“That is easily done, and requires but few words,” said Amelia,

hoarsely. “Of my life I have already told you all that can be said. Life

is my jailer, and I look longingly to death, who alone can release me.

As to my well-being, there is nothing to say; all is evil, only evil

continually. My occupations are monotonous, I am ever asleep. Night and

day I sleep and dream; and why should I awake? I have nothing to hope,

nothing to do. I am a superfluous piece of furniture in this castle, and

I know well you will all rejoice when I am placed in the vault. I am an

old maid, or, if you prefer it, I am a wall-frog, who has nothing to

do but creep into my hole, and, when I have vitality enough, to spit my

venom upon the passers-by. As to my friends, I have nothing to relate;

I have no friends! I hate all mankind, and I am hated by all. I am

especially on my guard with those who pretend to love me; I know that

they are deceitful and traitorous, that they are only actuated by

selfish motives.”

“Poor sister,” said the king, sadly; “how unhappy must you be to speak

thus! Can I do nothing to alleviate your misfortune?”

Amelia laughed loudly and scornfully. “Forgive me, your majesty, but

your question reminds me of a merry fairy tale I have just read of a

cannibal who is in the act of devouring a young girl. The poor child

pleaded piteously for her life, naturally in vain. ‘I cannot, of course,

give you your life,’ said the cannibal, ‘but I will gladly grant you any

other wish of your heart. Think, then, quickly, of what you most desire,

and be assured I will fulfil your request.’ The pretty maiden, trembling

with horror and despair, could not collect her thoughts. Then, after

a short pause, the cannibal said, ‘I cannot wait; I am hungry! but in

order to grant you a little longer time to determine upon the favor you

will ask, I will not, as I am accustomed to do, devour the head first,

I will commence with the feet.’ So saying, he cut off the legs and

ate them, and on cutting off each limb he graciously asked the poor

shuddering, whimpering being, ‘Well, why do you not think? Is there,

then, no favor I can show you?’ Confess now, sire, that this was a most

magnanimous cannibal.”

Frederick laughed heartily, and appeared not to understand his sister’s

double meaning.

“You are right,” said he; “that is a merry fairy tale, and brings the

tears to my eyes--I scarcely know whether from laughter or weeping.

Where did you read it, my sister?”

“The fire-spirits who spring up and down in the chimney so lustily,

related it to me. Oh, sire, these are merry sprites; and often in my

solitude, when I am sitting in my arm-chair in the chimney-corner, they

nod to me, and chat freely of by-gone times, and the days which are to

come.”

“I fear they have not much that is cheerful or encouraging, certainly

not much that is interesting to tell you,” said Frederick.

“To those who, like us, have passed the meridian of life, and are going

rapidly down-hill, the surroundings become ever duller and more drear;

for us there are no more great and agreeable surprises; the farther they

advance, the more lonely and desolate it appears; life has no more to

offer, and they are glad at last to reach the valley and lie down in

quiet graves. But while we live and are still wanderers, Amelia, we must

not fold our hands in idleness; we must work and achieve. You also,

my sister, must be active and energetic; an unusual opportunity is now

offered you. The Abbess of Quedlinberg is dead, and you can now enter

upon her duties.”

“And your majesty thinks it is really a worthy vocation for me to go

to Quedlinberg and become the shepherdess of that fearful flock of old

maids who took refuge in a nunnery because no man desired them? No, your

majesty, do not send me to Quedlinberg; it is not my calling to build

up the worthy nuns into saints of the Most High. I am too unsanctifled

myself to be an example to them, and, in fact, I feel no inclination to

purify them from their sins.”

“Well, that might be found a difficult task,” said the king, laughing,

“and it would not make you beloved. Men love nothing so much as their

vices, and they hate those who would free them from their cherished

yoke. You can, however, remain in Berlin and still accept this office,

once so worthily rilled by the lovely Aurora of Konigsmark. King

Augustus gave her, at least, with this refuge, provided by his love, a

rich widow’s income; and you can now, Amelia, enjoy the fruit of that

love which at one time filled all Europe with admiration. The salary

of the abbess amounts to seventeen thousand thalers, and I think this

addition to your fortune will be welcome. Your income will now be forty

thousand thalers.”

“Lodging and fuel included,” said Amelia, with a sarcastic laugh. “Look

you, sire, I see that I have nothing to complain of. My hospital is

splendidly endowed, and if I should ever become miserly, I may be able

to lay aside a few thalers yearly.”

“I will gladly put it in your power to lay aside a larger sum, if you

become covetous,” said the king; “and I beg you, therefore, to allow me

the pleasure of raising your salary as princess, six thousand thalers.”

[Footnote: History of Berlin and Court.]

Amelia looked at him distrustfully. “You are very gracious to me to-day,

my brother. You grant favors before I ask them. I confess to you this

alarms and agitates me. You have perhaps some bad news to disclose,

and fearing I will be crushed by it, you desire, beforehand, to apply a

balsam.”

The king’s glance was tender and sympathetic. “Poor Amelia! you will,

then, never believe in my affection,” said he, mildly. “You distrust

even your brother! Oh, Amelia! life has hardened us both. We entered

upon the stage of life with great but fleeting illusions. How gloriously

grand and beautiful did the world appear to us; now we look around us

soberly, almost hopelessly! What remains of our ideals? What has become

of the dreams of our youth?”

“The storm-winds have shattered and scattered them,” cried Amelia,

laughing. “The evil fiend has ploughed over the fair soil of your youth

and turned it to stone and ashes. I am content that this is so I would

rather wander amongst ruins and dust and ashes than to walk gayly over

a smooth surface with whose dark caves and pitfalls I was unacquainted,

and which might any day ingulf me. When both foundation and

superstructure lie in ruins at your feet, you have nothing more to fear.

But I say this for myself, sire, not for you, the fame-crowned king,

who has astonished the world by his victories, and now fills it with

admiration by the wisdom with which he governs his subjects and advances

the glory of his kingdom!”

“My child,” said the king, mildly, “fame has no longer any attraction

for me. Nero was also renowned; he burned cities and temples, and

tortured Seneca to death. Erostratus succeeded in making his name

imperishable I am utterly indifferent as to the world’s admiration of

my wisdom and power to govern. I try to do my duty as a king. But I tell

you, child, in one little corner of the king’s heart there remains ever

something human, and the poor creature man sometimes cries out for a

little personal comfort and happiness. One may be very rich as a king,

but poor--oh, how poor--as a man! Let us, however, dismiss these sad

thoughts. I was speaking to you of money, Amelia. We will return to this

theme. I cannot prevent your heart from suffering, but I can secure to

you every outward good. Your income, until now, has been small; tell me

what debts you have contracted, and I will pay them!”

“Your majesty falls into my room like a shower of gold,” cried Amelia;

“you will find no Danae here, only an ugly old maid, who is, however,

ready to receive the glittering treasure; but you give me credit for too

good a memory when you think I know the amount of my debts. I only know

the sum now in my casket.”

“And what is the amount, Amelia?”

“A cipher, sire; your majesty knows this is the end of the month.”

“I know it, my sister; and I therefore beg you to accept from me to-day

a small sum in advance. I dreamt last night that you had recently

been called upon to pay out four thousand louis d’or. This dream was

significant; it seemed to me a suggestion to give you this sum. I

therefore sent, in your name, an order on my treasurer for four thousand

louis d’or.”

Amelia looked at him and trembled with terror. “Do you know the use to

which I have applied this sum?” said she, breathlessly.

“My dream was silent on this point,” said Frederick, rising; “it

only told me that you needed this amount, nothing more. If I had been

curious, I might have asked your page, who has an acute ear, and for

whom no key-hole is too small.”

“Ah, he has betrayed me, then,” murmured Amelia.

Frederick did not appear to hear her; he took his hat, and offered his

sister his hand. Amelia did not see it, she stood as if turned to stone

in the middle of the room, and as the king advanced toward the door, she

stepped slowly and mechanically after him.

Suddenly the king turned and looked at his sister.

“I had almost forgotten to tell you a piece of news,” said he,

carelessly; “something which will perhaps interest you, Amelia. Even at

this moment a prisoner is being released from his cell and restored to

life and liberty. The Empress Maria Theresa, influenced by her fireman,

it is said, has appealed to me--”

Princess Amelia uttered a heart-rending shriek, and rushing forward she

seized the arm of the king with both her trembling hands.

“Brother! oh, brother, be merciful! do not make cruel sport of me. I

acknowledge I appealed to the fireman of the empress. I offered him four

thousand louis d’or if he would intercede for Trenck. I see that you

know all; I deny nothing. If I have committed a crime worthy of

death, condemn me; but do not inflict such fearful tortures before my

execution. Do not mock at my great grief, but be pitiful. Look upon

me brother; look at my withered limbs, my deformed visage; is not my

punishment sufficient? torture me no longer. You return me the sum of

money I sent to Vienna; does that mean that you have discovered and

destroyed my plot? Is this so, brother? Have you the heart to play this

cruel jest with me? Having thus made my last attempt fruitless, do you

tell me in mockery that Trenck is free?” She held the arm of the

king firmly, and half sinking to her knees, she looked up at him

breathlessly.

“No, Amelia,” said Frederick, and his voice trembled with emotion. “No,

I have not that cruel courage. The hand of your clock points now to

twelve; at this moment Trenck leaves Magdeburg in a closed carriage,

accompanied by two soldiers. To-morrow he will reach Prague, and then he

is free to go where he will, only not in Prussia. Trenck is free.”

“Trenck is free!” repeated Amelia, with a shout of joy; she sprang from

her knees, clasped the king in a close embrace, and wept upon his

bosom such tears as she had not shed for many long years--tears of holy

happiness, of rapture inexpressible; then suddenly releasing him, she

ran rapidly about the room, in the midst of bitter weeping breaking out

into loud ringing laughter, a laugh which rung so fresh, so joyous, it

seemed an echo from her far-off happy childhood. “Trenck is free! free!”

repeated she again; “and, oh, unspeakable happiness! I obtained him his

liberty! ah, no, not I, but a poor Savoyard who wished a dower for his

daughter. Oh, ye great ones of the earth, speak no more of your glory

and power, a poor Savoyard was mightier than you all! But no, no; what

have I said? you, my brother, you have released him. To you Trenck owes

his life and liberty. I thank you that these fearful chains, which

held my soul in bondage, have fallen apart. Once more I breathe freely,

without the appalling consciousness that every breath I draw finds this

echo in a cavern of the earth. You have released me from bondage, oh,

my brother, and henceforth I will love you with all the strength of my

being. Yes, I will love you,” cried she, eagerly; “I will cling to you

with unchanging constancy; you will ever find in me a faithful ally. I

can be useful. I cannot act, but I can listen and watch. I will be your

spy. I will tell you all I see. I will read all hearts and make known to

you their thoughts. Even now I have something to disclose; do not trust

your brothers. Above all others put no faith in Prince Henry; he hates

you with a perfect hatred for the sake of Augustus William, who, he

says, died of your contempt and cruelty. Trust him in nothing; he is

ambitious, he envies you your throne; he hates me also, and calls me

always ‘La fee malfaisant.’ He shall be justified in this! I will be for

him La fee malfaisant. I will revenge myself for this hatred. Without

my help, however, he will soon be sufficiently punished. His beautiful

Wilhelmina will revenge me.”

She broke out in wild and convulsive laughter, and repeated again and

again in joyous tones, “Yes, yes, his beautiful Wilhelmina will punish

him for calling me an old witch.”

The king shuddered at her mad laughter, and was oppressed by her

presence; her mirth was sadder than her tears. He bade her a silent

adieu, and hastened away as if flying from a pestilence. The princess

did not detain him; she had fallen upon a chair, and staring immovably

before her, she cried out: “Trenck is free! Trenck is free! Life is his

once more! I must, I will live till I have seen him once more. Then,

when my poor eyes have looked upon him yet once again, then I will

die--die!” [Footnote: This wish of the princess was fulfilled after

the death of Frederick the Great. Trenck received permission from his

successor, Frederick William II., to return to Berlin. He was graciously

received at court; his first visit, even before he was announced to the

king, was paid to the Princess Amelia. She received him in the same room

in which, forty-seven years before, they had passed so many happy hours.

Upon the same spot, where, beautiful in youth and grace, they had once

sworn eternal love and faith, they now looked upon each other and sought

in vain, in these fallen and withered features, for any trace of those

charms, which had once enraptured them. Trenck remained many hours with

her; they had much to relate. He confessed freely all the events of his

fantastic and adventurous life. She listened with a gentle smile, and

forgave him for all his wanderings and all his sins. On taking leave he

promised the princess to bring his oldest daughter and present her, and

Amelia promised to be a mother to her. Death, however, prevented the

fulfilment of these promises. It appeared as if this interview had

exhausted her remaining strength. In 1786, a few days after the meeting

with Trenck, Amelia died. Trenck lived but a few years; he went to

France and died under the guillotine in 1793. As he sat with his

companions upon the car on their way to execution, he said to the gaping

crowd: “Eh bien, eh bien, de quoi vous eurerveillez-vous? C’eci n’est

qu’une comedie a la Robespierre.” These were Trenck’s last words; a few

moments afterward his head fell under the guillotine.]

Suddenly she sprang from her seat. “I must know Trenck’s future; I must

draw his horoscope. I must question the cards as to his destiny, and

know whether happiness or misery lies before him. Yes, I will summon my

fortune-teller. There is a destiny which shapes our ends.”

CHAPTER X. THE STOLEN CHILD.

It was a dark, stormy December night. The long-deserted streets of

Berlin were covered with deep snow. By the glare of a small oil-lamp

affixed to a post, the tall form of a man, wrapped in a large

travelling-cloak, could be seen leaning against a wall; he was gazing

fixedly at the houses opposite him. The snow beat upon his face, his

limbs were stiff from the cold winter wind, his tooth chattered, but he

did not seem to feel it. His whole soul, his whole being was filled with

one thought, one desire. What mattered it to him if he suffered, if he

died? As a dark shadow appeared; in the opposite door, life and energy

once more came back to the stoic. He crossed the street hastily.

“Well, doctor,” said he, eagerly, “what have you discovered?”

“It is as your servant informed you, my lord. Your wife, Lady Elliot,

is not at home. She is at a ball at Count Verther’s, and will not return

till after midnight.”

“But my child? my daughter?” said Lord Elliot, in a trembling voice.

“She, of course, is at home, my lord. She is in the chamber adjoining

your former sleeping apartment. No one but the nurse is with her.”

“It is well--I thank you, doctor. All I now require of you is to send my

valet, whom I sent to your house after me, with my baggage. Farewell!”

He was rushing away, but the doctor detained him.

“My lord,” said he, in a low and imploring voice, “consider the matter

once more before you act. Remember that you will thus inform all Berlin

of your unfortunate wedded life, and become subject to the jeers and

laughter of the so-called nobility; lowering the tragedy of your house

to a proverb.”

“Be it so,” said Lord Elliot, proudly, “I have nothing to fear. The

whole world knows that my honor is stained; before the whole world will

I cleanse it.”

“But in doing so, my lord, you disgrace your wife.”

“Do you not think she justly deserves it?” said Lord Elliot, harshly.

“But you should have it on her wish.”

“Doctor, when one has suffered as I have, every feeling is extinguished

from the heart but hatred. As I have not died of grief, I shall live to

revenge my sufferings. My determination is unalterable. I must and will

tear my child from the bad influence of her mother, then I will punish

the guilty.”

“Consider once more, my lord--wait this one night. You have just arrived

from a hasty, disagreeable journey; you are excited, your blood is in a

fever heat, and now without allowing yourself a moment’s rest, you wish

to commence your sad work.”

“I must have my child. You know that as it is a girl the mother can

dispute this right with me, for by the laws of this land in case of

divorce, the daughters are left to their mother.”

“You should endeavor to obtain her by kindness.”

“And suppose that Camilla, not out of love to the child, but to wound

and torture me, should refuse me my daughter, what then? Ah! you are

silent, doctor; you see I cannot act otherwise.”

“I fear, my lord, you will have some trouble in getting the child. Lady

Elliot has lately changed all the servants engaged by you, not one of

them was allowed to remain. It is most likely that none of the present

servants know you, and therefore you will not be obeyed.”

“My plans are all arranged, they shall not prevent me from fulfilling

them.”

“But if they refuse to let you enter?”

“Ah, but I shall not ask them, for I have the keys necessary to enter

my own house. When I left home, Camilla threw them laughing and

jesting into my trunk--I now have them with me. All your objections are

confuted. Again, farewell. If you wish to give me another token of your

friendship, meet me at the depot in an hour. I will be there with my

child.”

He pressed the doctor’s hand tightly, and then hurried into the house.

Noiselessly he mounted the steps. He now stood in front of the large

glass door leading to his dwelling; he leaned for a moment against the

door gasping for breath--for a moment a shuddering doubt overcame him;

he seemed to see the lovely countenance of Camilla, bedewed with tears,

imploring his mercy, his pity. “No, no! no pity, no mercy,” he murmured;

“onward, onward!”

He drew forth a key, opened the door and closed it noiselessly

behind him. A bright lamp burned in the hall; sounds of laughing and

merry-making could be heard from the servants’ hall; the cries of a

child, and the soft lullaby of a nurse from above. No one saw or heard

the dark form of their returned master pass slowly through the hall. No

one saw him enter his former sleeping apartments. He was so conversant

with the room that he found his way in the dark without difficulty to

his secretary. Taking from it a candle and some matches, he soon had a

bright light. He then glanced sternly around the room. All was as usual,

not a chair had been moved since he left. Beneath the secretary were the

scraps of letters and papers he had torn up the day of his journey. Even

the book he had been reading that morning lay upon the table in front

of the sofa; beside it stood the same silver candlesticks, with the same

half-burnt candles. It had all been untouched; only he, the master of

the apartment, had been touched by the burning hand of misfortune--he

alone was changed, transformed. He smiled bitterly as his eye glanced at

every object that formerly contributed to his happiness. Then taking

up the light, he approached the table upon which stood the two silver

candlesticks; lighting one after the other, the large, deserted-looking

chamber became illuminated, bringing the pictures on the walls, the

heavy satin curtains, the handsome furniture, the tables covered with

costly knick-knacks, the large Japan vases, and a huge clock upon the

mantel-piece, into view. All bore a gay and festive appearance, much at

variance with the unfortunate man’s feelings.

His glance had wandered everywhere. Not once, however, had his eye

strayed to two large pictures hanging on the left side of the room. The

one was of himself--gay, smiling features, a bright glance such as was

never now seen upon his countenance. The other was Camilla--Camilla in

her bridal robes, as beautiful and lovely as a dream, with her glorious,

child-like smile in which he had so long believed--for which, seeing

in it the reflection of her pure, innocent soul, she was so unspeakably

dear to him. To these two pictures he had completely turned his back,

and was walking sadly up and down the room. He now raised his head

proudly, and his countenance, which but a moment before had been sad and

dejected, was now daring and energetic.

“It is time,” murmured he.

With a firm hand he grasped a bell lying upon the table. Its loud,

resounding ring disturbed the deep stillness that reigned throughout the

apartments, causing Lord Elliot’s heart to tremble with woe. But there

was no noise--all remained quiet. Lord Elliot waited awhile, then

opening the door passed into the hall. Returning, he again rang the bell

long and loudly. “They cannot fail to hear me now,” said he.

Several doors were now opened by some of the servants, but their terror

was such that they retreated in haste, slamming the doors behind them.

Lord Elliot rang again. A servant now hastened forward; another

soon followed; a third door was opened from which sprang a lively,

trim-looking lady’s maid. She was followed by the house girl. Even

the cook rushed up the steps. All hurried forward to a room which was

generally kept locked, but which now stood wide open. All gazed at the

man standing there scanning them with an earnest, commanding glance.

They stood thus lost in wonder for a moment, then Lord Elliot approached

the door.

“Do you know me--you, there?” said he.

“No, we do not know you,” said the waiter, with some hesitation. “We do

not know you, and would like to know by what right--”

“There is no question here of your likes or dislikes, but of the orders

you will receive from me. Do you know the picture next to the one of

your mistress?”

“We have been told that it is our master, Lord Elliot.”

Lord Elliot advanced nearer the picture, and stood beneath it. “Do you

know me now?” said he.

The servants examined him critically for a time, then whispered and

consulted together.

“Now do you know me?” repeated Lord Elliot.

“We think we have the honor of seeing his excellency, Lord Elliot,” said

the waiter.

“Yes, Lord Elliot,” repeated the lady’s-maid, the house-girl, and the

cook, bowing respectfully.

He ordered them to enter the room. Tremblingly they obeyed him.

“Are these all the servants, or are there any more of you?” said he.

“No one but the nurse, who is with the little lady, and the coach-man

who is in the stable.”

“That is right. Come nearer, all of you.”

As they obeyed, he closed and locked the door, dropping the key in his

pocket. The servants looked at him in wonder and terror, hardly daring

to breathe. Though they had never seen their master, they knew by his

stern, expressive countenance that something remarkable was about to

transpire. Like all other servants, they were well acquainted with the

secrets, the behavior of their employer. They were, therefore, convinced

that their mistress was the cause of their master’s strange conduct.

“Do not dare to move from this spot--do not make a sound,” said Lord

Elliot, taking a light and advancing to a second door. “Remain here.

If I need you I will call.” Throwing a last look at the servants, Lord

Elliot entered the adjoining room, drawing the bolt quickly behind him.

“All is right now.” said he, softly. “None of them can fly to warn

Camilla to return.” Candle in hand, he passed through the chamber,

looking neither to right nor left. He wished to ignore that he was now

in Camilla’s room, which was associated with so many painfully sweet

remembrances to him. He entered another room--he hurried through it. As

he passed by the large bedstead surrounded by heavy silk curtains, the

candle in his hand shook, and a deep groan escaped his breast. He now

stood at the door of the next chamber. He stopped for a moment to gain

breath and courage. With a hasty movement he threw open the door and

entered. His heart failed him when he beheld the peaceful scene before

him. A dark shady carpet covered the floor, simple green blinds hung at

the windows. There were no handsome paintings on the wall, no glittering

chandelier, no bright furniture, and still the apartment contained a

wondrous tenement, a great treasure. For in the middle of the room stood

a cradle, in the cradle lay his child, his first-born--the child of his

love, of his lost happiness. He knew by the great joy that overcame him,

by the loud beating of his heart, by the tears that welled to his eyes,

that this was his child. He prayed God to bless it--he swore to love it

faithfully to all eternity. He at last found the strength to approach

the little sleeping being whose presence rilled him with such wild joy.

The nurse sat by the cradle fast asleep. She did not see Lord Elliot

kneel beside the cradle and look tenderly at the sleeping face of her

nursling--she did not see him kiss the child, then lay its little hands

upon his own bowed head as if he needed his little daughter’s blessing

to strengthen him. But all at once she was shaken by a strong hand, and

a loud, commanding voice ordered her to wake up, to open her eyes. She

sprang from her chair in terror--she had had a bad dream. But there

still stood the strange man, saying in a stern voice, “Get up and

prepare to leave here at once with me.”

She wished to cry for help, but as she opened her mouth, he threw his

strong arm around her. “If you make a sound, I take the child and leave

you here alone. I have the right to command here--I am the father of

this child.”

“Lord Elliot!” cried the nurse, in amazement.

Lord Elliot smiled. This involuntary recognition of his right did him

good and softened him.

“Fear nothing,” said he, kindly, “no harm shall happen to you. I take

you and the child. If you love and are kind to it, you shall receive

from me a pension for life; from to-day your wages are doubled. For

this I demand nothing, but that you should collect at once the necessary

articles of clothing of this child, and put them together. If you are

ready in fifteen minutes, I will give you this gold piece.”

He looked at his watch, and took from his purse a gold piece, which lent

wings to the stout feet of the nurse.

“Is all you need in here?” said he.

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he took his light and left the

chamber. Before leaving, however, he locked another door leading into

the hall, so as to prevent the possible escape of the nurse.

As he entered Camilla’s boudoir his countenance became dark and stern;

every gentle and tender feeling that his child had aroused now fled

from his heart. He was now the insulted husband, the man whose honor was

wounded in its most sensitive point--who came to punish, to revenge, to

seek the proofs of the guilt he suspected. He placed the light upon

the table, and opened his wife’s portfolio to seek for the key of her

drawer, which was generally kept there. It was in its usual place. Lord

Elliot shuddered as he touched it; it felt like burning fire in his

hand.

“It is the key to my grave,” murmured he.

With a firm hand he put the key in the lock, opened the drawer, and drew

out the letters and papers it contained. There were his own letters, the

letters of love and tenderness he had sent her from Copenhagen; among

them he found others full of passionate proofs of the criminal and

unholy love he had come to punish. Camilla had not had the delicacy

to separate her husband’s from her lover’s letters; she had carelessly

thrown them in the same drawer. As Lord Elliot saw this he laughed

aloud, a feeling of inexpressible contempt overpowered his soul and

deadened his pain. He could not continue to love one who had not only

been faithless to him, but wanting in delicacy to the partner of her

sin.

Lord Elliot read but one of the beau cousin’s letters, then threw it

carelessly aside. He did not care to read more of the silly speeches,

the guilty protestations of constancy of her insipid lover. He searched

but for one letter; he wished to find the original of the last one

Camilla had written to him, for he knew her too well to give her credit

for the composition of that cold, sneering, determined letter. He

wished, therefore, to find the author, whose every word had pierced his

soul like a dagger, driving him at first almost to madness.

A wild, triumphant cry now escaped from him, resounding fearfully in the

solitary chambers. He had found it! The letter was clutched tightly in

his trembling hands as he read the first lines. It was in the same hand

as the others, it was the writing of his rival, Von Kindar, her beau

cousin.

Lord Elliot folded the paper carefully and hid it in his bosom; then

throwing the others into the drawer, he locked it, placing the key in

the portfolio.

“It is well,” said he, “I have now all I need. This letter is his

death-warrant.”

He took the light and left the room. Fifteen minutes had just elapsed

when he entered his daughter’s chamber. The nurse advanced to meet him,

the child and a bundle of clothes in her arms, and received the promised

gold piece.

“Now, we must hasten,” said he, stepping into the hall.

They passed silently through the house, down the steps, and into the

court-yard. Lord Elliot walked hastily on, followed by the wondering

nurse. He stopped at the stable door, calling loudly upon the coachman

to get up and prepare the horses. At twelve o’clock the coachman was to

go for his mistress; he was therefore dressed, and had only laid down

for a short nap.

“Put the horses to the carriage,” repeated Lord Elliot.

The coachman, raising his lamp, threw a full glare of light upon the

stranger.

“I do not know you,” said he, roughly; “I receive orders from no one but

my mistress.”

For answer, Lord Elliot drew from his breast a pocket pistol.

“If you are not ready in five minutes, I will shoot you through the

head,” said Lord Elliot, quietly, tapping the trigger.

“For God’s sake, obey him, John,” cried the nurse; “it is his excellency

Lord Elliot!”

In five minutes the carriage was ready, owing much more to the loaded

pistol still in Lord Elliot’s hand than to the conviction that this

strange, angry-looking man was his master.

“To the depot!” cried Lord Elliot, placing the child and nurse in the

carriage, then jumping in after them--“to the depot in all haste!”

They reached the building in a few minutes. There stood the horses in

readiness, and beside them Lord Elliot’s servant, with his baggage. He

sprang from the carriage, and, giving the coachman a douceur, ordered

him to loosen the horses and return home with them.

“But, your honor,” stammered the mystified coachman, “how am I to call

for my lady if you take the carriage?”

“My lady can wait,” said Lord Elliot, jeeringly. “If she reproaches you,

tell her that Lord Elliot wishes to be remembered to her; that he will

return in eight days with her carriage.”

“But she will dismiss me from her service, my lord.”

“Wait patiently for eight days, and then you shall enter mine. And now,

away with you!”

The coachman dared not answer, and soon disappeared with his horses.

The fresh horses were put to the carriage, the servant swung himself up

to his seat; Lord Elliot stood in front of the carriage with his friend

Dr. Blitz.

“All has happened as I desired,” said he. “I take my child away with me,

and, with God’s will, she shall never know but that death deprived her

of her mother. Poor child! she has no mother, but I will love her with

all the strength of a father, all the tenderness of a mother, and I have

a noble sister who will guard and watch over her. She awaits me at Kiel.

I accompany my child so far, but as soon as she is in the faithful hands

of my sister, as soon as I have placed them upon the ship sailing for

Copenhagen, I return here.”

“Why should you return, my lord?” said the doctor, in terror. “Is it not

sufficient that you have deprived the mother of her child? that you have

branded the woman with shame before the whole world? What more would you

do, my lord?”

With a strange smile, Lord Elliot laid his hand upon the doctor’s

shoulder.

“Flows there milk instead of blood in your veins, man? or have you

forgotten that I have been hit by a poisoned arrow? I must be revenged,

if I would not die of this wound.”

“Let your wounds bleed, my lord--the longer they bleed, the sooner they

will heal. But why destroy the arrow that wounded you? Will you recover

the sooner or suffer the less?”

“Again I ask you, is there milk instead of blood in your veins? My honor

is stained--I must cleanse it with the blood of my enemy.”

“A duel, then, my lord? You will suffer chance to decide your most holy

and sacred interests--your honor and life? And if chance is against you?

If you fall, instead of your adversary?”

“Then, my friend, God will have decided it, and I shall thank Him for

relieving me from a life which will from henceforth be a heavy burden to

me. Farewell, doctor. I will be with you in eight days, and will again

need your assistance.”

“It is then irrevocable, my lord?”

“Irrevocable, doctor.”

“I shall be ready. God grant that if this sad drama is to end in blood,

it may not be yours!”

They pressed each other’s hands tenderly. Lord Elliot sprang into the

carriage, the coachman whipped his horses, and the carriage in which

were the unfortunate man and the stolen child rolled merrily along the

deserted streets.

CHAPTER XI. THE DISCOVERY.

Prince Henry stood at the window and looked down into the garden. He saw

his wife walking in the park with her ladies, and enjoying the clear,

cool winter day; he heard their gay and merry laughter, but he felt no

wish to join them and share their mirth.

Since that day in the wood, a change had come upon the prince--a dark,

despairing, melancholy had taken possession of him, but he would not let

it be seen; he forced himself to a noisy gayety, and in the presence of

his wife he was the same tender, devoted, complaisant lover he had been

before; but the mask under which he concealed his dislike and scorn was

a cruel torture and terrible agony; when he heard her laugh he felt as

if a sharp dagger had wounded him; when he touched her hand, he could

with difficulty suppress a cry of pain; but he conquered himself, and

kept his grief and jealousy down, down in his heart. It was possible he

was mistaken. It was possible his wife was innocent; that his friend was

true. His own heart wished this so earnestly; his noble and great soul

rebelled at the thought of despising those whom he had once loved and

trusted so fully. He wished to believe that he had had a hurtful

dream; that a momentary madness had darkened his brain; he would rather

distrust all his reflections than to believe that this woman, whom he

had loved with all the strength of his nature, this man whom he had

confided in so entirely, had deceived and betrayed him. It was too

horrible to doubt the noblest and most beautiful, the holiest and

gentlest--to be so confounded, so uncertain in his best and purest

feelings. He could not banish doubt from his heart; like a death-worm,

it was gnawing day and night, destroying his vitality--poisoning every

hour of the day, and even in his dreams uttering horrible words of

mockery. Since the fete in the wood he had been observant, he had

watched every glance, listened to every word; but he had discovered

nothing. Both appeared unembarrassed and innocent; perhaps they

dissembled; perhaps they had seen him as he lay before the hut, and knew

that he had been since that day following and observing them, and by

their candor and simplicity they would disarm his suspicions and lull

his distrust to sleep. This thought kept him ever on his guard; he

would, he must know if he had been betrayed; he must have absolute

certainty. He stood concealed behind the curtains of his window,

and looked down into the garden. His eyes were fixed with a glowing,

consuming expression upon the princess, who, with one of her ladies, now

passed before his window and looked up, but she could not see him, he

was completely hidden behind the heavy silk curtains.

The princess passed on, convinced that if her husband had been in his

room, he would have come forward to greet her.

The prince wished her to come to this conclusion. “Now,” thought he,

“she feels secure; she does not suspect I am observing her, at last I

may find an opportunity to become convinced.”

Count Kalkreuth was there; he had gone down into the garden. He advanced

to meet the princess, they greeted each other, but in their simple,

accustomed manner, he, the count, respectfully and ceremoniously--the

princess dignified, careless, and condescending. And now they walked

near each other, chatting, laughing, charmingly vivacious, and excited

by their conversation.

The prince stood behind his curtain with a loudly-beating heart,

breathless from anxiety; they came nearer; she led the way to the little

lake whose smooth and frozen surface shone like a mirror. The count

pointed to the lake, and seemed to ask a question; the princess nodded

affirmatively, and turning to her ladies, she spoke a few words; they

bowed and withdrew.

“They are going to skate,” murmured the prince. “She has sent her ladies

to bring her skates; she wishes to be alone with the count.”

Breathless, almost in death-agony, he watched them; they stood on

the borders of the lake, and talked quietly. The expressions of their

countenances were unchanged, calm, and friendly; they were certainly

speaking of indifferent things. But what means that? The princess

dropped her handkerchief, seemingly by accident. The count raised it and

handed it to her; she took it and thanked him smilingly, then in a

few moments she put her hand, with a sudden movement, under her velvet

mantle. The prince cried out; he had seen something white in her hand

which she concealed in her bosom.

“A letter! a letter!” cried he, in a heart-breaking tone, and like a

madman pursued by furies, he rushed out.

The Princess Wilhelmina was in the act of having her skates fastened on

by her maid, when Prince Henry advanced with hasty steps from the alley

which led to the lake.

Count Kalkreuth advanced to meet him, and greeted him with gay, jesting

words; but the prince had no word of reply for him; he passed him

silently, with a contemptuous glance, and stepped directly in front of

the princess, who looked up with a kindly smile. He said:

“Madame, it is too cold and rough to skate to-day; I will have the honor

to conduct you to your rooms.”

Princess Wilhelmina laughed heartily. “It is a fresh, invigorating

winter day, my husband. If you are cold, it is not the fault of the

weather, but of your light clothing. I pray you to send for your furs,

and then we will run a race over the ice and become warm.”

Prince Henry did not answer. He seized the arm of the princess and

placed it in his own. “Come, madame, I will conduct you to your

apartment.”

Wilhelmina gazed at him with astonishment, but she read in his excited

and angry countenance that she must not dare oppose him. “Permit me, at

least, to have my skates removed,” said she, shortly, giving a sign to

her maid. The prince stood near, while her maid knelt before her and

removed the skates. Count Kalkreuth was at some distance.

Not one word interrupted the portentous silence. Once the prince uttered

a hasty and scornful exclamation. He had intercepted a glance which

the princess exchanged with Count Kalkreuth, and a glance full of

significance and meaning.

“What is the matter with you, prince?” said Wilhelmina.

“I am cold,” said he roughly, but the perspiration was standing in large

drops on his forehead.

When the skates were taken off, the prince drew his wife on quickly,

without a word or greeting to his friend. Kalkreuth stood pale and

immovable, and gazed thoughtfully upon the glittering ice. “I fear he

knows all,” murmured he. “Oh my God, my God! Why will not the earth open

and swallow me up? I am a miserable, guilty wretch, and in his presence

I must cast my eyes with shame to the ground. I have deceived, betrayed

him, and yet I love him. Woe is me!” He clasped his hands wildly over

his face, as if he would hide from daylight and the glad sun the blush

of shame which burned upon his cheeks; then slowly, with head bowed

down, he left the garden.

The prince, during this time, had walked rapidly on with his wife;

no word was exchanged between them. Only once, when he felt her arm

trembling, he turned and said harshly:

“Why do you tremble?”

“It is cold!” said she, monotonously.

“And yet,” said he, laughing derisively, “it is such lovely,

invigorating weather.”

They went onward silently; they entered the castle and ascended the

steps to the apartment of the princess. Now they were in her cabinet--in

this quiet, confidential family room, where Prince Henry had passed so

many happy hours with his beloved Wilhelmina. Now he stood before her,

with a cold, contemptuous glance, panting for breath, too agitated to

speak.

The princess was pale as death; unspeakable anguish was written in her

face. She dared not interrupt this fearful silence, and appeared to be

only occupied in arranging her toilet; she took off her hat and velvet

mantle.

“Madame,” said the prince at last, gasping at every word, “I am here to

make a request of you!”

Wilhelmina bowed coldly and ceremoniously. “You have only to command, my

husband!”

“Well, then,” said he, no longer able to maintain his artificial

composure. “I command you to show me the letter you have hidden in your

bosom.”

“What letter, prince?” stammered she, stepping back alarmed.

“The letter which Count Kalkreuth gave you in the garden. Do not utter

a falsehood; do not dare to deny it. I am not in a mood to be restrained

by any earthly consideration.”

As he stood thus, opposed to her, with flashing eyes, with trembling

lips, and his arm raised threateningly, Wilhelmina felt that it would be

dangerous, indeed impossible to make any opposition. She knew that the

decisive moment had arrived, the veil must be lifted, and that deception

was no longer possible.

“The letter! give me the letter!” cried the prince, with a menacing

voice.

Wilhelmina gazed at him steadily, with eyes full of scorn and hatred.

“Here it is,” taking the letter calmly from her bosom, and handing it to

the prince.

He snatched it like a tiger about to tear his prey to pieces; but when

he had opened it and held it before him, the paper trembled so in his

hands, he was scarcely able to read it. Once he murmured: “Ah! he dares

to say thou to you; he calls you his ‘adored Wilhelmina!’” He read on,

groaning, sometimes crying out aloud, then muttering wild imprecations.

The princess stood in front of him, pale as death, trembling in every

limb; her teeth were chattering, and she was forced to lean against her

chair to keep from falling.

When the prince had finished reading the letter, he crushed it and

thrust it in his bosom, then fixed his eyes upon his wife with an

expression of such intense, unspeakable misery, that the princess felt

her heart moved to its profoundest depths.

“Oh, my husband,” she said, “curse me!--murder me!--but do not look upon

me thus.” She then sank as if pressed down by an invisible power, to her

knees, and raised her hands to him imploringly.

The prince laughed coarsely, and stepped back. “Rise, madame,” said he,

“we are not acting a comedy--it is only your husband who is speaking

with you. Rise, madame, and give me the key to your secretary. You

will understand that after having read this letter I desire to see the

others. As your husband, I have at least the right to know how much

confidence you have placed in your lover, and how far you return his

passion.”

“You despise me,” cried Wilhelmina, bursting into tears.

“I think I am justified in doing so,” said he, coldly. “Stand up, and

give me the key.”

She rose and staggered to the table. “Here is the key.”

The prince opened the secretary. “Where are the letters, madame?”

“In the upper drawer to the left.”

“Ah,” said lie with a rude laugh, “not even in a secret compartment

have you guarded these precious letters. You were so sure of my blind

confidence in you that you did not even conceal your jewels.”

Princess Wilhelmina did not answer, but as the prince read one after the

other of the letters, she sank again upon her knees. “My God, my God!”

murmured she, “have pity upon me! Send Thy lightning and crush me. Oh,

my God! why will not the earth cover me and hide me from his glance!”

Rivers of tears burst from her eyes, and raising her arms to heaven, she

uttered prayers of anguish and repentance.

The prince read on, on, in these unholy letters. Once he exclaimed

aloud, and rushed with the letter to the princess.

“Is this true?” said he--“is this which you have written, true?”

“What? Is what true?” said Wilhelmina, rising slowly from her knees.

“He thanks you in this letter for having written to him that you have

never loved any man but himself--him--Kalkreuth alone! Did you write the

truth?”

“I wrote it, and it is the truth,” said the princess, who had now fully

recovered her energy and her composure. “Yes, sir, I have loved no one

but Kalkreuth alone. I could not force my heart to love you--you who in

the beginning disdained me, then one day in an idle mood were pleased to

love me, to offer me your favor. I was no slave to be set aside when you

were in the humor, and to count myself blessed amongst women when you

should find me worthy of your high regard. I was a--free born woman, and

as I could not give my hand to him I loved, I gave my heart--that heart

which you rejected. You have the right to kill me, but not to despise

me--to dishonor me.”

“Do I dishonor you when I speak the truth?” cried the prince.

“You do not speak the truth. I have sinned heavily against you. I

suffered your love--I could not return it. I had not the courage when I

saw you, who had so long disdained me, lying at my feet, declaring your

passion and imploring my love in return, to confess to you that I could

never love you--that my heart was no longer free. This is my crime--this

alone. I could not force my heart to love you, but I could be faithful

to my duty, and I have been so. It is not necessary for me to blush

and cast my eyes down before my husband. My love is pure--my virtue

untarnished. I have broken no faith with you.”

“Miserable play on words!” said the prince. “You have been a

hypocrite--your crime is twofold: you have sinned against me--you have

sinned against your love. You have been a base coward who had not the

courage to do justice to the feelings of your own heart. What mean you

by saying you have broken no faith with me? You have acted a daily lie.

Oh, madame, how have I loved you! Both body and soul were lost in that

wild love. When you stood with your lover and listened well pleased to

those glowing confessions of his sinful love, you excused yourself and

thought, forsooth, you were breaking no faith. You have defrauded me of

the woman I loved and the friend whom I trusted. May God curse you, even

as I do! May Heaven chastise you, even as I shall!”

He raised both his hands over her as if he would call down Heaven’s

curse upon her guilty head, then turned and left the room.

CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING AT SANS-SOUCI. It was five o’clock in the

morning. Deep silence reigned, the darkness of night still encompassed

the world, the weary might still sleep and rest, life had recommenced

nowhere, nowhere except at Sans-Souci, nowhere except in the apartment

of the king; while his people slept, the king watched, he watched to

work and think for his people. Without the wind howled and blew the snow

against his window, and made even the fire in his room flicker; but the

king heeded it not. He had completed his toilet and drunk his chocolate;

now he was working. It did not disturb him that his room was cold,

that the candle on his table gave but a poor light, and even seemed

to increase the appearance of discomfort in his apartment; it gave

sufficient light to enable him to read the letters which lay upon his

table, and which had arrived the previous day. His ministers might

sleep--the king waked and worked. He read every letter and petition,

and wrote a few words of answer on the margin of each. After reading all

business communications, the king took his own letters, those that

were addressed to him personally, and came from his absent friends. His

countenance, which before was grave and determined, assumed a soft and

gentle expression, and a smile played upon his lips. The receipts for

to-day were small. There were but few letters, and the large proportion

of them came from relations of the king, or from distant acquaintances.

“No letter from D’Argens,” said the king, smiling. “My ecclesiastic

letter has accomplished the desired end, and the good marquis will

arrive here to-day to rail at, and then forgive me. Ah, here is a letter

from D’Alembert. Well, this is doubtless an agreeable letter, for it

will inform me that D’Alembert accepts my proposal, and has decided to

become the president of my Academy of Science.”

He hastily broke the seal, and while he read a dark cloud overshadowed

his brow. “He declines my offer,” he said, discontentedly. “His pride

consists in a disregard for princes; he wishes posterity to admire him

for his unselfishness. Oh, he does not yet know posterity. She will

either be utterly silent on this subject or, should it be spoken of, it

will be considered an act of folly which D’Alembert committed. He is a

proud and haughty man, as they all are.” He again took the letter and

read it once more, but more slowly and more carefully than before;

gradually the clouds disappeared from his brow, and his eyes beamed with

pleasure.

“No,” he said; “I have misjudged D’Alembert. My displeasure at a

disappointed hope blinded me; D’Alembert is not a small, vain man, but

a free and great spirit. He now refuses my presidency, with a salary of

six thousand thalers, as he last year refused the position of tutor to

the heir of the throne of Russia, with a salary of a hundred thousand

francs. He prefers to be poor and needy, and to live up five flights of

stairs, and be his own master, than to live in a palace as the servant

of a prince. I cannot be angry with him, for he has thought and acted

as a wise man; and were I not Frederick, I would gladly be D’Alembert. I

will not love him less because he has refused my offer. Ah, it is a real

pleasure to know that there are still men who are independent enough

to exercise their will and judgment in opposition to the king. Princes

would be more noble, if those with whom they associated were not so

miserable and shallow-hearted. D’Alembert shall be a lesson and a

consolation to me; there are still men who are not deceivers and

flatterers, fools and betrayers, but really men.”

He carefully refolded the letter, and, before placing it in his

portfolio, nodded to it as pleasantly as if it had been D’Alembert

himself. He then took another letter.

“I do not recognize this writing,” he said, as he examined the address.

“It is from Switzerland, and is directed to me personally. From whom is

it?”

He opened the letter, and glanced first at the signature.

“Ah,” he said, “from Jean Jacques Rousseau! I promised him an asylum.

The free Switzers persecuted the unhappy philosopher, and my good Lord

Marshal prayed my assistance for him. Lord Marshal is now in Scotland,

and it will not benefit him to have his friend here. Well, perhaps it

may lead to his return, if he hopes to find Rousseau here. I must see

what the philosopher says.”

The letter contained only a few lines, which the king read with utter

astonishment. “Vraiment!” he exclaimed; “philosophers all belong to

the devil. This Jean Jacques does not content himself with declining my

offer, but he does it in an unheard-of manner. This is a work of art; I

must read it again.”

The king read aloud in a most pathetic voice: “Votre majeste m’offre un

asyle, et m’y prome la liberte; mais vous avez une epee, et vous etes

roi. Vous m’offrez une pension, a moi, qui n’a rien fait pour vous. Mais

en avez-vous donne a tous les braves gens qui ont perdu bras et jambes

en vos services?”

“Well,” said the king, laughing, “if being a ruffian makes one a

philosopher, Jean Jacques Rousseau deserves to be called the greatest

philosopher in the world. Truly, Fortune is playing curious pranks with

me to-day, and seems determined to lower my royal pride. Two refusals

at one time; two philosophers who decline my invitation. No, not two

philosophers--D’Alembert is a philosopher, but Rousseau is in truth a

fool.”

He tore this letter, and threw the pieces in the fire. He then seized

another letter, but laid it down again before opening it. He had heard

the great clock in the hall strike eight. That was the sign that the

business of the day, which he shared with his attendants, should

begin, and that the king had no more time to devote to his private

correspondence. The last stroke of the clock had scarcely sounded, as

a light knock was heard at the door, which was instantly opened by the

command of the king.

Baron von Kircheisen, the prefect of Berlin, entered the room. He came

to make his weekly report to the king. His respectful greeting was

returned merely by a dark side-glance, and the king listened to his

report with evident displeasure.

“And that is your entire report?” asked his majesty, when the prefect

had finished. “You are the head of police for the city of Berlin, and

you have nothing more to tell me than any policemen might know. You

inform me of the number of arrivals and departures, of the births and

deaths, and of the thefts which have been committed, and that is the

extent of your report.”

“But I cannot inform your majesty of things that have not occurred,”

returned Baron von Kircheisen.

“So nothing else has occurred in Berlin. Berlin is then a most quiet,

innocent city, where at the worst a few greatly-to-be-pitied individuals

occasionally disturb the repose of the righteous by mistaking the

property of others for their own. You know nothing. You do not know

that Berlin is the most vicious and immoral of cities. You can tell me

nothing of the crimes which are certainly not of a kind to be punished

by the law, but which are creeping from house to house, poisoning the

happiness of entire families, and spreading shame and misery on

every hand. You know nothing of the many broken marriage-vows, of the

dissension in families, of the frivolity of the young people who have

given themselves up to gambling and dissipation of all kinds. Much

misery might be avoided if you knew more of these matters, and were

ready with a warning at the right moment.”

“Sire, will you permit me to say that is not the task of the ordinary

police; for such matters a secret police is required.”

“Well, why do you not have a secret police? Why do you not follow the

example of the new minister of police at Paris, De Sartines? That man

knows every thing that happens in Paris. He knows the history of every

house, every family, and every individual. He occasionally warns the men

when their wives are on the point of flying from them. He whispers to

the wives the names of those who turn their husbands from them. He shows

the parents the faro-bank at which their sons are losing their property,

and sometimes extends a hand to save them from destruction. That is a

good police, and it must be acknowledged that yours does not resemble

it.”

“If your majesty desires it, I can establish such a police in Berlin as

De Sartines has in Paris. But your majesty must do two things: First,

you must give me a million of thalers annually.”

“Ah! a million! Your secret police is rather expensive. Continue. What

do you desire besides the million?”

“Secondly, the permission to destroy the peace of families, the

happiness of your subjects--to make the son a spy upon his father--the

mother an informer against her daughter--the students and servants the

betrayers of their teachers and employers. If your majesty will permit

me to undermine the confidence of man to his fellow-man--of the brother

to his sister--of the parents to their children--of the husbands to

their wives by buying their secrets from them--if I may reward such

treachery, then, your majesty, we can have such a police as De Sartines

has in Paris. But I do not think that it will promote propriety or

prevent crime.”

The king had listened to him with increasing interest, his brow growing

clearer and clearer as the bold speaker continued. When he finished,

the king ceased his walk, and stood motionless before him, looking fully

into his excited countenance.

“It is, then, your positive conviction that a secret police brings with

it those evils you have depicted?”

“Yes, your majesty, it is my positive conviction.”

“He may be right,” said the king, thoughtfully. “Nothing demoralizes men

so much as spies and denunciations, and a good government should punish

and not reward the miserable spies who betray their fellow-creatures for

gold with the wicked intention of bringing them into misfortune. A

good government should not follow the Jesuits’ rule--‘That the end

consecrates the means.’”

“Will your majesty, then, graciously allow me to dispense with a secret

police?”

“Well, yes. We will remain as we are, and De Sartines may keep his

secret police. It would not suit us, and Berlin shall not be still

further demoralized by spies and betrayers. Therefore, no more of the

secret police. When crime shows itself by day we will punish it. We will

leave it to Providence to bring it to light. Continue to report to me,

therefore, who has died and who has been born; who have arrived and who

have departed; who has stolen and who has done a good business. I am

well pleased with you--you have spoken freely and bravely, and said

openly what you thought. That pleases me; I am pleased when my agents

have the courage to speak the truth, and dare occasionally to oppose me.

I hope you will retain this virtue.”

He bowed pleasantly to the prefect, and offered him his hand. He then

dismissed him, and ordered the ministers to enter with their reports

and proposals. After these came the council, and only after the king had

worked with them uninterruptedly for three hours, did he think of taking

some repose from all this work, which had occupied him from six o’clock

in the morning until nearly twelve. He was on the point of entering his

library as loud voices in the anteroom arrested his attention.

“But I tell you that the king gives no audiences to-day,” he heard one

of the servants say.

“The king has said that every man who wishes to speak to him shall be

admitted!” exclaimed another voice. “I must speak to the king, and he

must hear me.”

“If you must speak to him, you must arrange it by writing. The king

grants an audience to all who demand it, but he fixes the hour himself.”

“Misery and despair cannot await a fixed hour!” cried the other. “If the

king will not listen to unhappiness when it calls to him for redress,

but waits until it pleases him to hear, he is not a good king.”

“The man is right,” said the king, “I will listen to him immediately.”

He hastily advanced to the door and opened it. Without stood an old man,

poorly dressed, with a pale, thin face, from whose features despair and

sorrow spoke plainly enough to be understood by all. When his great,

sunken eyes fell upon the king, he cried, joyfully, “God be thanked,

there is the king!” The king motioned to him to approach, and the old

man sprang forward with a cry of delight.

“Come into the room,” said the king; “and now tell me what you wish from

me?”

“Justice, your majesty, nothing but justice. I have been through the

war, and I am without bread. I have nothing to live upon, and I have

twice petitioned your majesty for a situation which is now vacant.”

“And I refused it to you, because I had promised it to another.”

“They told me that your majesty would refuse me this situation.” cried

the man, despairingly. “But I cannot believe it, for your majesty owes

it to me, and you are usually a just king. Hasten, your majesty, to

perform your duty, and justify yourself from a suspicion which is

unworthy of your kingly fame.”

The king measured him with a flashing glance, which the pale, despairing

suppliant bore with bold composure.

“By what authority,” asked the king, in a thundering voice, as he

approached the man, with his arm raised threateningly--“by what

authority do you dare speak to me in such a tone? and on what do you

ground your shameless demands?”

“On this, your majesty, that I must starve if you refuse my request.

That is the most sacred of all claims, and to whom on earth dare I turn

with it if not to my king?”

There lay in these words a sorrow so heart-breaking, a plaint so

despairing in the voice, that the king was involuntarily much moved. He

let fall his uplifted arm, and the expression of his countenance became

gentle and tender.

“I see that you are very unhappy and despairing,” he said, kindly; “you

were right to come to me. You shall have the place for which you asked.

I will arrange it. Come here to-morrow to the Councillor Muller. I will

give you some money, that you may not starve until then.”

He silenced the delighted man’s expressions of gratitude, and ringing

his bell he summoned Deesen, who kept his purse, in order to give the

man a gold piece. But Deesen did not appear, and the second chamberlain

announced in an embarrassed manner that lie was not in the palace. The

king commanded him to give the man the promised gold piece and then to

return to him.

“Where is Deesen?” asked the king, as the chamberlain returned.

“Sire, I do not know,” he stammered, his eyes sinking beneath the

piercing glance of the king.

“You do know!” said the king, gravely. “Deesen has positive orders from

me to remain in the anteroom, because I might need him. If he dares to

disobey my orders, he must have a powerful reason, and you know it. Out

with it! I will know it.”

“If your majesty commands, I must speak,” said the chamberlain, sighing.

“Your majesty will not permit us to be married, but we were made with

hearts, and we sometimes fall in love.”

“Deesen is in love, then?” said the king.

“Yes, your majesty, he loves a beautiful girl in Potsdam, whose name is

Maria Siegert. And although he cannot marry her, she has consented to be

his beloved. And as to-day was the great report day, Deesen thought that

your majesty would not need him, and that he had time to go to Potsdam

to visit his sweetheart. He seems to have been delayed. That is the

reason, your majesty, that Deesen is not in the anteroom.”

“Very well,” said the king; “as soon as Deesen returns he must come

to my library. I forbid you, however, to repeat one word of this

conversation.”

“Ah, your majesty, I am well pleased that I need not do it, for Deesen

is very passionate, and if he learns that I have betrayed his secret he

is capable of giving me a box on the ear.”

“Which would, perhaps, be very wholesome for you,” said the king, as he

turned toward his library.

A quarter of an hour later, Deesen entered the library with a heated,

anxious face.

The king, who was reading his beloved Lucretius while he paced the

floor, turned his great, piercing eyes with a questioning expression on

the anxious face of his attendant. “I called for you, and you did not

come,” said the king.

“I beg your majesty to pardon me,” stammered Deesen.

“Where were you?”

“I was in my room writing a letter, sire.”

“Ah, a letter. You were no doubt writing to that beautiful barmaid at

the hotel of the Black Raven at Amsterdam, who declined the attentions

of the servant of the brothers Zoller.”

This reference to the journey to Amsterdam showed Deesen that the king

was not very angry. He dared, therefore, to raise his eyes to those of

the king, and to look pleadingly at him.

“Sit down.” said the king, pointing to the writing-table. “I called you

because I wished to dictate a letter for you to write. Sit down and take

a pen.”

Deesen seated himself at the table, and the king began walking up and

down as before, his hands and book behind him.

“Are you ready?” asked the king.

“I am ready, sire,” returned Deesen, dipping his pen into the ink.

“Write then,” commanded the king, as he placed himself immediately in

front of Deesen--“write, then, first the heading: ‘My beloved--’”

Deesen started, and glanced inquiringly at the king. Frederick looked

earnestly at him, and repeated, “‘My beloved--’”

Deesen uttered a sigh, and wrote.

“Have you written that?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire, I have it--‘My beloved.’”

“Well, then, proceed. ‘My beloved, that old bear, the king--’ Write,”

said the king, interrupting himself as he saw that Deesen grew pale and

trembled, and could scarcely hold the pen--“write without hesitation, or

expect a severe punishment.”

“Will your majesty have the kindness to dictate? I am ready to write

every thing,” said Deesen, as he wiped his brow.

“Now then, quickly,” ordered the king, and he dictated--“‘That old bear,

the king, counts every hour against me that I spend so charmingly with

you. That my absence may be shorter in the future, and less observed

by the old scold, I wish you to rent a room near here in the suburbs

of Brandenburg, where we can meet more conveniently than in the city. I

remain yours until death.’”

“‘DEESEN.’”

“Have you finished?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire, I have finished,” groaned Deesen.

“Then fold the letter and seal it, and write the address ‘To the

unmarried Maria Siegert, Yunker Street, Potsdam.’”

“Mercy, sire, mercy!” cried Deseen, springing up and throwing himself

at the feet of the king. “I see that your majesty knows all--that I have

been betrayed.”

“You have betrayed yourself, for to-day is the tenth time that I have

called for you when you were absent. Now send your letter off, and see

that your Siegert gets a room here. If, however, you are again absent

when I call, I will send your beautiful Maria to Spandau, and dismiss

you. Go, now, and dispatch your letter.”

Deesen hurried off, and the king looked smilingly after him for a

moment, and was on the point of returning to his reading, when his

attention was attracted by the approach of a carriage.

“Ah,” he murmured anxiously, “I fear that I shall be disturbed again

by some cousin, who has come to rob me of my time by hypocritical

professions of love.”

He looked anxiously toward the door. It was soon opened, and a servant

announced Prince Henry.

The king’s countenance cleared, and he advanced to meet his brother with

a bright smile. But his greeting was not returned, and the prince did

not appear to see the extended hand of the king. A heavy cloud lay upon

his brow--his cheeks were colorless and his lips compressed, as if he

wished to suppress the angry and indignant words which his flashing eyes

expressed.

“Ah, my brother,” said the king, sadly, “it seems that you have come to

announce a misfortune.”

“No,” said the prince, “I only came, your majesty, to recall a

conversation which I held with you ten years ago in this same room, on

this very spot.”

“Ten years ago?” said the king. “That was at the time of your marriage,

Henry.”

“Yes, the conversation I refer to concerned my marriage, sire. You had

pursued me so long with that subject, that I had at length concluded

to submit to the yoke which was to free me from those unworthy and

humiliating persecutions.”

“I think that you could select more fitting expressions, my brother,”

said the king, with flashing eyes. “You forget that you are speaking to

your king.”

“But I remember that I am speaking to my brother, whose duty is to hear

the complaints which I have to utter against the king.”

“Speak,” said the king, after a slight pause. “Your brother will hear

you.”

“I come to remind you of that hour,” said the prince, solemnly, “in

which I gave my consent to be married. As I did so, sire, I said to you

that I should hold you responsible for this marriage which was made for

political purposes and not from love--that I would call you to account

before the throne of God, and there ask you by what right you robbed

me of my liberty, by what right you laid a chain upon my hand and heart

which love could not help me to bear. I said further, sire--if the

weight of this chain should become too heavy, and this unnatural

connection of a marriage without love should drive me to despair, that

upon your head would rest the curse of my misery, and that you would be

answerable for my destroyed existence, for my perished hopes.”

“And I,” said the king, “I took this responsibility upon me. As your

king and your elder brother, I reminded you of your duty to give the

state a family--sons who would be an example of courage and honor to the

men, and daughters who would be a pattern of virtue and propriety to the

women. In view of these duties, I demanded of you to be married.”

“I come now to call you to account for this marriage,” exclaimed the

prince, solemnly. “I have come to tell you that my heart is torn with

pain and misery; that I am the most wretched of men, and that you have

made me so--you, who forced me into this marriage, although you knew the

shame and despair of a marriage without love. You had already taken a

heavy responsibility upon yourself by your own marriage; and if you

were compelled to endure it so long as my father lived, you should have

relieved yourself from it so soon as you were free; that is, so soon

as you were king. But you preferred to continue in this unnatural

connection, or rather you put the chains from your hands, and let them

drag at your feet. Not to outrage the world by your divorce, you gave it

the bad example of a wretched marriage. You made yourself free, and you

made a slave of your poor wife, who has been a martyr to your humors and

cruelty. You profaned the institution of marriage. You gave a bad and

dangerous example to your subjects, and it has done its work. Look

around in your land, sire. Everywhere you will see unhappy women who

have been deserted by their husbands, and miserable men who have been

dishonored by their faithless wives. Look at your own family. Our sister

of Baireuth died of grief, and of the humiliation she endured from the

mistress of her husband. Our brother, Augustus William, died solitary

and alone. He withdrew in his grief to Oranienburg, and his wife

remained in Berlin. She was not with him when he died; strangers

received his last breath--strangers closed his eyes. Our sister of

Anspach quarrelled with her husband, until finally she submitted, and

made a friend of his mistress. And I, sire, I also stand before you with

the brand of shame upon my brow. I also have been betrayed and deceived,

and all this is your work. If the king mocks at the sacred duties of

marriage, how can he expect that his family and subjects should respect

them? It is the fashion in your land for husbands and wives to deceive

one another, and it is you who have set this fashion.”

“I have allowed you to finish, Henry,” said the king, when the prince

was at length silent. “I have allowed you to finish, but I have not

heard your angry and unjust reproaches, I have only heard that my

brother is unhappy, and it is, I know, natural for the unhappy to seek

the source of their sorrows in others and not in themselves. I forgive

all that you have said against me; but if you hold me responsible for

the miserable consequences of the war, which kept the men at a distance

for years and loosened family ties, that shows plainly that your

judgment is unreliable, and that you cannot discriminate with justice. I

did not commence this war heedlessly; I undertook it as a heavy burden.

It has made an old man of me; it has eaten up my life before my time.

I see all the evil results, and I consider it my sacred duty to bind up

the wounds which it has inflicted on my country. I work for this

object day and night; I give all of my energies to this effort; I have

sacrificed to it all my personal inclinations. But I must be contented

to bind up the wounds. I cannot make want disappear; I cannot

immediately change sorrow into gladness.”

“Ah, sire, you seek to avoid the subject, and to speak of the general

unhappiness instead of my special grief. I call you to account, because

you forced me to take a wife that I did not know--a wife who has made

me the most miserable of men--a wife who has outraged my honor, and

betrayed my heart. You gave me a wife who has robbed me of all I held

dear on earth--of the wife I loved, and of the friend I trusted.”

“Poor brother,” said the king, gently, “you are enduring the torments

from which I also suffered, before my heart became hardened as it now

is. Yes, it is a fearful pain to be forced to despise the friend that

you trusted--to be betrayed by those we have loved. I have passed

through that grief. The man suffered deeply in me before his existence

was merged in that of the king.”

“Sire,” said the prince, suddenly, “I have come to you to demand justice

and punishment. You have occasioned the misery of my house, it is

therefore your duty to alleviate it, as far as in you lies. I accuse

my wife, the Princess Wilhelmina, of infidelity and treachery. I accuse

Count Kalkreuth, who dares to love my wife, of being a traitor to your

royal family. I demand your consent to my divorce from the princess,

and to the punishment of the traitor. That is the satisfaction which I

demand of your majesty for the ruin which you have wrought in my life.”

“You wish to make me answerable for the capriciousness of woman and the

faithlessness of man,” asked the king, with a sad smile. “You do that

because I, in performing my duty as a king, forced you to marry. It is

true you did not love your intended wife, because you did not know

her, but you learned to love her. That proves that I did not make a bad

choice; your present pain is a justification for me. You are unhappy

because you love the wife I gave you with your whole heart. For the

capriciousness of women you cannot hold me responsible, and I did not

select the friend who has so wickedly betrayed you. You demand of me

that I should punish both. Have you considered, my brother, that in

punishing them I should make your disgrace and misery public to the

world? Do not imagine, Henry, that men pity us for our griefs; when they

seem most deeply to sympathize with us they feel an inward pleasure,

especially if it is a prince who suffers. It pleases men that fate,

which has given us an exceptional position, does not spare us the

ordinary sorrows of humanity.”

“I understand, then, that you refuse my request,” said the prince. “You

will not consent to my divorce, you will not punish the traitor?”

“No, I do not refuse your request, but I beg you will take three days

to consider what I have said to you. At the end of that time, should you

come to me, and make the same demand, I will give my consent; that is,

I will have you publicly separated from your wife, I will have Count

Kalkreuth punished, and will thus give the world the right to laugh at

the hero of Freiburg.”

“Very well, sire,” said the prince, thoughtfully, “I will remind you of

your promise. I beg you will now dismiss me, for you see I am a very man

and no philosopher, unworthy to be a guest at Sans-Souci.”

He bowed to the king, who tenderly pressed his hand and silently left

the room.

Frederick looked after him with an expression of unutterable pity.

“Three days will be long enough to deaden his pain, and then he will be

more reasonable and form other resolutions.”

CHAPTER XIII. A HUSBAND’S REVENGE.

Camilla lay upon a sofa in her boudoir, and listened with breathless

attention to the account her beau cousin gave of the adventures of

the last eight days. She listened with sparkling eyes to the witty

description he gave of his duel with Lord Elliot, and declared that she

found him extraordinarily brilliant. Camilla was indeed proud of her

handsome lover. Kindar explained minutely how he had compelled Lord

Elliot, who for a long time avoided and fled from him, to fight a duel

with him. How he forced him on his knees to acknowledge that he had done

his wife injustice, and to apologize for the insult he had offered to

Kindar, in charging him with being the lover of his pure and virtuous

wile.

“And he did this?” cried Camilla; “he knelt before you and begged your

pardon?”

“Yes, he knelt before me, and begged my pardon.”

“Then he is even more pitiful than I thought him,” said Camilla, “and

I am justified before the whole world in despising him. Nothing can be

more contemptible than to beg pardon rather than fight a duel, to kneel

to a man to save one’s miserable life. I am a woman, but I would scorn

such cowardice. I would despise the man I loved most fondly if he were

guilty of such an act of shame.”

Camilla was much excited; she did not notice how Kindar started, turned

pale, and fixed his eyes on the floor. She was so charmed with the

courage of her beau cousin that she could think of nothing else. Even

her frivolous nature had this feminine instinct--she prized personal

daring and courage in a man more than all other things; of strength of

mind she knew nothing, and therefore she could not appreciate it, but

she demanded courage, dignity, and strength of physique. She laid her

hands upon her cousin with cordial approbation, and gazed lovingly at

him.

“You are as beautiful as a hero and a demigod, and it seems to me I

never loved you so fondly as at this moment, when you stand before me as

the victor over my cowardly husband. Ah, I wish I could have witnessed

that scene; you proud and grand, and he lying trembling like this

miserable windspiel at your feet, repeating the words of retraction and

repentance which you dictated.”

“It was indeed worth seeing,” said Kindar; “but let us speak now of

something more important, dear Camilla. You must leave Berlin to-day,

and for a few weeks at least withdraw to your estate, till the violence

of the storm has blown over. It is, of course, most agreeable and

flattering to me to have my name coupled with that of so lovely and

charming a woman--to be looked upon with jealousy and alarm by the

cowardly husbands of Berlin. It will not, however, be agreeable to you

to be torn to pieces by slanderous tongues. Every old maid, every prude,

and every hypocritical coquette (and of such base elements the feminine

world is composed), will find this a happy occasion to exalt her own

modesty and virtue, and denounce and condemn you.”

“Not so,” said Camilla, proudly, “I will remain in Berlin. I have

courage to defy the whole world for your sake--I will remain to prove

that I am not ashamed of my love. The whole world shall know that the

brave and handsome Kindar, the beloved of all women, is my lover. Ah,

cousin, you merit this compensation at my hands; you defended my honor

against the aspersions of my husband, and compelled him to a shameful

retraction.”

“Does Baron von Kindar make this boast?” cried a voice behind her.

Camilla turned and saw Lord Elliot standing in the door; he looked at

her with a cold, contemptuous glance, which wounded her far more than a

spoken insult would have done.

“Why are you here, sir?” she cried. “With what right do you dare force

yourself into my presence?”

Lord Elliot made no reply, but smiled coolly, and Camilla’s eyes filled

with tears of rage.

“Cousin,” said she, turning to Kindar, “will you not free me from the

presence of this contemptible creature, who dares to affront and--”

Suddenly she stopped speaking and gazed in amazement at her handsome

cousin; his countenance was not serene; he was indeed livid, and stood

trembling and with downcast eyes before her husband.

“Well,” said Lord Elliot, raising himself proudly, “do you not hear

your cousin’s command? Will you not dismiss this poor creature who dares

disturb this tender interview?”

“I will withdraw.” stammered Kindar, “I am de trop. I have no right to

interfere between Lord Elliot and his wife. I take my leave.”

He tried to step through the door, but the powerful hand of Lord Elliot

held him back.

“Not so, my handsome gentleman,” said Lord Elliot, with a hoarse laugh,

“you are by no means de trop; on the contrary, I desire your presence;

you will remain here and listen to the charming and merry narrative I

am about to relate to Lady Elliot. I have come, madame, to give your

ladyship the history of a hunt; not, however, of a chase after wild

beasts, of the hart and the hare, but of an all-conquering cavalier,

who, however, judging from the manner in which he fled and sought to

save himself, must possess the cowardice of the hare, and the fleet foot

of the hart. You know, I presume, that I speak of your beau cousin, and

myself.”

While Lord Elliot spoke, Camilla stared in breathless agony at her

cousin. She seemed to hope to read in his pale face the explanation of

this incomprehensible riddle; she expected him to command her husband to

be silent, and to offer him some new insult. But Kindar did not speak,

and Camilla came to a desperate resolution. She was determined to know

why he stood so pale and trembling before her husband. She would force

him to an explanation.

“It is wholly unnecessary, my lord,” she said, in a haughty tone, “to

relate your history to me; I am acquainted with all the particulars of

the chase of which you speak. I know your degradation and humiliation--I

know that you fell upon your knees and pleaded for pardon when

satisfaction was demanded of you.”

“Ah! I see, le beau cousin has changed roles with me,” said Lord Elliot.

“That was indeed most amiable. Your lover must, of course, always play

the most important part, and no doubt, he thought to do me honor by this

change. I cannot take advantage of this generous intention, and must

correct a few errors in his narrative.”

“Speak! then; speak! my lord,” said Camilla, whose eyes were still fixed

sternly upon her lover.

“As you graciously permit it, madame, I will give you an account of the

chase. But first, madame, I must clear myself from an accusation. I am

suspected of having challenged Von Kindar, because he was the lover of

my wife. I look upon that, however, as an accident, and nothing more.

Le beau cousin happened to be at hand when my susceptible, ardent wife

looked around for a lover, and she accepted him; he was the first, but

he will not be the last. I was not driven to pursue him by jealousy. I

am a true son of this enlightened age, and shall not, like the knights

of the olden time, storm heaven and earth because my wife has a lover. I

am a philosopher. For a noble wife, who had made me happy in her love, I

might perhaps feel and act differently. I, however, married a heartless

fool, and it would have been mad folly to risk my life with a brainless

fop for her sake.”

“Speak, cousin!” cried Camilla, springing forward, white with passion.

“Speak! Do you not hear these insults?” She laid her hands upon his arm;

he muttered a few incomprehensible words and tried to shake them off.

“He has heard every word,” said Lord Elliot, scornfully; “but he is

without doubt too polite to interrupt me. He will have the goodness

still to listen silently.”

Camilla let her hands fall; gnashing her teeth she turned away and

seated herself upon the divan. Her lover and her husband stood before

her; the one, trembling like a broken reed, leaned against the wall, the

other erect and proudly conscious of his own worth and dignity.

“I said that I would not have dreamed of risking my life with a

brainless fop, for the sake of a heartless fool; but this fop was guilty

of another crime: he was not only the betrayer of my wife, but he was

the author of a shameful and most insulting letter, which you, madame,

had the effrontery to copy and send me.”

“How do you know that he wrote this letter?” cried Camilla.

“In the first place, madame, you are not even capable of composing such

a letter. I took the liberty of removing the original of this letter

from your writing-desk. Armed with this proof, I sought le beau cousin,

and demanded satisfaction. Lieutenant Kaphengst, a former friend of this

handsome cavalier, accompanied me. When you deal with such a man as the

one who stands cowering before me, witnesses are necessary. He is quite

capable of denying every thing, and changing the roles. The baron had

left home, he had gone to Mecklenberg. Certainly he did not know that

I had come to Berlin to seek him, or he would have had the courtesy to

remain and receive my visit. I was too impatient to await his return,

and followed his traces, even as ardently as he has followed you,

madame. I found him at last, in the hotel of a little village. Like all

other sentimental lovers, he longed for solitude; and, not wishing to

be disturbed in his sweet dreams, he rented the entire hotel. I was,

however, bold enough to seek him--with swords and pistols--and gave him

choice of weapons; he was peaceable, and refused both sword and pistol.

I therefore took my third weapon, my trusty walking-stick. It was a

beautiful bamboo-rod, and neither broke nor split, though I beat away

valiantly on the back of the knightly cavalier.”

“This cannot be true. This is a lie!” cried Camilla.

Lord Elliot raised his arm and pointed slowly to Kindar. “Ask him,

madame, if this is a lie.”

Camilla turned, and as her eye rested upon him, she felt that she had no

need to ask the question.

Kindar leaned with pale cheek and tottering knees against the wall. He

was a living picture of cowardly despair and trembling terror.

Camilla groaned aloud, and with a look of unspeakable aversion she

turned from him to her husband. For the first time, she did not find him

ugly. He was indeed imposing. His proud bearing, his noble intellect,

and manly worth impressed her. To her he had never been but the fond,

tender, yielding lover--now she saw before her the firm and angry

man, and he pleased her. Kindar, who had been so handsome and so

irresistible, was now hateful in her eyes.

“Go on,” murmured Camilla.

“Well, I beat this man with my cane till he consented to fight with me.

We had, however, played this little comedy too energetically. The people

of the hotel heard the noise, and fearing some fatal result, rushed to

the rescue of this handsome cavalier. We deferred the duel, therefore,

till the next day, but lo! the next morning le beau cousin had fled.

Without doubt he had forgotten our little arrangement, and his thirst to

see you lured him back to Berlin. I was barbarian enough to follow him,

and I swore to shoot him down like a mad dog if he did not consent to

fight. This comparison was doubtless somewhat insulting, and he resolved

at last to fight.”

“Ah, he accepted the challenge!” cried Camilla, casting a sudden glance

upon Kindar; but oh, how ugly, how pitiful, how repulsive did he now

appear to her! She closed her eyes, in order not to see him.

“We rode on with our seconds and our weapons to the little village of

Bernan, on the border of Saxony; but I saw, madame, that your cavalier

had no inclination to fight this duel. Besides, I thought of you--of

your great grief if he should fall, and thus deprive you of your pretty

plaything before you had time to replace it. You know that my heart was

ever soft and compassionate. I resolved, therefore, to be merciful to

le beau cousin. Arrived on the ground, I proposed to Kindar, instead

of fighting with me, to sign a paper which I had prepared, in which he

implores my pardon and my mercy, acknowledges himself to be an unworthy

scoundrel and liar, and solemnly swears that every accusation he brought

against me in the letter you copied was a lie--declares me to be an

irreproachable cavalier, who has been deceived and betrayed by himself

and Lady Elliot. Baron Kindar found this somewhat strongly expressed,

and preferred to fight rather than sign it.”

“God be thanked!” murmured Camilla.

“Well, we were resolved to fight, and I was obliging enough to give

Kindar the first shot. He accepted this advantage readily, and I confess

he aimed well. His hand trembled, and he shot too high, just over my

head. Now it was my turn. I raised the pistol, and I swear to you,

madame, my hand did not tremble. Perhaps Kindar noticed this--perhaps

he wished to live and find a compensation in your love for the terrible

torments of the last few days. It suffices to say, he called out to

me not to shoot, as he was ready to sign the paper confessing he was

a scoundrel and a liar. He signed it kneeling at my feet, and begging

pardon. I then gave him permission to return to Berlin. For myself, I

drove to Sans-Souci, asked an audience of the king, and obtained his

consent to a divorce. You know, madame, that I have a soft and yielding

nature. I never could refuse a wish of your heart. I therefore implored

his majesty to allow of your immediate marriage with Baron Kindar.”

“Never, never, will that marriage take place!” cried Camilla, springing

from the divan and gazing with abhorrence upon Kindar.

“It will take place!” said Lord Elliot, firmly and imperiously; “you

love him, you betrayed me for his sake--he is a base coward, despised by

every man, but still you will marry him. We are divorced, and the king

commands this marriage. From this hour we are nothing to each other--you

are the betrothed of Baron von Kindar. Allow me to give you this paper,

which he signed to save his pitiful life, as a bridal present.”

He laid the paper upon the table, and bowed to Camilla, who was pale and

terrified, and whose teeth chattered as if in an ague-fit.

“Madame,” said Lord Elliot, “I have the honor to bid you adieu. I wish

you a long and happy wedded life!”

Lord Elliot left the room and passed on to the apartment which had been

his own. Every thing had been removed, all the pictures taken from

the wall but one; only Camilla’s portrait, taken in her bridal dress,

remained. He stood long before this lovely picture, and gazed steadily,

as if to impress every lineament upon his soul. He felt that in taking

leave of this painting he was bidding adieu to youth, to happiness, to

all the sweet illusions of life.

“Farewell!” said he, aloud--“farewell, Camilla! my bride! the dream is

over!”

He took a little knife from his pocket and cut the picture in two

pieces, from the top to the bottom, then slowly descended the steps to

his carriage, in which his friend, Doctor Blitz awaited him.

“I am ready, doctor, and I beg you to give me a bed in your house for

the present. During the last ten days I have had a burning fever.”

While Lord Elliot was driving off, Camilla and le beau cousin stood

confronting each other; neither dared to break the fearful silence, or

even to look at each other.

Suddenly the door opened, and General von Saldern, the adjutant of the

king, entered the room. Camilla had not the strength to advance to meet

him; she returned his salutation by a faint inclination of the head.

The general did not appear to see Kindar, and made no response to his

profound bow.

“Madame,” said the general, solemnly, “I come at the command of the

king; by his authority as king and judge, and as head of the church, he

has annulled your marriage with Lord Elliot. This was done as a proof of

his regard to Lord Elliot. Out of regard to your own family, he insists

upon your immediate marriage with Baron Kindar, who has been dismissed

from the king’s service.”

“No, no,” cried Camilla, “I will never marry him! Leave me, sir--I will

never become the wife of this man!”

“It is his majesty’s express command that you should be married without

delay,” said General Saldern; “he has also commanded me to say to you

that this scandalous intrigue, insulting to morals and good manners,

should no longer be brought before the public. You are both, therefore,

banished from his court, from Potsdam and Berlin, and commanded to take

refuge at your country seat, and lead there a solitary and quiet life.

This is the only punishment he inflicts upon you, and I have nothing

more to announce. If agreeable to you, madame, we will go at once!”

“Where?” cried Camilla, drawing back in terror from the general, who

approached her.

“In the next room, madame, a priest is waiting, who, at the express

command of his majesty, will now perform the marriage ceremony.”

Camilla uttered a loud shriek and fell senseless into the arms of le

beau cousin, who advanced toward her at a nod from the general. When

consciousness returned, the priest was before her and Kindar at her

side. The ceremony was performed, and the unhappy couple left Berlin

at once, never to return. The remainder of their lives was passed in

sorrow, solitude, and self-contempt.

CHAPTER XIV. THE SEPARATION.

The three days the king had allowed his brother to make up his mind

in, were past. Prince Henry had made up his mind. On the morning of the

second day, he had sent off two couriers--one to the king at Sans-Souci,

the other to his wife at Rheinsberg. He had remained in Berlin, and had

taken possession of the splendid palace opposite the opera-house, that

the king had lately built and furnished for him. He had ordered his

major-domo to prepare a handsome dinner, as he wished to open his house

by entertaining all the nobility of Berlin.

The feast was to take place the third day after the king’s interview

with the prince.

The courier who left the morning before, carried a letter to Princess

Wilhelmina, requesting her in a few cold, ceremonious words, to come to

Berlin and preside at the proposed dinner and concert.

This invitation was to the princess a command she dared not resist. She

left Rheinsberg early in the morning and arrived at the palace an hour

before dinner.

Prince Henry met his wife in the large vestibule leading to the front

building. He advanced toward her with a bright smile, passed her arm

through his, and led her, pale and trembling, up the steps, making her

observe the style of the building and the many conveniences of their

new dwelling. He spoke cheerfully, walking slowly so as to give the

followers of the princess, who were occupied with her baggage, time to

collect around her and witness the perfect understanding between her and

her husband. When they had mounted the last step, the prince laughingly

pointed to the two halls leading from the stairway.

“Here, madame, commence our separate apartments. To you belong the

right, to me the left wing of the castle. I will pass through the hall

to the right and lead you to the apartments whose mistress you will now

become.”

The princess threw a timid, inquiring glance at him. She had been so

convinced that her husband would demand a divorce, that she had allowed

her thoughts to linger upon this possible mode of escape. Now her heart

trembled within her. “Perhaps,” murmured she as they passed through the

long hall--“perhaps he will murder me as the Duke of Orleans did his

wife because she loved the Count de Guiche.” She hesitated, therefore,

as the prince opened a door and bade her enter. She looked anxiously

around for her followers.

“Cannot my maids accompany us?” said she, softly.

“No, madame,” said the prince, roughly. “We go alone.”

He drew her into the room, entered after her, then closed and locked the

door.

Princess Wilhelmina shrieked in terror, and drew away from him. “Why do

you lock the door?” said she, trembling. “Do you wish to murder me?”

The prince laughed aloud. “Ah, you wish a tragic end to your romance,

madame,” said he. “Not so, however. It will be quiet and prosaic. You

will act neither the part of a martyr nor a heroine. I wish neither to

reproach nor punish you. I leave that to God and your conscience. I wish

only to arrange with you the details of our future life. I locked the

door, as I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“What are these details?” said the princess.

“We will speak of them hereafter, madame. Will you first do me the honor

to read this letter I have just received from the king in answer to

mine? Have the kindness to read it aloud.”

The princess received the letter and read:

“MY DEAR BROTHER--Your letter has been a great source of consolation to

me, for it assures me that you are again a man, and have overcome your

grief. It is not your lot to be only a tender or an avenging husband.

You are, before all else, a prince and a man. Both qualifications have

duties forcing you to submit to life and to become worthy of it. There

is still much to be done in this world by both of us, and a true man

should not be turned from his path because a foolish woman places a

few thorns beneath his pillow. Stifling his pain, he continues his road

quietly. I am glad this is also your opinion--that you have given up

all thought of a public scandal and denunciation. In relation to the

princess. I give you full power to make any and every arrangement you

see fit. As to Kalkreuth, he shall receive the place you mentioned.

I have appointed him lieutenant-general of the third army corps in

Prussia. He will leave here at once. I desire you to inform him of his

promotion. As soon as you dismiss him, send him to me at Sans-Souci. You

tell me you are about to give a feast. That pleases me right well. It

is better to stifle your pain with bright flowers and gay music, than to

tear out your hair and retire to a convent. May your feast be a bright

one, and may it last forever! FREDERICK.” Princess Wilhelmina, having

finished the letter, handed it to her husband. “I see,” whispered she,

softly, “that you have been noble and generous, my husband. You shower

benefits upon us instead of just anger.”

“I do neither the one nor the other,” said the prince, coldly; “I simply

wish to pass a peaceful life, and above all things I would not have the

world think me unhappy, for unhappy I am not nor ever mean to be.”

The princess gave a timid glance at his countenance, so at variance with

his words. The last three days had worked such a fearful change. His

cheeks were thin and pale, his brow dark and clouded--about his mouth

were deep lines of care never more to be effaced. Princess Wilhelmina

was deeply touched when she saw this change.

“My husband,” said she softly, raising her hands imploringly to him,

“have pity on yourself--on me. Hear me before you decide. I feel that I

have sinned heavily against you, but I will endeavor to expiate my sin.

In looking at you and seeing how much you have suffered, the pain that

almost bursts my heart tells me how dear you are to me. I repent--I

repent, my husband. I will force my heart to love you, and you alone.

From now on, I will be a faithful wife; the one aim of my life shall be

to make you happy. Here I swear, as before God’s altar, that I will love

and obey you as my husband and master. Will you accept this heart, that

comes to you full of repentance? Henry, will you?”

She held out her hand, with a bright, beaming glance, but he did not

take it.

“No; it is too late,” said he. “I raised you a temple in my heart. You

have destroyed it, and wish now to build another with the shattered

ruins. No, princess; that which the lightning has struck must remain

in ashes. I could never believe in the stability of your building, but

would be expecting it to fall daily. This temple can never be rebuilt.

I forgive, but can never more love you. We are separated before God

and our own hearts. But to the world we are still wedded. We shall both

inhabit this palace, but we shall seek never to meet one another. On

grand fete days, when etiquette demands it, we shall dine together, but

preside at separate tables. And you must forgive me if I never address

you. We are dead to one another; and the dead do not speak. In the

summer I shall live at Rheinsberg; the king presented it to me on my

marriage with you, and I think I have paid dearly enough for it to be

allowed to spend my time there alone. You will not follow me there,

but will remain in Berlin, or travel, as it suits you. Do you accept my

conditions, madame?”

“Yes, sir,” said the princess, proudly. “I accept them. We will live

like two galley-slaves, bound together in chains, without one thought

or feeling in unison. You have devised a severe punishment for me, my

prince. My only fear is that I am not the only victim--that you also

suffer?”

“I told you before, that I wished to punish no one. All I seek is a

little rest--a little peace, and your presence in this palace cannot

endanger that, for you, madame, have not only annihilated my love for

you, but also the remembrance of it. And now, as you have accepted

my conditions for our future life, I have nothing more to say than

farewell, until death! Farewell, madame; may your life be a happy one!”

“Farewell, prince!” murmured Wilhelmina, in a voice choked with tears.

“Farewell! and may God teach your heart to pity and forgive!”

“You will now have the kindness, madame, to arrange your toilet, then to

follow me with your court to the great reception-room. We give to-day a

splendid dinner. At this fete we will take an eternal adieu of the past.

It will be the last time we dine together. Farewell, madame; I await

you.”

He bowed profoundly, then moved to the door. The princess gazed after

him breathlessly, and the tears that had long stood in her eyes now

rolled slowly down her cheeks.

When the prince had reached the threshold, she started forward, crying

in a piteous voice:

“Henry! oh, Henry!”

The prince did not turn, but opened the door and passed out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, a gay crowd was assembled in the reception-room.

The prince received his guests in his usual gay, cordial manner. But the

princess was different. She was more quiet and formal than usual. Her

eyes did not sparkle; her cheeks were pale in spite of her rouge: her

voice was low and tremulous, and the smile she called to her lip was

hard and forced. A still more remarkable change had taken place in Count

Kalkreuth’s appearance. He who generally sparkled with gayety and wit,

whose merry jests had been the delight of the court--he who had been the

very shadow of the princess, her most devoted cavalier--stood now pale

and speechless at a window, gazing sadly at the prince, who was laughing

and talking with his guests, and who had passed him repeatedly without

turning his head. The courtiers, however, saw only the outward signs of

that agony that had almost distracted the count in the last four days.

For four days, since their last meeting in the garden of Rheinsberg, the

prince had not spoken to him. It was in vain he had written and implored

an audience. The prince returned his letters unopened. In vain that at

almost every hour during these four wretched days he had had himself

announced to the prince. Prince Henry would not receive him. And still

he felt the inevitable necessity of having an explanation with

the prince. His heart craved it as the dying man craves the

last consolations of religion. This friendship for the prince,

notwithstanding he had betrayed and wounded it, was, and had always been

to him a sort of religion; he had sinned against it in the folly of his

passion, but he had now come to his senses, and he repented his guilt

bitterly. Not a thought of the princess lingered in his heart; it was

the prince he yearned after; he must speak to him; he must be forgiven

by him. His love for him was greater than ever. Now that he had turned

from him, he knew how much he had lost. He had not yet given up the hope

of an interview; for this, alone had he come to the dinner. But whenever

he endeavored to approach the prince, he had turned from him and entered

into earnest conversation with some bystanders.

Now the prince stood alone at a window; now or never must the count

succeed in speaking to him. Passing through the room hastily, he stood

before Prince Henry.

“My prince,” murmured the count, softly, “have pity on me. I entreat you

to listen to me for fifteen minutes!”

The prince fixed his piercing eyes upon the count’s pale, agitated

countenance, but did not speak. Then passing proudly before him, he

advanced to meet Prince Frederick William, who had just arrived.

The doors of the dining-saloon were now thrown open, and the guests

approached the richly-covered table, at one end of which sat the prince

and his wife. Not far from them was Count Kalkreuth. For more than two

hours he had borne the agony of being near the prince without being

addressed by him. For two hours he had stood the inquiring, malicious

smiles and glances of the courtiers, who were looking on with delight at

his humiliation.

His martyrdom was almost over. Dinner was finished, and all awaited

a sign from the princely couple to rise from the table. Prince Henry

arose, glass in hand, and said, in a loud voice:

“And now, my guests, I have pleasant news for you; as you are all

friends of Count Kalkreuth, what is good news to him will be to you

also. His majesty has appointed him lieutenant-general of Prince

Frederick William’s army corps in Prussia. The king, knowing my

true friendship for him, granted me the privilege of announcing his

promotion. I am sorry to say that through it we lose him, for his

majesty desires him, as soon as we leave the table, to hasten to

Sans-Souci to receive his commission. And now, gentlemen, fill your

glasses, we will drink to the lieutenant-general’s welfare.”

All arose to drink the toast except Count Kalkreuth. His head was bent

almost upon his breast, as if he were ashamed to show his pale, agitated

countenance. He would have given all he possessed to have flown from the

hall. Princess Wilhelmina sat opposite, she had not yet looked at him,

but she now threw him a glance full of inexpressible pity, and raised

her glass hastily to her lips. It was not wine, but her own tears that

she drank.

The prince now led the princess to the reception-room. He stood beside

her when Kalkreuth approached. The guests were grouped about the room,

every eye was fixed eagerly upon this trio.

Count Kalkreuth was still pale and unmanned; with tottering, trembling

steps he advanced toward the princely couple.

The prince turned laughingly to his guests, saying: “See the strange

effect of joy. It has transformed our gay and witty count. He is stern

and solemn as if, instead of an honor, he had received a degradation.”

No voice answered the prince. Finally, in midst of deep silence, the

count said:

“I come to take leave of your royal highness before going to that

exile which his majesty has kindly chosen for me. For, although it is

promotion, you must permit me to reiterate that it is also banishment,

for at Konigsberg I shall not see my prince. But I shall carry your

picture in my heart--there it shall forever dwell.”

“We will not make our parting more hard by sweet words,” said Prince

Henry, emphasizing the last words. “Bid adieu to my wife, kiss her hand,

and then God be with you!”

The princess, muttering a few incomprehensible words, gave him her hand,

white and colorless as that of a corpse. Count Kalkreuth touched his

lips to it, and they were so cold that the princess shuddered as if she

had been embraced by death itself.

It was their last meeting!--a cold, formal farewell for life. The count

now turned to the prince, who gave him his hand smilingly.

“Farewell, count,” said he. Stooping to embrace him, he whispered in his

ear: “You once saved my life, we are now quits, for you have murdered my

heart. Farewell!”

He turned from him. The count, no longer able to suppress his tears,

covered his face with his hands and tottered from the room.

A few hours later he stood in the king’s ante-chamber at Sans-Souci. He

had just been announced. He waited long--no one came to conduct him to

the king; every door remained closed, every thing around him was dull

and deserted. It was dark; the sharp April wind was beating against the

window and howling through the chimney. The count’s conscience was busy

at work in this gloomy chamber. He could endure it no longer, and was

preparing to leave, when the door was opened, and an adjutant entered to

conduct him to the king’s apartments.

The king was in his sitting-room. As Count Kalkreuth entered, he laid

aside the book he had been reading, and rose. In a stern, imperious

manner he advanced to meet him.

“As my brother desired it, I have appointed you lieutenant-general

of the third army corps,” said he, harshly. “You leave at once for

Konigsberg--you know your duties. Go, and endeavor to fulfil them.”

“Sire!” said the count, softly.

“Go! not another word!”

Count Kalkreuth, almost unable to make the military salute, left the

room, stifling his anger.

The king looked after him thoughtfully. “Poor Henry!” murmured he,

softly, “had you also to receive the Judas-kiss from a friend? Poor

brother! you were so happy--why did cruel fate disenchant you? There is

much in being happy in your own estimation--there is upon the earth no

other sort of happiness; and whether true or false, the peace it brings

is alike. I, I am so poor that I no longer believe in the one or the

other. And still men envy me! Envy a poor, disenchanted, solitary

man--envy him because he wears a crown! What sort of an existence have

I? My life is full of work, full of sorrow, nothing else! I work for my

subjects; they do not thank me, and will greet and welcome my successor

some day, be he ever so mean and contemptible, as they once greeted

and welcomed me. The love of a people for their king is a love full

of egotism and self-interest. Who has ever loved me otherwise than

selfishly? I met my friends with an open heart--when with them I forgot

that I was a king, but they never forgot it; not one, not a single one

loved in me the man. The foolish populace call me a hero, and speak of

the laurels that crown my brow, but of the thorns they have woven in it

they know nothing. Would I need have no more to do with men, for they

have poor, slavish souls! They deceive themselves--they all deceive me.”

As the king ceased speaking, he felt his foot touched. Somewhat

startled, he looked down. His greyhound Diana was lying at his feet,

gazing at him with her large, intelligent eyes. A soft smile crossed

Frederick’s countenance. Stooping to caress her, he said:

“You come to remind me that there is still love and truth upon the

earth, but one must not be silly enough to look for it among men. Come

here, Diana, my little companion; I was wrong to call myself solitary,

for are you not here? and then have I not my flute? Is she not a loving,

trustworthy friend, to whom every thing can be confided? You two shall

be my sole companions this evening.”

Raising his flute, he commenced to play softly, walking up and down his

room. Diana followed him slowly, listening in seeming devotion to the

long, wailing tones of her rival.

Sad and wonderful to hear was the music of this solitary king; like

broken, dying sighs and sobs were its tones; and the howling wind,

rushing in through the window, added its mournful wail to Federich the

Great’s song of woe.

End of Project Gutenberg’s Frederick The Great and His Family, by L. Muhlbach