this the ladies and gentlemen showed themselves more

ingenious than usual. In every direction goddesses were to be seen

gliding through the bushes to escape the snares of some god, or seeking

some agreeable rendezvous. At the edge of the lake lay charming gondolas

ready for those who wished to rest and refresh themselves by a sail upon

the dancing waves. For the hunters and huntresses targets were placed

upon the trees; all kinds of fire-arms and cross-bows and arrows lay

near them. Scattered throughout the forest, were a number of small huts,

entirely covered with the bark of trees, and looking like a mass

of fallen wood, but comfortably and even elegantly arranged in the

interior. Every one of these huts was numbered, and at the beginning

of the fete every lady had drawn a number from an urn, which was to

designate the hut which belonged to her. Chance alone had decided, and

each one had given her word not to betray the number of her cabin. From

this arose a seeking and spying, a following and listening, which gave

a peculiar charm to the fete. Every nymph or goddess could find a refuge

in her cabin; having entered it, it was only necessary to display the

ivy wreath, which she found within, to protect herself from any further

pursuit, for this wreath announced to all that the mistress of the hut

had retired within and did not wish her solitude disturbed. That nothing

might mar the harmony of this fete, the prince and his wife had placed

themselves on an equal footing with their guests; the princess had

declined any conspicuous role, and was to appear in the simple but

charming costume of a wood-nymph, while the prince had selected an

ideal and fanciful hunter’s costume. Even in the selection of huts the

Princess Wilhelmina had refused to make any choice, and had drawn her

number as the others did, even refusing a glimpse of it to her husband.

This day seemed given up to joy and pleasure. Every countenance was

bright and smiling, and the wood resounded with merry laughter, with

the tones of the hunter’s horn, the baying of the hounds, which were

in Diana’s train, and the singing of sweet songs. And still on how many

faces the smile was assumed, how many sighs arose, with how many cares

and sorrows were many of these apparently happy creatures weighed down?

Even the noble brow of the goddess Diana was not so unruffled as Homer

describes it, her countenance expressed care and unrest, and in her

great black eyes there glowed such fire as had never shone in the orbs

of the coy goddess.

See, there is the goddess Diana crossing the wood breathlessly, and

hurriedly, looking anxiously around her, as if she feared the approach

of some pursuers; then seeing that no one is near, she hastens forward

toward the hut, which stands amidst those bushes. The ivy wreath is

hanging before this cabin, but Diana does not notice this, she knows

what it means and, besides, no one has a right to enter this hut but

herself, for it bears the number which she drew.

As she entered, Endymion, the beautiful hunter, advanced to greet her.

“At length you have come, Camilla,” he whispered, gently; “at length

you grant me the happiness of a private interview. Oh, it is an

eternity since I beheld you. You are very cruel to me to refuse me all

intercourse with you, and to leave me languishing in the distance for

one glance from you.”

“As if it depended on me to allow you to approach me. As if I was not

guarded with argus eyes as a prisoner that is expected to break loose

and vanish at any moment. How much trouble, how much cunning and

deftness have I been compelled to exercise to come here now. It was a

detestable idea of the princess to give me the _role_ of Diana, for I

have behind me a band of spies, and I assure you that my coy huntresses

are so fearfully modest, that the sight of a man fills them with dread,

and they flee before him into the wildest thicket of the woods.”

“Perhaps because they have a lover concealed in the thicket,” said

Endymion.

Camilla laughed aloud. “Perhaps you are right. But when my huntresses

fly, there still remains that horrible argus who guards me with his

thousand eyes and never leaves my side. It was from pure malice that the

prince gave that /role/ to my detestable stepfather, and thus fastened

him upon me.”

“How did you succeed in escaping the watchfulness of your argus to come

here?”

“I escaped at the moment the princess was speaking to him, and my

huntresses were pursuing Actaeon, which character the Baron von

Kaphengst was representing with much humor. I wanted to speak with you,

for I have so much to relate to you. I must open to you my broken, my

unhappy heart. You are my dear, faithful cousin Kindar, and I hope you

will not leave your poor cousin, but give her counsel and assistance.”

Baron von Kindar took Camilla’s offered hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Count upon me as upon your faithful slave, who would gladly die for

you, as he cannot live for your sake.”

“Listen then, beau cousin,” whispered Camilla, smiling. “You know that

my stern, upright husband has left Berlin in order to receive the post

of an ambassador at Copenhagen. I would not accompany him because I was

daily expecting the birth of my child, and the little creature was so

sensible as not to enter the world until after the departure of its

honored father, who, before leaving, had delivered me a lecture on the

subject of his fidelity and tenderness, and of my duties as a lonely

wife and young mother. I was compelled to swear to him among other

things that I would not receive my beau cousin at my house.”

“And you took that oath?” interrupted Kindar, reproachfully.

“I was forced to do so, or he would not have gone, or he would have

taken me with him. Besides this, he left behind his old confidant the

tutor, and told him that you should never be allowed to visit me. And

to place the crown upon his jealousy, he betrayed the secret of his

suspicions to my stepfather, and demanded of him the friendly service

of accompanying me to all fetes and balls, and to prevent you from

approaching me.”

“Am I then so dangerous?” said Kindar, with a faint smile.

“These gentlemen at least appear to think so; and if I did not care so

much for you, I should really hate you, I have suffered so much on your

account.”

Baron von Kindar covered her hand with burning kisses for an answer to

this.

“Be reasonable, beau cousin, and listen to me,” said Camilla, as she

laughingly withdrew her hand. “My husband has been, as I said, in

Copenhagen for eight weeks, and has already entreated me to join him

with the child, as I have entirely recovered.”

“The barbarian!” murmured Kindar.

“I have declined up to this time under one pretext or another. But

yesterday I received a letter from my husband, in which he no longer

entreats me, but dares, as he himself expresses it, to command me to

leave Berlin two days after the receipt of his letter.”

“But that is tyranny which passes all bounds,” cried Kindar. “Does this

wise lord think that his wife must obey him as a slave? Ah, Camilla, you

owe it to yourself to show him that you are a free-born woman, whom no

one dare command, not even a husband.”

“How shall I show him that?” asked Camilla.

“By remaining here,” whispered Kindar. “You dare not think of leaving

Berlin, for you know that the hour of your departure would be the

hour of my death. You know it, for you have long known that I love

you entirely, and that you owe me some recompense for the cruel pain I

suffered when you married another.”

“And in what shall this recompense consist?” asked Camilla with a

coquettish smile.

Baron von Kindar placing his arm around her, whispered: “By remaining

here, adored Camilla, for my sake--in declaring to your hated husband

that you will leave Berlin on no account--that your honor demands that

you should prove to him in the face of his brutal commands, that these

are no commands for you--and that you will follow your own will and

inclination. Therefore you will remain in Berlin.”

“Will you write this letter for me?”

“If I do so, will you consent to remain here, and to open your door to

me in spite of the orders of your husband, or the argus-eyes of your

stepfather?”

“Write the letter, the rest will arrange itself,” said Camilla.

“I will write it to-night. May I bring it to you myself to-morrow

morning?”

“If I say no, will you then be so kind as to give it to my maid?”

“I swear by my honor that I will only give the letter into your own

hands.”

“Well, then, my tyrannical cousin, you force me to open my door to

you in spite of my husband and my stepfather, and in the face of this

Cerberus of a tutor who guards my stronghold.”

“But what do I care for these open doors so long as your heart remains

closed against me, Camilla? Ah, you laugh--you mock at my sufferings.

Have you no pity, no mercy? You see what I suffer, and you laugh.”

“I laugh,” she whispered, “because you are so silly, beau cousin. But

listen, there is the call of my huntresses--I must hasten to them, or

they will surround this cabin and they might enter. Farewell. To-morrow

I will expect you with the letter. Adieu.” Throwing him a kiss with the

tips of her fingers, she hastily left the hut.

Baron von Kindar looked after her with a singular smile. “She is mine,”

he whispered. “We will have a charming little romance, but it will

terminate in a divorce, and not in a marriage. I have no idea of

following up this divorce by a marriage. God protect me from being

forced to marry this beautiful, frivolous, coquettish woman.”

While this scene was taking place in one part of the forest, the fete

continued gayly. They sang and laughed, and jested, and no one dreamed

that dark sin was casting its cold shadow over this bright scene--that

the cowardly crime of treachery had already poisoned the pure air of

this forest. None suspected it less than Prince Henry himself. He was

happy and content that this fete had succeeded so well--that this bright

autumn day had come opportunely to his aid. The sun penetrated to

his heart and made it warm and joyous. He had just made a little tour

through the forest with some of his cavaliers, and had returned to the

tent on the bank of the lake, where he had last seen the princess amid a

bevy of nymphs, but she was no longer there, and none of the ladies knew

where she had gone.

“She has retired to her hut,” said the prince to himself, as he turned

smilingly toward the thick woods. “The only thing is to discover her

hut; without doubt she is there and expects me to seek her. Now, then,

may fortune assist me to discover my beloved. I must find her if only

to prove to her that my love can overcome all difficulties and penetrate

every mystery. There are twenty-four huts--I know their situation. I

will visit each, and it will be strange indeed if I cannot discover my

beautiful Wilhelmina.”

He advanced with hasty steps in the direction of the huts. By a singular

coincidence they were all vacant, the ivy wreath was displayed on none,

and the prince could enter and convince himself that no one was within.

He had visited twenty-three of the huts without finding the object

of his search. “I will go to the last one,” said the prince, gayly;

“perhaps the gods have led me astray only that I might find happiness at

the end of my path.” He saw the last hut in the distance. It nestled in

the midst of low bushes, looking quiet and undisturbed, and on the

door hung the ivy wreath. The heart of the prince beat with joy, and he

murmured, “She is there--I have found her,” as he hastened toward the

hut. “No,” he said, “I dare not surprise her. I must consider the law

sacred which I made. The ivy wreath is before the door--no one dare

enter. But I will lie down before the door, and when she comes out she

roust cross my body or fall into my arms.” The prince approached the hut

quietly, careful to avoid making any noise. When he had reached it, he

sank slowly upon the grass, and turned his eyes upon the door, which

concealed his beloved one from his view.

Deep silence reigned. This was a charming spot, just suited for a tender

rendezvous, and full of that sweet silence which speaks so eloquently to

a loving heart. In the distance could be heard the sound of the hunter’s

horn, whilst the great trees rustled their leaves as though they wished

to mingle their notes in the universal anthem. The prince gavo himself

up for a long time to the sweet pleasures of this solitude, turning

his smiling glance first to the heavens where a few white clouds

were floating, and then again to earth, where some glittering insect

attracted his gaze.

But what was it which pierced through him with a deadly horror--which

made him become so pale, and turn his flashing eyes with an

indescribable expression of dread toward the hut? Why did he partially

arise from his reclining position as the hunter does, who sees the prey

approach that he wishes to destroy? What was it that made him press his

lips so tightly, one against the other, as if he would repress a cry of

agony, or an execration? And why does he listen now with bated breath,

his gaze fixed upon the hut, and both hands raised, as if to threaten

an approaching enemy? Suddenly he sprang up, and rushed trembling to the

door, and, while in the act of bursting it open, he fell back, pale

as death, as if his foot had trodden upon a poisonous serpent. Thus

retreating, with wildly staring eyes, with half-open lips, which seemed

stiffened in the very act of uttering a shriek, he slowly left the

hut, and then suddenly, as if he could no longer look at any thing so

frightful, he turned and fled from the spot as if pursued by furies.

Farther, always farther, until his strength and his breath were

exhausted; then he sank down.

“It was cowardly to fly,” he murmured; “but I felt that I should

murder them, if they came out of the hut before my eyes. A voice within

whispered, ‘Fly, or you will be a murderer!’ I obeyed it almost against

my will. It was cowardly--an unpardonable error, but I will return to

the hut.”

He sprang forward like a tiger, ready to fall upon his prey. His hand

involuntarily sought his side for his sword.

“Ah, I have no weapon,” he said, gnashing his teeth, “I must murder them

with my hands.”

He advanced with uplifted head, defiant as a conqueror, or as one who

has overcome death and has nothing to fear. The hut was again before

him, but it no longer smiled at him; it filled him with horror and fury.

Now he has reached it, and with one blow he bursts open the door; but it

is empty. The prince had not remarked that the ivy-wreath was no longer

displayed, and that the hut was therefore vacant.

“They are gone,” he murmured. “This time they have escaped punishment,

but it surely awaits them.”

CHAPTER IX. BROTHER AND SISTER.

A month had passed since Amelia dispatched her emissary to the queen’s

fireman, and she had as yet received no definite intelligence. General

Riedt had called but once; he told her he had succeeded in interesting

the Savoyard in Trenck’s fate, and he had promised to remind the empress

of the unfortunate prisoner. But a condition must be attached to this

promise: no one must approach him again on this subject; it must be

kept an inviolable secret. Only when Trenck was free would the fireman

receive the other half of the stipulated sum; if he failed in his

attempt, he would return the money he now held.

This was all that the princess had heard from Vienna; her heart was

sorrowful--almost hopeless. Trenck still sat in his wretched prison at

Magdeburg, and she scarcely dared hope for his release.

It was a dark, tempestuous November day. The princess stood at the

window, gazing at the whirling snow-flakes, and listening to the howling

of the pitiless storm. They sounded to her like the raging shrieks of

mocking, contending spirits, and filled her heart with malignant joy.

“Many ships will go down to destruction in the roaring sea; many men

will lose all that they possess,” she murmured, with a coarse laugh.

“God sends His favorite daughter, the bride of the winds; she sings a

derisive song to men; she shows them how weak, how pitiful they are. She

sweeps away their possessions--touches them on that point where alone

they are sensitive. I rejoice in the howling, whistling tempest! This

is the voice of the great world-spirit, dashing by in the thunder, and

making the cowardly hearts of men tremble. They deserve this punishment;

they are utterly unworthy and contemptible. I hate, I despise them all!

Only when I see them suffer can I be reconciled to them. Aha! the storm

has seized a beautifully-dressed lady. How it whirls and dashes her

about! Look how it lifts her robe, making rare sport of her deceitful,

affected modesty. Miserable, variegated butterfly that you are, you

think yourself a goddess of youth and beauty. This wild tempest teaches

you that you are but a poor, pitiful insect, tossed about in the world

like any other creeping thing--a powerless atom. The storm first takes

possession of your clothes, now of your costly hat. Wait, my lady,

wait! one day it will take your heart; it will be crushed and broken to

pieces--there will be none to pity. The world laughs and mocks at the

wretched. Misfortune is the only disgrace which is never forgiven. You

may be a thief, a murderer, and you will be pardoned if you are adroit

enough to slip your head from the noose. Criminals are pitied and

pardoned, unfortunates never. Ah, this is a mad, gay world, and they are

fools who take it earnestly; who do not laugh--laugh even as I do.”

The princess laughed aloud--if that could be called a laugh, from which

she shuddered back herself in terror.

“It is bitter cold here,” she said, shuddering; “I think I shall never

be warm again. I am always freezing, and this miserable frost has turned

my heart and soul to ice. I would like to know if they will thaw in the

grave?”

She stepped slowly from the window, and crept through the large, empty

room to the chimney, where a large wood-fire was burning--now flickering

up in clear flames, now breaking into glowing coals.

Amelia took the poker, and amused herself by dashing the coals apart,

and watching the flashing, dancing flames. The fire seemed to embrace

her whole figure, and threw a rosy shimmer over her wan and fallen

cheeks. She gazed deep down into the glowing coals, and murmured broken,

disconnected words. From time to time a mocking smile trembled on her

lips, then heavy sighs wrung her breast. Was she perhaps telling the

fire of the flames which raged within her bosom? Was she perhaps a

magician, who understood the language of these mysterious tongues of

flame, and answered their burning questions? The hasty opening of the

door aroused her from her dreams, and a page entered and announced in a

loud voice--“His majesty the king!”

Amelia bowed her head, and advanced slowly and with a stern countenance

to meet the king, who now appeared at the threshold.

“May I enter, my sister, or do you command me to withdraw?” said

Frederick, smiling.

“The king has no permission to ask,” said Amelia, earnestly; “he is

everywhere lord and master. The doors of all other prisons open before

him, and so also do mine.”

Frederick nodded to the page to leave the room and close the door, then

advanced eagerly to meet his sister. Giving her his hands he led her to

the divan, and seated himself beside her.

“You regard me then as a kind of jailer?” he said, in a gentle, loving

voice.

“Can a king be any thing but a jailer?” she said, roughly. “Those who

displease him, he arrests and casts into prison, and not one of his

subjects can be sure that he will not one day displease him.”

“You, at least, my sister, have not this to fear, and yet you have just

called this your prison.”

“It is a prison, sire.”

“And am I, then, your jailer?”

“No, sire, life is my jailer.”

“You are right, there, Amelia. Life is the universal jailer, from whom

death alone can release us. The world is a great prison, and only fools

think themselves free. But we are involuntarily commencing an earnest,

philosophical conversation. I come to you to rest, to refresh myself; to

converse harmlessly and cheerfully, as in our earlier and happier days.

Tell me something, dear sister, of your life, your occupations, and your

friends?”