"Yes," said one of the officers, loudly and emphatically--"yes, I am of

the same opinion as Count Pückler; there is a combat going on; the

Prince von Pless is approaching in order to raise the siege."

"That is my opinion too!" exclaimed each of the officers, in succession;

"the succoring troops have come; the enemy has left the trenches in

order to attack them."

"And as such is the case," exclaimed Count Pückler, joyfully, "we must

make a sortie; prudence not only justifies, but commands it."

"Yes, we must do so!" exclaimed the officers. The citizens standing at

some distance from them heard their words, and shouted joyously: "A

sortie, a sortie! Succor has come! Breslau is saved!"

General Lindener glanced angrily at the officers. "Who dares advise the

commanding general without being asked?" he said, sharply. "None of you

must meddle with these matters; they concern myself alone, and I am

possessed of sufficient judgment not to need any one's advice, but to

make my own decisions!" With a last angry glance at Count Pückler, he

left the bastion to return to his palace. Governor Thile was awaiting

him there, and the two ascended to the roof of the building to survey

the environs. The fog, which had covered the whole landscape until now,

had risen a little, and even the dim eyes of the general and of the

governor could not deny the truth any more. A combat was really going

on. The smoke rising from the ground, and the flashes of powder from

field-pieces, were distinctly to be seen. It was a fact: succor was at

hand: a Prussian corps was approaching the city. The two generals left

the roof, arm-in-arm, in silence, absorbed in their reflections, and

descended to the ground-floor, where a luncheon had been served up for

them. An hour later, they assembled the garrison, in order to make an

attack, "in case the enemy should be defeated!"

But it seemed as if the enemy had not been defeated. The firing in front

gradually died away; the sally did not take place, and in the evening

the French recommenced throwing red-hot shot into the city.

"We have been betrayed," murmured the citizens, as they despondingly

returned to their homes.

"The general did not want to make a sortie--he had no intention to save

Breslau," groaned Count Pückler, when he was alone in his room. "All is

lost, all is in vain! The wish of the timid sacrifices our honor and our

lives! Oh, my unhappy country, my beloved Prussia, thou wilt

irretrievably perish, for thy own sons are betraying thee! Thy

independence and ancient glory are gone; conquered and chained, thou

wilt prostrate thyself at the feet of the victor, and with scorn he will

place his foot upon thy neck, and trample thy crown in the dust! I shall

not live to see that disgrace! I will fulfil my oath, and, not being

able to save my country, I must die with it! But not yet! I will wait

patiently, for there is a faint glimmer of hope left. The Prince von

Pless may make another attempt to raise the siege, and the citizens and

soldiers may compel General Lindener to order an attack, and not to

surrender. That is my last hope."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE PATRIOT'S DEATH.

Great excitement reigned in the streets of Breslau on the following day.

The people were standing in dense groups, and each of them was addressed

by speakers, who recapitulated the sufferings that had already been

undergone, and the agony in store for them if the city should persist in

its resistance.

"Who will dare to resist the Emperor Napoleon and his army?" exclaimed

one. "We were audacious enough to do so, and what has become of us! Our

houses have been demolished--our money is gone--our sons, brothers, and

fathers, have been crippled or killed! When Napoleon once stretches out

his hand toward a country, and says, 'I will have it!' it is useless to

resist him, for he always accomplishes what he intends. God or the devil

has given him the power to do so!"

"Why torment ourselves by further efforts?" cried another. "We shall

have to submit. Heaven itself is against us. See the ice-crust on the

Oder. This cold weather is a fresh ally of the French! So soon as the

Oder and the ditches are firmly frozen over, they will cross, and take

the city by assault. Of course, we shall be required again to risk our

lives in breaking the ice amid bullets and shells. The only question is,

whether you will do so."

"No! no!" shouted the crowd. "We have suffered enough! We will neither

break the ice in the Oder, nor extinguish the numerous fires. Too many

of our countrymen have fallen already; it is time for us to think of

saving the lives that remain!"

"No!" cried a powerful voice--"no! it is time for you to think of saving

your honor!"

"Count Pückler!" murmured the people, looking at the tall, imperious

man, who had mounted the curb-stone at the corner of the market-place,

and cast angry glances on the crowd.

"Will you listen to me?" asked the count, almost imploringly.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed a hundred voices, "we will listen to you!" And all

approached and encircled him.

"Now speak, count," said one of the men, standing closest to him. "We

know that you are a good patriot, and a noble friend of the people. Tell

us what we ought to do. Tell us whether you think that there is hope for

us!"

"There is," replied Count Pückler. "There is hope of succor."

"Ah, succor will not come," cried the people, scornfully, "and though it

should, the generals would act again as if they could not see any thing,

keep the gates shut, and fail to make a sortie. Speak of other hopes

that you think are still left to us, count!"

"Well, there is the hope that the weather will relax--that the Oder and

the ditches will not freeze, and that the enemy, consequently, will be

unable to cross them. By bombardment alone Breslau cannot be taken. Our

fortifications will resist the enemy's artillery a long while; and, if

you do not waver, but struggle on bravely, you may preserve to your king

his most beloved province and one of his best fortresses. Think of the

honor it would reflect on you if the whole world should say: 'The

citizens of Breslau preserved to their king the great capital of

Silesia! During the days of danger and distress they hastened fearlessly

to the ramparts, not only to carry food and refreshments to the

defenders, but to transform themselves into soldiers, to man the guns,

and hurl balls at the enemy!'"

"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and

their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were

grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts--we will

become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"

"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd;

"you will be crippled--die of hunger--ruin yourselves and your children;

and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau,

for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened

too much."

"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to

rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.

"No!" exclaimed Count Pückler, ardently--"no, he is not right! It is not

true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would

it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city,

than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of

Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole

of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of

Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire

to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush

for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your

wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"

"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight--fight for our honor and

our king."

"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a

procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was

headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded

paper in his hands.

The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Pückler,

now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and

wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most

venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.

"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What

is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your

hands?"

Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up

by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and

privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to

them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too

great; we have borne all we can--we must think of ourselves for the sake

of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor;

self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our

petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit

it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign

it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then,

to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees

that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands

and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this

morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on

the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do

not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to

set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and

sensible citizens will sign this petition."

The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Pückler was

still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at

the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many

left him and joined those marching to the city hall.

"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and

horror--"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many

tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for

Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and

that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful

now--faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long

years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the

whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let

us go together to the city hall--let us demand the petition that we may

tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not

capitulate, but resist till--"

"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall,

broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to

the count. "Count Pückler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue

talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a

miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your

high-sounding words.--Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary

of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been

ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list

of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only

twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel

left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation

will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish

to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will

be deposited there."

At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a

glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which

flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set

fire to several houses on the market-place.

"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are

firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the

petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent

wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled

the lame to walk.

Count Pückler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted

against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his

brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at

the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that

moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low

voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his

full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling

around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached

the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and

with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing,

and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible

influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering,

his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to

the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he

muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently,

and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"

"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the

parlor. Shall I announce you?"

"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and

hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without

waiting, he opened it and entered.

A joyful cry was heard--a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him

with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been

restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning--how

my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing

over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But

now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any

more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage

in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on

his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she

had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her

bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she

asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your

face?"

He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at

her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice--"Camilla, will you die

with me?"

"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why

should we die, Frederick?"

"Because I do not wish to live without honor," he exclaimed, with sudden

vehemence. "Because our misfortunes are so terrible that we must escape

from them into the grave. All is lost! Breslau will fall, and we shall

be obliged to prostrate ourselves at the conqueror's feet! But I will

not, cannot survive the disgrace of Prussia. 'Victory or death!' was the

motto which I once exchanged with Schill. I swore to him to live and die

with my country; I swore to the king, if Breslau fell, that I would die

the death of a traitor. Breslau falls; therefore I die!"

"No, no," exclaimed Camilla, clinging firmly to him, "you shall not

die--you must not die! You are mine; you belong to me, and I love you!

Hitherto you have lived for your honor as a man--now live for your heart

and its love! Listen to me, Frederick! How often have you implored me to

accelerate the day of our wedding, and I always refused! Well, I beseech

you to-day, give me your hand! Let us go together to my parents, and ask

them to send for a priest, and let our marriage take place to-day. And

then, dearest, when the gates of Breslau open to the enemy, we can find

a refuge at your splendid estate. The horrible turmoil of war and the

clashing of arms will not follow us thither. There, amidst the charms of

peaceful nature, let us commence a new life; with hearts fondly united,

we shall belong only to ourselves, and, forgetful of the outside world,

devote ourselves to our friends--to art and literature. Oh, my beloved,

is it not a blissful future that is inviting you and promising you

undisturbed happiness?" She laid her arms, from which the white lace

sleeves had fallen back, on his shoulders, and held her glowing face so

close to his own that her breath fanned his cheek; her ruby lips almost

touched his own, and her dark eyes were fixed on him with an expression

of unutterable tenderness.

The count pushed her back almost rudely. "The happiness you are

depicting to me is only given to the innocent, to the pure, and to those

who have no desires," he said, gloomily; "it is the happiness of gentle

doves, not of men. And I am a man! As a man of honor I have lived, and

as such I will die. My life harmonizes no more with yours. Will you go

with me, Camilla, into the land of eternal honor and liberty? Does not

this world of treachery and cowardice fill you with disgust as it does

myself? Does not your soul shrink with dismay at the infamy we behold

everywhere at the present time? Oh, I know your heart is noble and pure,

and despises the baseness which is now the master of the world. Let us,

therefore, escape from it. Come, dearest, come! I have two pistols at my

rooms. They are loaded, and will not fail us. A pressure of my

finger--and we are free! Say one word, and I will bring them--say, my

Camilla, that you will die with me!"

"I say that I will live with you!" she cried, in terror.

"Then you will not die with me?" he asked, harshly.

"No, Frederick, why should I die? I am so young, and love life; it has

given me nothing but joy--it has given you to me--you, whom I love, for

whom I will live, whom I will render happy! What do I care for the

misfortunes of Prussia--what do I care whether Breslau surrenders to the

enemy or not, while I am free to follow you--free to devote myself

entirely to my love!"

"A woman's heart!--a woman's love!" said Pückler, with a contemptuous

shrug of his shoulders. "I wish I resembled you; we then might be like

cooing doves in the myrtle-tree. But my heart is rather that of an

eagle--longing for the sun; and as he has set on earth, I shall fly

after him. Farewell, Camilla, farewell! Forget me not, and be happy!" He

imprinted a hasty, glowing kiss on her lips, and then turned toward the

door.

Camilla rushed after him, and, clinging to him with both her hands,

exclaimed: "Frederick, what are you going to do?"

"I go to the land of liberty, and will do what honor commands," he said,

disengaging himself from her grasp, and rushing from the room.

"Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, in the utmost terror, running to the

door; she could not open it, for he had locked it outside. "I must

follow and save him," she exclaimed, and gliding across the room, she

opened a small secret door in the opposite wall; scarcely touching the

floor, she passed through the parlor, without taking any notice of her

parents, who were sitting on the divan, and asked her in surprise for

the cause of her hurry and agitation. She did not see that they were

following her; nor did she hear them call her. Onward, onward she went

through the room to the corridor, into the hall, and up the staircase.

She rushed to the upper floor, and rang the bell violently, when the

footman of Count Pückler opened the door, and stared surprised at the

young countess. She passed him impetuously, and ran down the corridor

leading into the sitting-room of her betrothed. But it was locked.

Uttering a cry of despair, she sank breathless on her knees, and laid

her burning forehead against the door.

The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Pückler's footman, now

approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending

over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you

weep?"

Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed,

in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"

"Who?" asked her father, aghast.

"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous

regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not

survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die!

As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up

to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish!

Help me to save him!"

"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he

in this room?"

"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without

saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."

The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it

violently. "Count Pückler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your

father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your

door, and ask to be admitted!"

"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of

your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy--to have compassion on me!

Oh, do not close your heart against me--oh, let me come in, my dear

friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement

inside. But every thing remained silent.

"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by

force," exclaimed the count.

"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at

least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert

her."

"My Frederick, I love you so tenderly--do not repel me!" wailed Camilla.

All was silent. "I must use force," said the count, concealing his

anguish under the guise of anger. "Hasten to a locksmith," he added,

turning to the footman; "he is to come here at once, and bring his tools

with him. Notify also the officers at the neighboring police-station."

The footman withdrew.

"My beloved," cried Camilla, wringing her hands, and her face bathed in

a flood of tears, "my Frederick, I love you better than my life! Your

wish shall be complied with. Open your door, and admit me. If I cannot

live I will die with you! Oh, do not remain silent--give me a sign that

you are still living--tell me at least that you forgive me--that--"

She paused, for a song suddenly resounded in the room; it was not a song

of sorrow, but of wrath and manly courage. The words were as follows:

"Tod du süsser, für das Vaterland!

Süsser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen

Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,

Sei mir willkommen!

Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert,

Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften,

Von der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,

Zierde der Tapfern!"[30]

[Footnote 30: See p. 18.]

The voice died away. Camilla was on her knees, with clasped hands; her

parents stood behind her in devout silence. Suddenly noisy footsteps

drew near. At the entrance of the corridor appeared the footman with the

locksmith, who came with his tools to open the door. The old count made

a sign to him to stand aloof. He had heard a movement in the room, and

he hoped Camilla's lover would voluntarily admit them.

A pause ensued--then a terrible report was heard in the room. Camilla

uttered a loud shriek, and sank senseless to the floor.

An hour later, the locksmith succeeded in opening the door, which had

been strongly bolted inside. Count Pückler sat in the easy-chair in

front of his desk, immovable, with his face calm and uninjured, the

pistol still in his hand. He had aimed well. The bullet had pierced his

heart. On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of paper, containing the

following words:

"Last greeting to Ferdinand von Schill, who took an oath with me that we

would live and die as faithful sons of our country! Our country is

sinking ignominiously into the dust; I will not, cannot survive the

disgrace, and, therefore, I die. Farewell, you who took that oath with

me--farewell Schill and Staps! I hope you will be happier than myself! I

am the first of us three who dies because he despairs of his country.

Will you survive me long? May God give you strength to do so! Farewell

until we meet again!

"FREDERICK VON PÜCKLER."

On the following day the governor of Breslau commenced negotiations with

the enemy, and on the 7th of January, 1807, Breslau opened its gates to

the French troops, and the Prussian garrison laid down its arms.

CHAPTER XXII.

PEACE NEGOTIATIONS.

General von Zastrow, who had temporarily taken charge of the Prussian

department of foreign affairs, was pacing his room. His whole appearance

was indicative of care and anxiety. Whenever he passed the door leading

into the anteroom, he stood still and listened, and then, heaving a sigh

and muttering angry words, continued his walk. But at length it seemed

as if his expectations were to be fulfilled; he heard approaching steps.

The door opened, and the footman announced General von Köckeritz.

General von Zastrow quickly went to meet his visitor, and offered him

both his hands. "I thank your excellency from the bottom of my heart for

having yielded to my urgent supplications," he said, passionately, "and

at the same time I beg your pardon for having been so bold as to

request you to call upon me. But as you reside in the same house as

their majesties, and as the king comes to see you frequently and

unexpectedly, I believe we can converse here more freely and without

fear of being disturbed."

"You are right, my dear general," said Köckeritz; "it is better for us

to hold our little conferences at your house. My room, moreover, has

walls so thin that every word spoken there can be heard outside. Alas,

it is on the whole a miserable barrack in which the royal couple and

myself are obliged to stay here in Memel! Low, dark rooms--no elegance,

no accommodations, no comfort. Every thing is as narrow, gloomy, and

smoky as possible and then this fearfully cold weather! Yesterday,

during the heavy storm, an inch of snow lay on the window-sill in the

queen's room, and, I assure you, it did not melt! Nevertheless, her

majesty is perfectly calm and composed; she never complains, never

utters any dissatisfaction, but always tries to prove to the king that

she likes Memel very well, and that it is as beautiful a capital as

Berlin."

"Ah, my respected friend," said General von Zastrow, mournfully, "this

composure of the queen is very injurious to us. If she were more

melancholy--if she bewailed her misfortunes more bitterly--if she

manifested a more poignant sorrow, we should not be doomed to sit here

on the extreme frontier of Prussia, but might hope to make our triumphal

entry into Berlin, perhaps, in two weeks."

"Into Berlin?" asked General von Köckeritz, greatly surprised. "Why, you

are talking of a miracle which I am unable to comprehend."

"Oh, your excellency will understand it soon enough," replied General

von Zastrow, smiling, "if you will only be so kind as to listen to me a

little."

"I assure you, my friend, I am most anxious to hear your explanations; I

am burning with the desire to know how we are to bring it about to leave

this accursed, cold Memel and return to Berlin within so short a time."

"Well, what is the cause of our sojourn here?" asked General von

Zastrow. "What has driven us hither? What has deprived the king, our

august master, of his states, of his happiness--nay, almost of his

crown? What is the cause that our beautiful and amiable queen has to

undergo all sorts of privations and inconveniences, and is compelled to

reside, instead of in her palace at Berlin, in a miserable, leaky house

in Memel, where she is closer to the Bashkirs than to civilized people?

The war is the cause of all this!"

"Yes, if my advice had been followed, these calamities would never have

befallen us," replied General von Köckeritz, sighing; "we would have

remained on terms of friendship and peace with the great man whom Heaven

has sent to subjugate the world, and resistance against whom is almost

equivalent to blasphemy. He frequently and magnanimously offered us his

friendship, but at that time more attention was paid to the vain

boastings of the lieutenants of the guard; and the rhodomontades of

Prince Louis Ferdinand unfortunately found an echo in the heart of the

queen. The advice of older and more prudent officers was disregarded,

and the king, in spite of himself, was dragged into this war, which we

have had to expiate by the defeats of Jena and Auerstadt, and by the

loss of so many fortresses and provinces. And who knows what may be in

store for us yet? Who knows what mischief may yet threaten the crown and

life of Frederick William!"

"Well," said General von Zastrow, with a sarcastic smile, "it looks as

though the fortune of war were now turning in favor of the Russians.

Think of the great victories which the Russian General Benningsen has

already won. Did not twenty-four trumpeting postilions proclaim to us at

Königsberg, on new-year's-day, the Russian victory of Pultusk?"

"Yes, but those twenty-four postilions and that emphatic announcement

were the most brilliant parts of the victory," said General von

Köckeritz, shrugging his shoulders. "Benningsen was not defeated by

Napoleon at Pultusk, but honorably maintained his position on the

battle-field--that is what the whole amounted to."

"Yes, but we are celebrating again a great and brilliant triumph. On the

7th and 8th of February the Russian General Benningsen and our General

Lestocq claim to have obtained another advantage over Napoleon and his

marshals. I suppose you are aware that Benningsen himself has arrived

here in order to communicate the news of the victory of Eylau to the

royal couple?"

"Yes, I know," said Köckeritz. "But I know also what this new success

really amounts to. The Russians are very liberal in issuing victorious

bulletins, and if they have not been massacred in a battle to a man, the

last ten survivors shout invariably, 'Victory! We have won the battle!'

That of Eylau is even more problematic than that of Pultusk. Pray tell

me, who held the battle-field of Eylau?"

"Napoleon with his French, of course."

"And who retreated from Eylau toward Königsberg?"

"General Benningsen with his Russians."

"And these Russians, nevertheless, are audacious enough to claim a

victory!" exclaimed General von Köckeritz. "These fellows regard it such

when Napoleon, instead of pressing them on their retreat, remains where

he is, and gives them time to escape."

"They are in ecstasies, because they infer from this delay of Napoleon,

and from his unwonted inactivity, that he also stands in need of repose

and recreation," said General von Zastrow. "The severe winter, bad

quarters, hunger, and thirst, have greatly exhausted the strength of the

grand army, and the lion would like to rest a little. For this

reason--and now I come to the point concerning which I requested your

excellency to call on me--for this reason, the great Napoleon desires to

make peace. The conqueror of Jena himself offers it to the vanquished

King of Prussia."

"What? Do you really think that to be true?" asked General von

Köckeritz.

"I do not only think, but know it to be true," said Zastrow. "General

Bertrand arrived here an hour ago, and called on me with the request to

present him to the king, that he might deliver him an autograph letter

from the Emperor Napoleon. I told the general that I should return his

visit in half an hour, and then conduct him to his majesty. I wished to

profit by this half hour, my dear friend, to confer with you about this

matter."

"And did General Bertrand inform you that Napoleon would offer peace to

our king?"

"Yes, your excellency. He communicated to me the contents of the

imperial letter. The lion of Jena magnanimously offers once more to make

peace."

"We must strain every nerve to induce the king to accept these

overtures," exclaimed Köckeritz, quickly.

"Your excellency is the only man sufficiently powerful to induce the

king to come to such a decision," said Zastrow. "You must be so kind as

to prove to him that to continue the war with France is to bring about

the ruin of Prussia. If he does not accept the offer of Napoleon, he is

ruined, for the emperor would not forgive such obstinate hostility; and,

if Prussia will not live with him on terms of friendship, he will

annihilate her in order to be done with her."

"I shall not threaten the king by laying too much stress on the strength

of his enemy," said Köckeritz, "for that would wound the pride of his

majesty, and provoke his sense of honor to renewed resistance. But I

shall call his attention to the weakness and fickleness of Russia,

informing him that our friends, the Russians, are behaving in the most

shameful manner in those parts of Prussia which they are occupying, and

committing so many outrages that the inhabitants are praying on their

knees to God to grant victory to the French, so that they might deliver

them from the Russians. I shall tell him that the distress and the

extortions the Prussian farmers have to suffer at the hands of our

allies are perfectly incredible; that the peasants in the villages have

been stripped of every thing, to such an extent that they beg the

Cossacks, who have robbed them of their provisions, for their daily

bread; that many of them are dying of hunger, and that unburied corpses

have been found in the houses of several villages now occupied by our

troops. And, above all, I shall beseech his majesty to repose no

confidence in the Russian friendship! Whatever the czar may say about

his fidelity, he has not the power of carrying his point, and all his

resolutions will be frustrated by the resistance of his generals and of

his brother. The Grand-Duke Constantine and the larger and more powerful

part of the Russian nobility are anxious for peace; and Constantine,

whose views are shared by Benningsen, will leave no intrigues, no cabals

untried in order to gain the czar over to his opinion, and plunge him

into difficulties from which he will finally be able to extricate

himself only by making peace--a peace concluded at the expense of

Prussia. Russia and France will be reconciled over the corpse of

Prussia! Even now it is distinctly to be seen what we have to expect

from the czar's assistance. Our allies are doing nothing really to help

us, but whatever steps they are taking are exclusively for their own

safety. It is true, they advanced at first, but only in order to prevent

the French from approaching their frontier. Since that time, however, in

spite of the battle of Pultusk, the Russians have steadily retreated,

although the enemy did not compel them to do so. They accomplished thus

their own purpose, that is, to devastate a province of Prussia, and

protect themselves by this desert from a French invasion."

"It is true," said General von Zastrow, "our friends are ruining us by a

mere semblance of aid. If they really were honest and faithful allies,

would they not strain every nerve to preserve Dantzic to us? General

Benningsen did promise to succor the fortress and raise the siege, if

Dantzic held out only two months longer. But what is he doing to redeem

his promise? Absolutely nothing! We reproached him with his inactivity,

and he excused it by asserting that the army would first have to be

reënforced. He admits that the fall of that seaport would be a great

disaster, but refuses to do any thing decisive for its safety.

Therefore, if we do not give up the equivocal friendship of the

Russians--if we do not now make peace with France, Dantzic will be lost,

and Colberg and Graudenz will likewise fall, in spite of the efforts of

their heroic defenders, Schill and Colomb. Oh, I beg you induce the king

to accept the peace if the terms offered to him be not utterly

inadmissible. These Russians will never deliver us. Suppose even another

general than Benningsen, and better disposed than he, should advance

after his so-called victories in the same manner as Benningsen is

retreating now, he would restore to us no state, only a desert. The king

ought to believe us that they are utterly unwilling to render us

assistance, and that they only intend devastating our country in order

to protect themselves. Whatever the noble and generous Emperor Alexander

may order, it is certain that nothing will be done. Even though we

should protest and clamor against it in the most heart-rending manner,

we should be unable to bring about a change."

"But should we succeed in convincing the king," said General von

Köckeritz, "how are we to persuade the queen? Her heart, otherwise so

gentle and generous, is filled with hatred against Napoleon, and she

believes in the friendship of the Russian emperor."

"Will you take it upon yourself, your excellency, to persuade the king

to make peace with France?"

"I believe I shall be able to do it," said General von Köckeritz, after

a brief reflection.

"Well, for my part, I undertake to persuade the queen to acquiesce, at

least in silence, and not advocate so warmly the alliance with Russia."

"I should like to know by what charm you intend to accomplish such a

miracle."

"By a very simple one, your excellency. I shall cause my niece, the

Countess von Truchsess, who is not merely lady of honor, but also reader

to the queen, to read to her majesty the last numbers of the _Berlin

Telegraph_, which I have just received. This seems like a riddle, but it

is not. That journal contains charges against the queen, which, it

appears to me, render it impossible for her to declare so loudly and

publicly in favor of a continued alliance with the Russian emperor. Her

majesty, therefore, must be informed of the contents of those articles;

she must know in what sense public opinion--or, if you prefer, the

wicked world--is interpreting her enthusiasm for the Russian alliance.

She must learn it this very hour, that, at this momentous crisis, she

may not try to stem the tide of events. We must tie her hands in order

to prevent her from destroying the work we are taking so much pains to

accomplish. While your excellency goes to the king in order to take his

heart by storm with your convincing eloquence, and I am afterward

conducting General Bertrand to his majesty (to whom he will present the

pacific overtures and the autograph letter from Napoleon), my niece, the

Countess von Truchsess, will read to the queen the articles published in

the _Telegraph_, and if the king should really hesitate, and desire to

hear the opinion of his wife, she, in her just indignation, will

assuredly not advocate his cause for whose sake she has to bear the

slanders of the public press."

"Heaven grant that you may be a true prophet, general!" said Köckeritz,

heaving a sigh. "The queen, however, is so magnanimous that she might

even overlook her personal wrongs, and the slanders heaped on her, if

she thought the welfare of the country was at stake. I believe she

esteems the honor of Prussia even higher than her own, and in case she

should believe the former to be endangered, would be willing to

sacrifice herself."

"I believe your excellency is mistaken, so far as that is concerned,"

said General von Zastrow, smiling. "The wife of Frederick William, aside

from being a high-minded queen, is a woman who has the utmost regard for

her reputation and virtue, and who, for the sake of her husband and

children, would not suffer a breath of suspicion upon her honor. Well,

we shall see whether you are right or not. It is high time for us to go

to work. As you have promised me your assistance, I am quite hopeful,

and believe we shall succeed in restoring peace to poor tormented

Prussia. Go, then, your excellency, to perform your part; I will go to

the Countess von Truchsess, to bring her the newspapers, and then it

will be high time to conduct General Bertrand to the king. Well, Heaven

bless us all, and cause Prussia to make peace at last with the Corsican

lion!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SLANDEROUS ARTICLES.

Queen Louisa was in her cabinet, engaged in reading the letters and

journals brought by the courier, who had just arrived from Berlin. She

glanced hastily over the papers, and then turned to the letters that lay

unopened before her. On the other side of the small table, standing in

front of the divan, sat the young Countess von Truchsess, who was

occupied in arranging the journals. The queen meantime was reading her

letters; during the perusal her features lighted up more and more, and a

delicate blush mantled her pale cheeks.

Louisa had but just recovered from a severe and dangerous illness, which

had attacked her soon after her arrival at Königsberg. The suffering

which her courageous soul was enduring with so much constancy and

heroism had undermined her body; weaker than her mind, it had succumbed

to the burden of her grief. A nervous fever had confined her to her bed

for weeks; it had afforded her at least some consolation by rendering

her unconscious of misfortune, and causing her, in her delirious

moments, to live again through the joyful days of the past. While she

was dreaming and believing herself happy in the splendors of a former

life, real and fearful disasters had befallen her cause. She had not

learned that the French were approaching nearer to Königsberg, and that

the unfortunate royal family were no longer safe there. She had not been

conscious in her fever that she had been lifted from her couch into the

travelling-coach, to be conveyed to Memel--that her carriage had been

transformed into a sick-bed, and that she had lain on the cushions with

burning cheeks, singing sweet lullabies, and rejoicing in her fancied

happiness.

But at length her fever subsided, and consciousness returned. All the

mournful news which during her illness had been concealed from her,

overwhelmed her as soon as she recovered, and for this reason her health

had improved but very slowly. At this hour, as we have said, the blush

had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were beaming again with the

fire of former days. The letters gave a glimmer of hope to her soul.

They told her of the brave defenders of the fortresses that had not

surrendered, and of heroic Ferdinand von Schill, who, with his soldiers,

was doing so much injury to the enemy, and who had succeeded in

capturing one of the commanding generals of the besieging army, Marshal

Victor. They told her of Graudenz, the commander of which had sworn to

be buried under the ruins of that fortress rather than open its gates to

the enemy; they told her also of Dantzic, which was still courageously

holding out and hoping for the succor the Russians had promised. And

these letters contained still other hopeful news: that Berlin, which,

according to former statements, was said to have already submitted to

Napoleon, was bowing very reluctantly to the behests of the autocrat,

and still waiting for the hour of deliverance.

"Oh, I knew well enough," said the queen, laying aside the last of her

letters, "I knew well enough that the inhabitants of Berlin are

affectionately devoted to us. I never doubted their constancy, and how

should I? Those whom you meet with a heart full of love are compelled,

as it were, to return your love. The king and I always loved Berlin, and

always counted on its fealty. I am glad, therefore, to hear that our

hopes will be fulfilled one day! It is still a dark, stormy night, but

daylight will come--the rising sun will dispel the storm and scatter the

darkness. You shake your head, Countess Truchsess? You do not believe in

my prophecies?"

"I do not believe in the fidelity of the inhabitants of Berlin, your

majesty," sighed the countess, "they are a frivolous, fickle people, who

revile those to-day whom they admired but yesterday."

"Oh!" exclaimed the queen, sinking back upon the sofa, "the throbbing of

my heart tells me that you have to communicate bad news! What is it?"

"No, most gracious queen, command me rather to be silent," said the lady

of honor, imploringly. "Your majesty looks so pale that I am afraid any

excitement would injure your weak nerves. You need repose and ought not

to be irritated; besides, what does your majesty care for the slanders

of the populace? Such arrows recoil from the pure."

"Ah," said the queen, with a faint smile, "you are dealing with me as

did Robert the hunter with the count in Schiller's 'Walk to the Forge.'

You are stimulating my curiosity by mysterious words--you are talking

about slanders, and yet you do not tell me what they are."

"Only with the difference, your majesty, that Robert the hunter told

falsehoods, which he himself had invented, while I alluded only to those

of others, and despise them from the bottom of my heart."

"Then you mean to say that I have been slandered," exclaimed the queen,

in a low voice. "Tell me, countess, what did your friends write to you?

What stories have been disseminated? I desire to know!"

"Gracious queen, my friends did not write any thing on the subject. I

saw only what, unfortunately, thousands have already seen."

"What did you see?" said the queen, angrily. "What do you refer to? Do

not speak any longer in riddles, if you please."

"Your majesty, I have glanced at the pamphlets and journals lying there,

and request you not to insist to-day on my reading to you the articles

contained in them."

"Ah, that is it!" exclaimed Louisa, laying both her hands on the

periodicals which the countess seemingly wished to withhold from her.

"These contain the slanders. I must know what they are. Read them to me,

countess." And the queen folded her arms with a resolute air.

"Have mercy on me, your majesty! I am really afraid--my lips cannot

easily recite those vile lines, and your majesty, besides, will be angry

with me for complying."

"No, no," exclaimed the queen, impatiently, "I am not angry with you.

You only did your duty in calling my attention to these things, and

having taken upon yourself the task of being my reader, perform it now!

What pamphlets are those sent to us?"

"Your majesty," said the countess, in an embarrassed tone of voice,

"there is, first, a pamphlet entitled 'A True Account of the Interview

of the Emperor Alexander with the King of Prussia at the Grave of

Frederick the Great.'"

"Read it," replied the queen, dryly, "it is always good to listen to the

true account of events in which we have taken part." And without

uttering a word--without even a frown, she listened to the comments on

the scene at the grave of Frederick. They were malicious and scornful,

representing it as a farce.

"Well," said the queen, when the countess had finished, "if that is the

worst, I feel at ease again. We must submit to abuse, and I sincerely

pardon all those who expose me to the derision of the world by depicting

me as a martial Joan of Arc. It has not been permitted me to live

quietly in the shade of domestic happiness. A queen stands alone on a

summit; she is seen and watched by every one, and it is, therefore, but

natural that she should be hated and abused more relentlessly than other

women, particularly if she be unhappy. For sovereigns are never

pardoned, although they are subject to human failings, and their

misfortunes are always regarded as their own faults. Let the malicious,

therefore, deride us as much as they please; the good will only love and

respect us the more. Proceed, countess! What else did we receive?"

"Nothing, your majesty, but a few numbers of the _Telegraph_."

"Ah, read them," exclaimed the queen. "I know that journal will not

slander me. Its editor, Professor Lange, is a patriot, and, for this

reason, I had promised to lend him the portrait of the king which I am

wearing in a locket, that he might give his readers a good likeness of

their beloved monarch. The disastrous events of the war, and my

departure from Berlin, prevented me from fulfilling my promise. But

there will be better times for us, perhaps, and I shall then be able to

reward all those who remain faithful to us."

"And I hope your majesty will also be able to punish those who prove

treacherous," exclaimed the countess, vehemently.

The queen shook her head. "No," she said, "those who wrong me I will

pardon, and those who are faithless I will leave to their own

conscience. Now, countess, read to me the articles of the _Telegraph_."

"Does your majesty command me?"

"I do!"

The countess took one of the sheets and read in a tremulous voice: "'A

reliable account of the reasons why the queen compelled her husband, in

spite of his reluctance, to conclude an alliance with the Emperor of

Russia, and why she herself entered into a love-affair with Alexander of

Russia--'"

Louisa started, and a deathly pallor covered her face like a veil.

"Oh, my queen!" exclaimed the countess, imploringly, "do not insist on my

reading any further. I have not courage to do so."

"If I have courage enough to listen, you must have courage enough to

read," said the queen, almost harshly, "Read--I command you."

And the countess, in a low and tremulous voice, read the disgraceful

charge preferred by that journal, which accused the queen of loving the

Emperor Alexander in the most passionate manner. "Queen Louisa," said

the editor, "was in favor of the alliance with Russia, because her

heart had concluded an alliance with the handsome emperor, and she met

with her 'fine-looking' friend for the last time in the presence of her

husband at the grave of Frederick the Great. The alliance of their

hearts was sealed there by a glowing kiss, which Alexander imprinted on

the lips of Louisa."

The queen uttered a cry, and sprang up like an angry lioness. "That is

not true--that cannot be in the paper!" she cried, almost beside

herself.

The lady of honor silently handed her the paper. Louisa seized it, but

she trembled so violently that she was hardly able to decipher the

characters. She at last read the slanderous article herself.

Heart-rending groans escaped her, and a strange twitching and quivering

distorted her features. "It is indeed true, I have been wickedly

reviled!" she exclaimed, throwing the paper aside. "My enemies will rob

me of the only thing remaining--my honor--my good name. They desire to

expose me to the scorn of the world. Oh, this disgrace is more shocking

than all my other sufferings. It will kill me!" She covered her face

with her hands and wept piteously. The tears trickled between her

fingers, and fell on her black dress as if adorning it with diamonds.

The Countess von Truchsess was touched by the queen's grief. She softly

gathered up the other papers, and was about to leave the room, but the

noise of her footsteps aroused Louisa from the stupor of her despair.

She quickly dropped her hands from her face and dried her tears. "Stay

here," she said; "read the remainder. I want to hear it all." And as the

lady of honor remonstrated against this order--as she implored the queen

to spare herself, and to close her ears against such slanders, Louisa

said, gravely and imperiously: "I want to know it all! Unknown terrors

are even worse than those which we do know. Read!"

The countess, therefore, was obliged to read. The remaining numbers of

the journal repeated the same charge. They stated, though in different

words, that the queen alone was in favor of the alliance with Russia;

that the king would be quite willing to make peace with France, but that

his wife would never permit it, because she was passionately enamoured

of the emperor of Russia, and maintained a tender _liaison_ with him.

The queen listened as immovable and cold as a statue; her whole vitality

seemed suspended; she then pressed her right hand firmly against her

heart; with her left she clung convulsively to the back of the sofa, on

which she was sitting, as though she wished to prevent herself from

falling. Her eyes stared wildly, as if strange and fearful visions

passed before them. Thus she sat, long after the countess had paused,

an image of grief and horror. The lady of honor dared not interrupt her;

but clasping her hands, and weeping softly, she gazed at the queen, who,

in her grief-stricken beauty, seemed to her a martyr. Nothing was heard

but the monotonous ticking of the clock, and, at times, a low whistling

of the canary-bird, in its gilt cage at the window.

But suddenly Louisa seemed to awake from her stupor; a tremor pervaded

her whole frame; the flash of: life and consciousness returned to her

eyes. "That is his work," she muttered; "this attack comes from

him--from my mortal enemy. It is Napoleon who has aimed this poisoned

arrow at my heart, because he knew that nothing could hurt me and my

husband more fatally than this dreadful calumny." And uttering a loud

cry of despair, and wringing her hands, she exclaimed: "Oh, my God, what

did I do, to deserve so terrible a disgrace! What did my husband do that

he should be thus exposed to the relentless malice of his foe? Was not

the measure of our wretchedness full? Could not that cruel man, who

calls himself Emperor of the French, content himself with hurling us

into the dust, and with robbing my husband of his states? Is the honor

of his wife also to be sacrificed?"

A flood of tears burst from her eyes, and lifting up her arms to heaven,

she cried: "My God, why didst Thou desert me! Have mercy on me, and send

death to me, that I may conceal my reviled head in the grave! I am

accused of an ignominious, sinful love, although I love no one on earth

but my husband and my children! And a German pen was bought to write

that slander--German eyes did not shrink from reading it, and German men

and women permitted it to be repeated in this journal time and again!

They did not feel that they were disgraced and reviled in my

person--that all Germany was calumniated! For, in my grief as well as in

my love, I am the representative of Germany, and to insult me is to

insult all German wives and mothers. Woe to you, Napoleon, for stooping

to such an outrage! I pardon your attempts to rob me of my crown, but so

long as I breathe, I will not forgive your attacks upon my honor!"

She rose slowly and proudly, and lifted her arms and eyes as if to utter

a solemn imprecation. "Woe to you, Napoleon!" she cried, in a loud,

ringing voice, "woe to you that you did not respect the innocence of the

wife, and had no mercy on the honor of a mother! The tears which I am

shedding at this hour will one day fall like burning coals on your

heart, and for this torment I am now enduring I shall call you to

account above! You think you are master of the earth, and, like fate

itself, can dispose of empires; but you will be crushed at last--you

will one day feel that you are only a weak creature--only dust, like all

of us. You will yet sink down in your affliction, and cry for mercy. Let

me live to see that day, my God: then my tears will be avenged!"

She paused, her eyes still directed toward heaven, her whole appearance

breathing a sublime enthusiasm. She looked like a prophetess with her

beaming face and uplifted arms. But after a while her arms dropped, her

eyes turned to earth again, and the inspired prophetess was once more

transformed into the unhappy woman, who feared she would die beneath the

burden of her grief. She burst again into tears, and repeated again and

again that terrible accusation, although every word of it struck her

heart like a dagger. Gradually, however, the reviled woman, conscious of

her innocence, became the proud and pure queen! With quiet dignity she

stretched out her hand toward the countess, who rushed to her, pressed

her lips on the royal hand, and sobbing asked to be forgiven.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Louisa, with a faint smile. "I know

your intentions were good. Oh, believe me, during hours of great

affliction the soul sees and comprehends many things that were hitherto

concealed from it. Thus I understood in the outburst of my despair why

all this had occurred, and why I had to undergo all these sufferings.

Napoleon's poisoned arrow might have fallen powerless at my feet, if

your uncle had not instructed you to pick it up and make me feel it.

Hush! Do not utter a word of apology! Your uncle, General von Zastrow,

is a patriot in his way, and intended to teach me by your intervention

how to become a good patriot in his sense--that is to say, to hate

Russia, and to turn away from this alliance, for the sake of which I

have been insulted. It was policy that induced the Emperor Napoleon to

invent these calumnies, and it was policy again that induced your uncle

to have you communicate them to me. This is a consolation; for, as it

is, I am suffering only for the sake of my people, and you made me a

martyr of the German cause. But I will bear all without complaining,

however painful it may be; I do not wish it to cease if the welfare and

happiness of Prussia should be delayed thereby but a single hour. I

shall not ask the king to break off the alliance with Russia. Queen

Louisa yesterday believed an alliance with Russia to be necessary and

advantageous to the welfare and honor of Prussia; she will not change

her mind to-day because Louisa, the woman, is charged with a

dishonorable love for the Emperor of Russia. The woman may die of this

calumny, but dying she will still be a queen, and say, 'I die for my

country, and for my people! May my death be advantageous to Prussia!' Go

to your uncle, countess, and tell him so! And now give me the numbers

of the journal, and the pamphlet too; I will take them to the king. My

fate, as well as that of Prussia, is in his hands. He alone can absolve

me from the charge preferred against me. Give me the papers!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE JUSTIFICATION.

The king sat at his desk, assiduously engaged in writing, when the door

opened, and the queen entered. Her whole bearing breathed an unwonted,

solemn earnestness; her head was proudly erect, her cheeks pale, and a

melancholy smile was playing on her lips. In her left hand she held a

roll of papers. The king rose hastily to meet his wife with a kindly

greeting. Louisa gave him her right hand, and laid her head for a moment

on his shoulder. Looking into her husband's face with a sweet, touching

expression, "Do you love me, Frederick?" she asked in so low and gentle

a voice that he scarcely heard it. Frederick William smiled, and,

instead of replying to her, imprinted a kiss on her fair brow.

"Do you believe in me?" said Louisa. "Oh, my lord and king, I implore

you by every thing that is sacred--by the memory of our children--tell

me, sincerely and frankly, as if standing before God, do you believe in

me? Do you believe in my love--in my virtue?"

"Louisa," exclaimed the king, indignantly and almost aghast, "this

question is too grave to be a jest, and too ludicrous to be grave."

"And yet I am in earnest," exclaimed the queen, in an outburst of

excitement, which she was no longer able to restrain. "Look at these

papers, Frederick. They contain a terrible charge against your wife--the

mother of your children--the queen of our people. They accuse the wife

of a disgraceful _liaison_, and the queen of the most infamous

selfishness. Frederick, they charge me with loving the Emperor

Alexander, and with having induced you, for the purpose of gratifying

this passion, to enter into the alliance with Russia. Now, you know the

disgrace weighing me down, of which all Germany is aware by this time,

and in which the malicious and evil-disposed will surely believe, even

though the virtuous and compassionate may refuse to credit it. Read

these papers, my husband; read them in my presence, and if your

features express but a shadow of doubt--if you fix your eyes but for a

moment on me with an uncertain expression--let me die, and hide my head

in the grave!"

She offered the papers to the king, but Frederick William only glanced

at them, and then laying them on the table, took from one of its drawers

other papers. "See, Louisa," he said in his blunt, dry manner, "these

are the same numbers of the _Telegraph_; I have already had them for a

week, and read every word of them."

The queen unfolded them. "It is true," she said, shuddering; "they are

the same papers; I read there again the terrible words, 'Queen Louisa

insists on continuing the alliance with Russia, only because her heart

has formed an alliance with the fine-looking Emperor Alexander, and

because she is passionately enamoured of him.' Oh, my husband, these

words have engraved themselves as a stigma on my forehead, and should

your eyes behold it also, let me expunge it by sacrificing my life. Tell

me the truth, Frederick! Have I deserved it--have I ever sinned by a

word--nay, by a look? I have often thought and said, that there is a

vestige of truth at the bottom of every rumor--that it may be greatly

exaggerated, but cannot be entirely false. Is there any foundation

whatever for this slander? Consider well, my husband, and if you should

find that I have sinned by a gesture, by a smile, banish me from your

presence. Tell me that I am unworthy of being called your wife; tear the

bonds of friendship that unite you with the Emperor Alexander, and

oppose him as an enemy, menacing and demanding satisfaction. There must

be no stain on your honor, and if you believe the statements of these

papers, show to the world that you will punish the faithless wife and

spurn the treacherous friend!"

The king put his hands on the glowing cheeks of his wife, and, raising

her head, gazed at her with a long and tender look. "Your friends had no

mercy on you, then?" he asked. "They had to inform you pitilessly of

what I wished so anxiously to conceal from you? I would willingly have

cut off my right hand if I could have expunged with the blood trickling

from the wound those lies from the public mind. But the world has now as

little mercy on us as fate. Affliction has hitherto surrounded your

beauty with the glory of a martyr; but mean men have been instigated to

make you a penitent sinner--a Magdalen of the martyr."

"My beloved Frederick," cried the queen, "you evade my question; you do

not reply to me! Tell me the truth. Do you believe in me? Or do you deem

me guilty?"

At this moment a low rap at the door interrupted them. The king

listened, and then turned smilingly to his wife. "It is Minister von

Zastrow, who comes with General Bertrand," he said. "I have granted an

audience to the Frenchman at this hour, to receive the letter and the

peace offers of Napoleon. He is proposing to me an alliance with France,

and he, as well as his adherents here, I suppose, count on my having

read those papers, knowing in what sense malicious men are interpreting

our alliance with Russia. The reply that I shall make to Napoleon's

envoy will be also a reply to your question; hence you shall hear it,

Louisa. Enter my cabinet; the _portière_ will conceal you from the eyes

of my visitors while you will hear every thing that is said." He took

the queen's arm and conducted her quickly into the adjoining room;

hastily rolled an easy-chair toward the door, and requested her by a

wave of his hand to sit down on it. He then lowered the thick velvet

_portière_, and, taking leave of his wife with a smile, returned to his

room.

Louisa gazed after him. "Oh," she whispered, "how could I deceive and

betray him?--him whom I love as the cause of all my happiness, and who

has rendered my life sacred and glorious! Oh, my husband and my

children! my conscience is clear, and accuses me of no guilt! Will you

believe it, Frederick? Will those infamous slanders not leave a vestige

of mistrust in your mind? But hush, hush! the envoy is there already! I

will listen to what the king replies to him." She bent her head closer,

and her large blue eyes with their searching glances seemed to pierce

the heavy velvet, so that she might not only hear but see what was going

on in the room.

In obedience to a sign made by the king, the door of the anteroom had

opened, and General Bertrand, accompanied by General von Zastrow,

entered. The king, standing in the middle of the room, returned the

deep, respectful obeisances of the two gentlemen by a careless nod, and

fixed his quiet eyes searchingly on the French general.

"Sire," said General von Zastrow, in a loud and solemn voice, "General

Bertrand, adjutant of his majesty the Emperor Napoleon, in accordance

with the gracious leave of your majesty, has appeared here in order to

deliver to you an autograph letter from his imperial master."

"I am glad to see General Bertrand, and to make his acquaintance," said

Frederick William, composedly; "I like the brave; and not merely the

French army, but all men, know you to be a brave officer."

General Bertrand blushed. "Ah, sire," he said, "if I have not deserved

this praise hitherto, your royal and kindly words will stimulate me in

the future to strive with unflagging zeal to become worthy of it. I deem

myself happy because my august master the emperor selected me to be the

bearer of his letter and of his proposition, for he thereby enables me

to do homage to the noblest and best of kings--to the exalted sovereign

who bears prosperity and adversity with equal dignity. Your majesty will

permit me to deliver the letter of my emperor into your hands." He

approached the king, and, presenting to him the large letter to which

the imperial seal had been affixed, reverentially bent his knee.

"Oh, no," said Frederick William, quickly, "a brave soldier must not

humble himself in this manner; rise, general!"

General Bertrand rose, holding the imperial letter still in his hands,

for the king had not yet taken it. Looking at him inquiringly, "Sire,"

he said, "may I request your majesty to receive the letter of my

emperor?"

"Ah, I forgot," exclaimed the king. "You are the bearer of a letter the

Emperor Napoleon has addressed to me. Let me confess my want of skill: I

am unable to read your emperor's handwriting very rapidly, and it is

disagreeable slowly to decipher such a letter. Moreover, what the

emperor has to say to me will, doubtless, sound better when uttered by

your lips, than in the black words on the paper. I, therefore, request

you to read it to me."

"Sire," exclaimed General Bertrand, "I shall not dare to break the seal

of a letter addressed to your majesty, and not to me."

"Oh, you may do so," said the king, "I permit you to break the seal.

What the Emperor Napoleon and I have to write to each other need not be

sealed. Everybody may know it. And, I suppose his letters will be only a

sort of continuation of the bulletins he issued in Potsdam and Berlin.

Such bulletins and letters belong to the world and history, which will

judge them."

"Oh," whispered the queen, who had heard every word, "oh, why cannot I

see him in his proud calmness and dignity, and thank him for his noble

words!" She seized the _portière_ with her slender fingers and pushed it

aside a little, so as to be able to see what was going on in the other

room. The king, perhaps, had noticed the slight rustling, for he;

glanced quickly at the curtain; it opened immediately, the noble and

beautiful face of the queen appeared; she nodded with radiant eyes a

smiling greeting to her husband, and kissed her hand to him; her head

then disappeared from the aperture, and the folds of dark velvet closed

again. General Bertrand and General von Zastrow had seen nothing. Both

stood with their backs toward the door, and respect prevented them from

looking around toward the slight noise that reached their ears for a

moment.

A smile illuminated the king's face. "Well," he asked, almost jestingly,

turning to General Bertrand, "you have not broken the seal yet? Do so,

for you ought to understand that I am anxious to hear the contents of

this letter."

"Sire, inasmuch as you command me, I obey," said Bertrand. With a quick

pressure of his hand he broke the seal and opened the letter.

"Now let me hear it," said the king, gliding slowly and carelessly into

the easy-chair standing at the side of the desk. "There are two chairs;

take seats, gentlemen!"

"Your majesty will permit me to stand. My master the emperor is not

accustomed to have his letters read in another position."

"Yes, he may require his subjects to pay to him the deference of

standing when one of his letters is being read," said the king. "You may

stand, therefore, if you please. General von Zastrow, sit down." The

king said this in so stern and imperious a tone that General von Zastrow

felt resistance impossible, and that he would have to obey the king's

order. He took a chair in silence, inwardly aghast at this disrespectful

breach of etiquette.

"Read," said the king, dryly. General Bertrand unfolded the letter and

read as follows:

"Your majesty will receive this letter at the hands of my

Adjutant-General Bertrand, who enjoys my friendship. I, therefore,

request you to repose entire confidence in every thing that he says, and

I flatter myself that his mission will be agreeable to you.

"Bertrand will communicate to your majesty my views about the present

state of your affairs. I desire to set bounds to the misfortunes of your

family, and to organize, as soon as possible, the Prussian monarchy,

whose mediating power is necessary for the tranquillity of Europe.

"Bertrand will also communicate to you the easiest and quickest way in

which this can be brought about, and I hope your majesty will let me

know that you have taken the step which will accomplish this purpose in

the best manner, and which, at the same time, will agree with the

welfare of your subjects; that is to say, that you accept the peace

which I am offering to you. At all events, I beg your majesty to feel

convinced that I am sincerely disposed to resume our former relations,

and that I also wish to come to an understanding with Russia and

England, provided these powers should be animated with the same desire.

I should detest myself if I were to be the cause of so much bloodshed.

But how can I help it? The conclusion of peace is therefore in the hands

of your majesty, and it would be the happiest day of my life if you

accept my present propositions.

"NAPOLEON."

"You have to make oral explanations to this letter of your emperor?"

asked the king, when Bertrand paused.

"Yes, sire, my master the emperor intrusted me with further

communications to you," said Bertrand. "But, in the first place, I beg

leave of your majesty to deliver the imperial letter into your hands."

He approached the king and presented the paper to him with a respectful

bow.

The king did not take it, but pointed to his desk. "Lay it there," he

said, carelessly. "The purpose of this letter is accomplished; I know

its contents, and that is all I care about. And now, general,

communicate to me as briefly as possible the verbal commissions with

which the emperor has intrusted you."

"Sire, his majesty the emperor authorized me to repeat to you that it

was his liveliest wish to resume his former amicable relations with

Prussia, and that he would shrink from no sacrifice to effect it. The

emperor longs for nothing more ardently than to restore your states to

your majesty, and to conduct you back to your capital."

"As his vassal?" asked the king, smiling sarcastically.

"No, sire, as a free and independent king."

"Not as Napoleon's ally, then?"

"Yes, sire, as the emperor's ally, but as free and independent as he is

himself. It is true, the emperor hopes and wishes that Prussia will be

friendly toward France; he relies on your majesty's assistance in his

struggle with Russia, which, in that case, will soon bow to the united

will of France and Prussia, and be compelled to accept a treaty of

peace. In return, the emperor will surrender to the just wishes of your

majesty seditious Poland, which, as the emperor has become satisfied,

is unable to bear an independent existence. The rebellious provinces of

Prussian Poland shall speedily be compelled to yield unconditional

obedience to the Prussian sceptre, and your country shall occupy once

more the position due to her in the council of European nations. It will

be unnecessary for her to make for this purpose any sacrifices to the

friends and allies of France; all her fortresses and provinces shall be

fully restored, and so soon as the treaty of peace will have been

definitively concluded, the French troops will evacuate the Prussian

territory."

While General Bertrand was speaking, the face of Minister von Zastrow

had brightened, and was now really radiant with joy. Animated by the

cheering words of the Frenchman, he rose from his seat, and looked at

the king with clasped hands and imploring eyes. But the countenance of

Frederick William remained impenetrable and cold; not the slightest

expression of joy or gratification was to be read in it.

"Are you done, general?" asked the king, after a pause.

"Yes, sire. I am waiting for your majesty's reply."

"This reply will be brief and decisive," exclaimed Frederick William,

loudly, rising slowly and with truly royal dignity. "I will not accept

this alliance and this peace!"

"Your majesty," said General von Zastrow, in dismay, forgetful of the

requirements of etiquette, "your majesty, that is impossible! You cannot

be in earnest; I beseech you first to hear the opinion of your

ministers, and to consult a cabinet council."

"Silence!" said the king, indignantly; "the only voices that I ought to

consult with regard to this question are not those of my ministers, but

those of my conscience and honor. It behooves the king alone to decide

upon war or peace. I repeat, therefore, I will not accept this peace nor

enter into the alliance offered under such circumstances. I might

content myself with this declaration, but I shall tell you the reasons

of my refusal that you may repeat them to your emperor. I cannot accept,

for it would be a defeat and disgrace more humiliating than the loss of

a battle. What, sir! I am to receive by the grace and _bon plaisir_ of

your emperor the gift of a position to which I am entitled by my birth!

The Emperor Napoleon condescends to restore my states after forcibly

expelling me from them! If I were to accept this offer, I should thereby

condemn myself; and this war, into which I entered so reluctantly,

because I foresaw its disastrous consequences, would be nothing but a

reckless adventure, abandoned by myself because unsuccessful. If I

allowed Napoleon to reinstate me in my rights, what would I be but his

vassal? Not a king by the grace of God, but a king by the grace of

Napoleon--not the ruler of a free and independent German state, but the

governor of a French province--the despised oppressor of an enslaved

people, robbed of their honor, independence, and nationality. Now, I

commenced this war for the sake of my own honor and that of my people. I

commenced it to set bounds to French cupidity and thirst for conquest;

to preserve to Germany her German and to Prussia her Prussian character,

and to drive back the Confederation of the Rhine beyond the frontier of

the Rhine. The fortune of war has not sustained me in these efforts, and

victory perched upon the eagles of France. But the Prussian eagle is not

yet dead; he may still hope to rise again, and, endowed with renewed

vigor, reconquer what belongs to him. What was taken by the sword can be

reconquered only by the sword. My honor, as well as that of my army and

people, was wounded on the battle-fields of Jena and Auerstadt; it

cannot be healed by the balm of Napoleon's grace; it can only be

redeemed by blood!"

"Sire, I beseech you, do not allow yourself to be carried away by the

ardor of your heroism," exclaimed General Bertrand, feelingly. "Remember

that after the rejection of this peace the Emperor Napoleon will be a

relentless enemy of yours, and leave nothing undone in order to

annihilate Prussia. Your majesty ought also to take into consideration

that you lack an army--that your forces have been dispersed, and that

your fortresses have surrendered."

"Colberg and Graudenz are still holding out," exclaimed the king, "and

so is Dantzic."

"Sire, if you reject this peace, the first step of the emperor will be

to take Dantzic by assault," said General Bertrand.

"Your majesty, have mercy on Dantzic," exclaimed General von Zastrow,

imploringly; "have mercy on your blockaded fortresses--on your poor

distressed subjects! So soon as your majesty accepts this peace, the

Emperor Napoleon intends withdrawing all the French troops from Prussian

territory. Oh, pray take into consideration how dreadfully your people

have suffered by the heavy contributions, and the enormous supplies to

the troops! Remember that they are overwhelmed with wretchedness, and

are kneeling and crying to God and to their king to restore peace."

"O my God," murmured the queen, "inspire him with the true decision,

and grant that he may perceive and choose what is right!" She knelt down

behind the curtain as if to hear better the king's words, that to her

were the words of God. The king did not seem to notice his minister's

supplication; his eyes glanced at him coldly and disdainfully, and were

then fixed gravely on the face of the French general.

"I am not quite done with my reply to your propositions," he said. "I

have told you the reasons why I cannot accept peace. It only remains to

explain why, though the terms were honorable, I could and would not be

allowed to enter into this alliance. By virtue of it I should be obliged

to espouse the cause of France against her enemies, and to wage war

against Russia, my ally. I am to violate the only sure compact remaining

to me in order to become a mere cipher in the hands of Napoleon! I am to

betray him who has been faithful to me! The Emperor of Russia is my

personal friend. At the grave of Frederick the Great I swore with him to

maintain the alliance of both our hearts and our states, and no other

voice induced me to take this step but my inclination, my policy, and my

reason. The Emperor of Russia, true to our mutual oath, renewed his

protestations of friendship in the hour of danger, and his army is ready

to uphold our common cause. If, now that France is offering peace to me

at the expense of Russia, I were to accept it, I should commit a

perfidious act, and, as a Prussian soldier, as a friend of the Emperor

Alexander, I must decidedly reject any idea of such a desertion. A

German keeps his word, and does not trifle with treaties he has sworn

to. German fealty has not yet become an empty sound, and France will be

obliged to admit that she is struggling with an adversary who does not

sell his honor for provinces or for money. Now you know all I had to

communicate. Tell Napoleon that intrigues and slanders cannot separate

me from my alliance with the Emperor of Russia any more than adulation

and advantageous offers. My resolution will remain as firm as a rock.

And now, good-by, general!"

He waved his hand to Bertrand, and received with proud calmness the

respectful bows with which the French general withdrew.

No sooner had the door closed than the queen appeared. Her eyes filled

with tears, and stretching out her arms toward her husband, seemed a

picture of beauty, grace, and love. The king hastened to her and pressed

her firmly against his heart. "Are you satisfied with my answer,

Louisa?" he asked. "Do you know now what I think of those wretched

calumnies?"

The queen bent and kissed his hand. "I thank you, my beloved husband,"

she whispered tenderly. "Wise and kind as you always are, you knew how

to comfort my heart, and by your heroic words to fill my soul with

enthusiasm and delight. My husband and king, you have restored my honor.

I care no longer for the abuse of the world, but shall always think of

this sacred hour, for my king believes in me, and my husband still loves

his Louisa; he knows that the mother of his children is innocent, and

may freely raise her eyes to heaven."

"I know more than that," said the king, laying his hand on his wife's

head, as if blessing her; "I know that in these times of adversity you

are the only hope left me; I know that I derive courage and consolation

from you, and that in my misfortunes I still deem myself fortunate,

because you are by my side--the angel of my life!"

"Ah, Frederick," exclaimed the queen, bursting into tears, "Frederick,

how rich and happy you make me! Am I not an enviable wife, possessed as

I am of such a husband!" In passionate tenderness, she threw her arms

about him, and in loving embrace rested long on his breast.

Some one rapped repeatedly and discreetly at the door. Louisa, blushing,

raised her head and dropped her arms. The king ordered the person to

walk in. It was General von Zastrow who entered, pale and gloomy.

Frederick William smilingly beckoned him to approach.

"You are dissatisfied with me, Zastrow?" he said, in a pleasant tone;

"you believe it would be better to make peace?"

"Your majesty, I am afraid you have rejected an advantageous alliance,

and will, perhaps, be compelled soon to accept by far more rigorous

terms."

"You do not know, then, that large Russian forces are advancing, and

that the Emperor Alexander himself probably leads his troops against the

enemy?"

"Pardon me, sire, but I do not believe in the friendship of Russia. Your

majesty uttered words so generous to-day, that my eyes filled with tears

of admiration, and I felt proud as a man and subject, although my heart

as a general and minister was overwhelmed with sorrow. May Russia

deserve your fidelity! may she not disappoint your hopes, and commit as,

you said, a perfidious act, by entering into an alliance with France at

the expense of Prussia! But may your majesty, above all, get an army

courageous and strong enough to brave all your enemies, and restore the

greatness of Prussia!"

"You do not believe, then, in this army?" asked the king, gloomily.

"Your majesty, in order to organize an army, money--a great deal of

money--is indispensable."

"And you mean to say we have none?"

"Your majesty, not only your privy purse is entirely exhausted, but

there is also no money in the state and district treasuries. Gold and

silver seem to have wholly disappeared; stocks and commercial paper are

depreciating every day, and the bankruptcy of the state will be

inevitable!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, indignantly, "do not utter such a word! Never

shall I permit such distress to be inflicted upon my poor subjects!"

He commenced rapidly pacing the room; suddenly, however, he stood still

in front of the queen, who had softly withdrawn into a window-niche,

where she had watched every movement of the king. "Louisa, will your

repasts be as agreeable to you on porcelain plates as on gold and

silver?"

The queen smiled. "The little Princess of Mecklenburg was accustomed to

take her meals off porcelain," she said, "and I honestly confess that

the Queen of Prussia at times envied her her plain white plates."

The king, turning again to his minister, said: "We are not yet so poor

as you seem to believe; our large golden dinner-set, the heirloom of our

ancestors, was safely removed from Berlin, and is now here at Memel. It

embraces pieces of the highest value, for which millions have been paid.

May my ancestors pardon my giving away what they collected! I am not

doing so in a reckless and extravagant manner, but with profound sorrow

and with a mournful heart. But it cannot be helped! General von Zastrow,

I shall issue the necessary orders to have my large golden dinner-set

either sold or pawned. We shall receive at least a million dollars for

it."

"And the privy purse of your majesty stands greatly in need of this

million," said General von Zastrow, drawing a sigh.

The king shrugged his shoulders. "Not a dollar of it shall be paid into

my privy purse," he said. "The money shall be distributed among the

public treasuries, that the lack of funds may be temporarily relieved,

and that my poor suffering subjects need not fear that the state become

bankrupt."

"But if your majesty should carry out this generous resolution,"

exclaimed the general, "you may soon be in danger yourself of

privations."

The king cast a long, inquiring glance on his wife. Louisa smiled and

nodded kindly to him. "If questions of economy and family matters are to

be considered," she said, "a woman may be permitted to say a word in the

council of men, and to give her opinion as a housewife. I think we are

tolerating a great many superfluous and very expensive things in our

private household, and, if my husband does not object, I should like to

ask for a few changes."

"I shall never dare to contradict you," said Frederick, kindly. "Let me,

therefore, know the changes you wish to make."

"In the first place, I think that we have too many servants, considering

our present circumstances, and the small house in which we are living.

As we do not give dinners, the people attached to the kitchen may be

greatly diminished; most of the cooks, as well as the legion of footmen,

may be discharged. It is necessary, too, to reduce the number of

carriages, and to sell most of the horses standing uselessly in the

stable. A plain vehicle, drawn by two good horses, is sufficient for my

children, and whenever I want a ride, I believe my husband will lend me

his yellow travelling-coach."

"Provided you allow me a seat at your side," said the king, smiling.

"Are there any other suggestions you deem necessary?

"I wish the servants surrounding us to appear in a plain dress, and the

expensive liveries, covered with gold and silver lace, to disappear. A

plain black cloth coat, trimmed with white, is sufficient. It is not,

however, to signify that we are in mourning, but only to represent the

Prussian colors, and on looking at them I shall always feel proud and

happy, while now, on beholding the liveries covered with gold and

silver, I cannot suppress my shame, for I think of the distress of our

subjects, and of the misery of our country. Let us begin, therefore, a

plain, unpretending existence, my husband; let us set an example of

simplicity to our people, and show them that one may be contented,

though deprived of the splendors of wealth and position."

The king took her hand and pressed it against his lips. "I consent to

all your wishes, Louisa," he said; "I will issue to-day the necessary

orders to the steward.--You see, general, our privy purse will not lack

money, for we shall realize a handsome sum by the sale of our horses,

carriages, and the gold and silver lace of the liveries. Moreover, the

war will not last forever, and we may, perhaps, look soon for a final

decision."

"Your majesty, war, then, is absolutely unavoidable?"

"You still ask this question? Yes, the war will be continued. I will

hear nothing further about peace."

"In that case," said General von Zastrow, trembling, "I must humbly

request your majesty to accept my resignation; the continuation of the

war, and the rejection of the peace offered to Prussia, are so contrary

to my conviction, that my conscience does not permit me to assist in

carrying out your plans."

"The first duty of every faithful servant is to comply with his master's

orders," said the king, sternly. "I cannot accept your resignation, for

I know that you are an honest servant, and that only your momentary

anger has misled you. I give you, therefore, time to collect your

thoughts and regain your temper. Work and activity are the best remedies

for that purpose, and possibly there may soon be a favorable turn in our

affairs, proving to you that you were wrong, and causing you to change

your mind. Until further orders, therefore, you will remain my minister

of war, but I shall give you an assistant. I shall appoint Hardenberg

minister without portfolio, and give him a seat and vote in the new

ministerial council which I am about to organize."

General von Zastrow started, and his face became paler. "Your majesty,"

he faltered in a low voice, "I--"

"The matter is settled," said the king, calmly. "I do not wish to hear

further objection, general. We shall hold a meeting of the ministerial

council to-morrow, and Hardenberg must be present. Good-by!"

General von Zastrow dared not contradict; he bowed in silence to the

royal couple and tottered to the door.

When he had retired, the queen, turning to her husband, exclaimed, "You

touched his sorest spot. He hates Hardenberg, and it will greatly

torment him to have him at his side."

"He deserved some punishment," said the king, gravely. "For it was

certainly owing to him that you were informed of those infamous

slanders. Who laid the papers before you?"

"The Countess von Truchsess, my reader."

"Zastrow's niece! My supposition was right. It was a deep-laid intrigue,

designed to drive us into the meshes of the peace party, and induce us

to give up the Russian alliance."

"Do not be angry with them," said the queen, "their intentions were

good."

"I know the good intentions of those so-called friends," exclaimed the

king, vehemently, "They drive a dagger slowly into our breast, and when

they see the wound bleeding, they excuse themselves with the pretext

that their intentions were good! But he who has really honest intentions

tries to spare his friend every pain. My 'intentions' were also good

when I concluded to place Hardenberg in company with Zastrow. I do not

like change; but if Zastrow, in the course of a few weeks, should not

accustom himself to the presence of Hardenberg, he must withdraw, and

Hardenberg remain."[31]

[Footnote 31: The united efforts of the peace party, headed by General

Zastrow and Cabinet-counsellor Beyme, did not succeed this time in

keeping Hardenberg out of the cabinet. The king reposed confidence in

him, and when, a few weeks later, the Emperor Alexander paid a visit to

the royal couple at Memel, he distinguished Hardenberg, and ignored

General von Zastrow so completely, that the latter was deeply offended.

His mortification was still augmented by the fact that Hardenberg was

selected to accompany the king to the camp of the united Prussian and

Russian troops. General von Zastrow then sent in his resignation, for

the second time, and it was accepted. Hardenberg became minister of

foreign affairs in his place.]

CHAPTER XXV.

COUNTESS MARY WALEWSKA.

News of the highest importance reached Castle Finkenstein, where

Napoleon had been residing since the battle of Eylau. Dantzic had

fallen. It had been compelled to surrender, with its immense _matériel_

and supplies. In vain had been the heroic defence of the garrison, the

energy of General Kalkreuth, commander of the fortress, the ardor and

courage of the soldiers, the unflagging self-abnegation of the citizens;

in vain, the bloodshed, the mutilated limbs, the destruction of

property! Lefebvre, the French general, had drawn the circle of his

besieging forces closer around the devoted city, and fresh troops poured

into his ranks, while every day the garrison was becoming weaker. Only

the most vigorous succor could have saved Dantzic. General Kalkreuth had

long hoped for it. England, now the ally of Russia and Prussia, had

promised aid, and equipped a sloop-of-war of twenty-two guns, to force

the blockade, convey ammunition into the city, and destroy the

pontoon-bridge of the French; but the sloop stranded, and had to

surrender. The Russians, too, had promised assistance to the city. Seven

thousand embarked at Pillau, and landed at Weichselmünde; but there they

were attacked by Oudinot, who captured nearly one-half, and dispersed

the rest.

The last hopes of Dantzic were gone; there was no relief. Lefebvre

ordered a bombardment, and then sent a flag of truce to General

Kalkreuth, informing him that he would take the city by assault if the

fortress did not surrender. General Kalkreuth gazed mournfully at the

stranded British sloop-of-war, and, pointing it out to his officers, who

surrounded him in gloomy silence, said, "That is the tombstone of

Dantzic!" He then sent for the bearer of the flag of truce, and the

negotiations commenced. In the mean time, shells and red-hot shot were

poured into the city, killing alike the soldiers on the ramparts and the

citizens in their dwellings. Lamentations and shrieks, the roar of

artillery, the uninterrupted peals of the tocsin, calling out the

inhabitants, mingled with the crash of the falling houses, and the wails

of the wounded and dying.

General Kalkreuth pitied the city; he was unwilling to add the horrors

of an assault to the agony it had already undergone. He signed the

capitulation, but claimed for the garrison liberty to march out without

being made prisoners of war, and the surrender of their arms. Lefebvre

granted these conditions, but insisted that the Prussian troops should

not engage to serve against France before the expiration of a year.

General Kalkreuth accepted this clause, and the gates of Dantzic opened

to the French conqueror on the 24th of May, 1807.

The Emperor Napoleon received the news of this great victory at Castle

Finkenstein, not far from Tilsit. His face brightened, and he

immediately sent a courier to Marshal Lefebvre, to invite him to pay him

a visit at the castle. But the joy of the emperor soon disappeared. His

generals, intimate friends, and servants, endeavored to cheer him. They

tried all the arts of eloquence and flattery to dispel his sadness.

Talleyrand attempted to amuse him by reciting, with charming _médisance_

and pointed humor, passages from the rich stores of his memoirs, and by

relating, with Attic wit, the story of his first love, which had

bequeathed to him a lame foot as a remembrancer. Lannes, with the blunt

humor of a true soldier, told stories of his campaigns. Duroc smilingly

reminded the emperor of many an adventure they had had in Paris, when,

in plain gray coats, and hats drawn over their eyes, they had wandered

through the streets of the capital, to ascertain the disposition of the

people, and received many a rebuke on daring to abuse Napoleon. It is

true, the emperor was amused on hearing such anecdotes, but his

momentary laughter revealed more vividly his dark and stormy temper.

To-day the generals resorted to another method also of amusing him. They

proposed cards. He agreed, and they commenced a game of _vingt-et-un_.

Formerly, the emperor, on playing, had always been in excellent spirits,

and did not disdain even to cheat a little, frequently concealing a card

or two. But now he played gravely and honestly, and the consequence was

that he lost. Throwing the cards indignantly aside, and greeting the

marshals with a silent nod, he crossed the room with hasty steps, and

retired to his cabinet.

"He has not yet forgotten the affair of Eylau," grumbled Marshal Lannes.

"It is true, we boasted of our victory there, and ordered a _Te Deum_ to

be sung, but he knows very well how things stood, and feels badly

because the Emperor of Russia also had a _Te Deum_ sung."

"I do not believe, Marshal, that that is the cause of the emperor's

grief," said Talleyrand, shrugging his shoulders. "Napoleon is not in

the habit of mourning for past events, but a failure incites him to

renewed exertions, and inspires his genius to perform fresh and daring

exploits. Although the lion for once may have seen his prey slip from

his grasp, it does not render him dispirited. He only shakes his mane,

and crouches for a new bound."

"Then you believe, M. Minister, that the emperor is planning another

battle?" joyfully asked Lannes.

"I am convinced of it, but do not believe that to be the reason of his

ill-humor. The furrows on his brow express his sorrow for the death of

young Napoleon--his little nephew--the grandson of the empress!"

"Ah, bah!" exclaimed Lannes, "it would really be worth while for a great

chieftain to mourn for a child eight years of age!"

"He does not mourn for the child, but for the successor," said

Talleyrand. "You know, the son of his brother Louis and his stepdaughter

Hortense was to be his heir--the future Emperor of France. You see how

difficult it is to say in advance who is to be the heir of a throne.

Some accident--a brick falling from a roof, an attack of the measles, a

contemptible cough--may bring about the ruin of dynasties and the rise

of new ones. The hopes of Josephine have been buried with young Napoleon

Louis. Poor empress! her downfall is inevitable, for the emperor must

think henceforth of an heir--of a legitimate union. Alas! how many tears

will that cost poor Josephine's heart!"

"I am sure, Prince de Benevento, when you deplore the fate of the

empress, you suggest great sufferings for her. But we know the subtle

diplomacy of the minister who says that language was given for the sole

purpose of concealing our thoughts. Hence, prince, I am in the habit of

believing exactly the reverse of what you say. You are sure to overthrow

Josephine and have already selected her successor. Tell us who is she?

Upon whom do you intend to confer the honor of giving an heir to the

emperor?"

"Let us rather put this question to our taciturn friend Duroc," said

Talleyrand, softly laying his hand on the shoulder of the grand marshal,

who was standing in front of them with folded arms. "Please take notice

that the grand marshal has not added a single word to our

conversation--that he has listened calmly to our suppositions about the

emperor's melancholy, and has not assisted us in ferreting out the

truth. It is evident, therefore, that he is aware of it, and that it

does not affect him painfully. Pray tell us, grand marshal, who is

right--the Duke de Montebello or myself?"

"Perhaps, prince, both of you are mistaken," said Duroc, "and perhaps,

again, both of you are right. Who is able to fathom the thoughts and

secrets--but I believe the emperor is calling me!" And he approached the

door of the imperial cabinet and listened.

"Duroc!" cried the emperor, "Duroc!"

The grand marshal took leave of the two gentlemen with a careless bow

and hastened away. Napoleon sat on an easy-chair at the open window,

supporting his head on his hand, and gazing out on the landscape. He

seemed to have entirely forgotten that he had called the grand marshal,

and did not even notice the latter after he had entered. An air of

profound sadness was depicted in his features.

"Your majesty called me," said Duroc, approaching.

Napoleon started and turned his head slowly toward the grand marshal.

"It is true," he said, "I called you, Duroc. I was ungracious, and left

you without saying a kind word to you. I am sorry. You may repeat my

words to the other two princes." He gave his small white hand to Duroc,

who pressed it against his breast with an expression of tenderness. "I

thank your majesty for this fresh proof of your magnanimity," he said,

"and shall communicate it to the other two princes."

He was about to withdraw, but the emperor detained him. "Tell me, first,

Duroc, whether they were very angry with me? Did old Lannes grumble? Did

Talleyrand comment in his usual manner?"

"Oh, sire!" exclaimed Duroc, reproachfully, "all three of us were filled

only with grief; we were considering what might be the cause of your

majesty's melancholy."

"Well, and what did you guess? and what Lannes?"

"He believed your majesty was striving to crown the battle of Eylau with

a brilliant victory, and that you were planning a new battle."

"He is right," exclaimed Napoleon, energetically. "We are not yet at the

end of our struggle, and the brave men who were buried under the snow of

Eylau must be avenged. I shall soon bid the sun of Austerlitz and Jena

shine on the plains of Prussia, and dazzle the eyes of the Emperor of

Russia. I will bring him to his knees and make him cry '_Pater

peccavi_!' I will show him what it is to menace me; and when I unfurl my

banner on the Kremlin of Moscow, Alexander shall bear the train of my

purple cloak. The world belongs to me! Woe unto him who stands in my

way--I will crush him as the elephant crushes the worm! Lannes is right;

I am planning a new battle. But it is not this that makes me sad. What

did Talleyrand say--Talleyrand, Prince de Benevento, with the keen nose

and the impenetrable smile?"

"Talleyrand said it was not the planning of future battles, but that you

were mourning for the little son of the King of Holland."

"Ah, indeed, Talleyrand is not altogether mistaken," exclaimed Napoleon,

heaving a sigh; "my heart is mourning for young Napoleon. He was my

darling, and I had accustomed myself to regard him as my heir. He was

blood of my blood, and there was something shining in his eyes that

seemed to me to be a beam of my own mind. I loved the boy. And now--what

did Talleyrand say besides, Duroc?" asked Napoleon, interrupting

himself. "You are silent. Be frank; I want to know it all!"

"Sire," said Duroc, timidly, "the Prince de Benevento lamented the fate

of the empress, for he believes the death of little Prince Napoleon

Louis to be a mournful--nay, a fatal event for her, inasmuch as your

majesty would now be under the necessity of having a successor to the

noble and adored Empress Josephine, and an heir-apparent to your

empire."

"And he was impudent enough to lament her fate!" exclaimed Napoleon, "he

who has striven for years to overthrow her--he who always united with my

family to prove to me the right of disowning her. Ah, poor dear

Josephine! I ought never to have thought of listening to their

insinuations; I was hitherto her most faithful defender, for I love her,

and know that she is a sincere friend."

"An empress, sire," said Duroc, "who would be an ornament to any throne,

and whose grace, amiability, and kind-heartedness, have won as many

subjects for your majesty as your battles. Sire, all France loves and

worships the Empress Josephine; all France would weep with her if her

enemies succeed in removing her from her throne, and from the side of

her adored husband, and the tears and imprecations of a whole people

would be the festive welcome with which France would receive a new

empress!"

"You paint in very glaring colors," exclaimed Napoleon, gloomily, "but,

then, I know you to be one of Josephine's admirers. She is really a good

wife, and I never had room for complaint. But for one consideration, I

should never think of separating from her. Fate is against her, and I am

afraid it will compel me--ah, let us not dare to pry into the future.

Let us rather attend to the present. You have told me the suppositions

of Lannes and Talleyrand, but not your own. What did you say?" He looked

at Duroc with his eagle eyes, and repeated, "What did you say?"

"Sire," replied Duroc, "I said nothing."

"You said nothing, because you know what ails me," said Napoleon,

vehemently, "because you can fathom the pain, the anger, and grief of my

heart!"

He rose from his easy-chair, and paced the room, with his arms behind

him. "Duroc," he said, after a long pause, and in a husky, tremulous

voice, "is it not a disgrace that this should happen? The world is

bowing to me, and recognizing me as its master, and a woman dares resist

me--a fair, delicate little creature that I could crush, as it were, in

my hands--that an angry breath from my mouth could destroy as a lily in

the blast of the desert. Duroc, she dares resist me, and opposes a cold,

stubborn silence to my request--nay, to my fervent supplications!"

"Sire, she is married," said Duroc, timidly, "she is married, and--"

"She is married to a husband whom she does not--cannot love," exclaimed

Napoleon, impetuously. "He is a white-haired old man--a man of sixty

years, to whom her parents have sold her!"

"But her husband is said to love his beautiful wife passionately."

"Let him dare molest her with his love," exclaimed Napoleon, menacingly;

"let him touch only with the tip of his finger this flower that I myself

would have! She has not deserved the sorry fate of withering at the side

of a decrepit old man; she serves to bloom at the heart of an emperor!

Oh, how beautiful she is! When I saw her, for the first time, at the

ball in Warsaw, I fell in love with her, and felt that I must possess

her. Her light-colored hair was shining about her noble head like a

halo; heaven seemed to be reflected in her azure eyes, and the tinge of

melancholy shading her face rendered her still more charming and

seductive. She was an innocent victim of the selfishness of others; I

perceived it at a glance, and have loved her ever since. I took a secret

oath to rescue her from her misery, and, by my love, to restore

happiness to her! And yet she disdains me, Duroc!"

"No, sire, she does not disdain the exalted lover whom she worships; she

is not, however, a flirt, but a virtuous wife. She will not prove

faithless to her husband; she will not break the vows she took upon

herself at the altar. She is engaged in a terrible struggle between duty

and love, for your majesty knows very well that Madame de Walewska loves

you!"

"No, no, she does not love me," exclaimed Napoleon, vehemently. "If she

really loved me, she would listen to no other voice than mine! I

supplicated her with the whole strength of my affection--with all the

anger of a spurned admirer, with all the humility of a doting lover, but

neither my anger nor my supplications were able to move her. And yet she

asserts that she loves me; she dares to say that she shares my passion!

Oh, she is a cold-hearted, cruel coquette; it gladdens her to behold my

sufferings, and to play with my heart!"

"Sire, you are unjust," exclaimed Duroc. "Madame de Walewska is an angel

of virtue and purity; she would joyfully sacrifice her life to save

your majesty a sigh!"

"But she is unwilling to sacrifice to me this chimera of virtue,"

exclaimed Napoleon, "although she has already disregarded it by loving

me. She is not courageous enough to give up the semblance after having

already parted with the substance. Like all women she is timid, and

incapable of a great resolution! How many letters have I not written to

her since I last saw her! After the battle of Eylau--like a miserable

adventurer--a knight-errant--I went in disguise to the village where she

had at length promised to meet me at her brother's house. What a

wretched rendezvous it was! Nothing but a farewell scene! She desires to

go into a convent, and give her heart to God, because she is not allowed

to give it to me. I am no Abélard, however, and do not want her to

become a Héloïse! If she goes into a convent, I shall have its walls

torn down, and the order she has joined abolished."

"But she will not go into a convent, sire; love will at last triumph

over her virtue, and she will finally declare herself vanquished. She

promised your majesty to defer the execution of her purpose for a year,

but, I am sure, she will not be strong enough to close her heart so long

against the passionate entreaties of a lover whom she adores. The

letters which your majesty writes to her, and which she does not refuse

to accept, are like hot shells thrown into the fortress of her heart.

They do a great deal of mischief."

"Forsooth, it is a consolation that she does not refuse my notes. I have

sent them almost every day during two months; every week I send a

courier who meets her when, escaping from the Argus-eyes of her husband,

she goes to the cathedral. But I receive only laconic replies. This

woman is either incapable of genuine love, or she is a demon who

delights in torturing me."

"Sire, does it please your majesty to partake of this fruit?" said a

gentle voice behind him.

The emperor started. Absorbed in his passion--filled with the idea now

agitating his soul, he had not heard the door of the cabinet softly

open, and was unaware that one of the imperial pages, holding a golden

fruit-plate, had entered. Duroc also had not noticed that he was present

while the emperor was still speaking, and that he must have overheard

the last words of his majesty. The page leaned, pale and exhausted,

against the wall near the door, and the golden plate was trembling in

his hands.

Napoleon cast a glowing glance on him, and rushing toward him, snatched

the plate and threw it on the floor. As the peaches rolled across the

room, he seized the page's arms, and drew him toward the window. "Who

are you?" he asked, scarcely able to master his emotion. "Who are you?

Speak, that I may hear your voice!"

The page looked in his face, aglow with anger, and his large blue eyes

filled with tears. "I am a demon who delights in torturing you," he said

in a low voice.

Napoleon did not utter a word. He tore the velvet cap from the page's

head, and when his long silken hair fell on his shoulders in heavy

masses, a smile of unutterable bliss overspread the emperor's face. He

seized the fair ringlets with his hands and kissed them; he laid them on

his own head, and they covered his face like a golden veil. He then

shook them off with a merry laugh, and encircled the page so violently

in his arms, that he uttered a cry. "Mary, Mary," he exclaimed

passionately, "you are in my arms at last--you are here! Duroc, just

look at this wonderful page. Come here, and look at the angel I

slandered just now!"

But Duroc did not appear. He preferred to move quietly out of the room

and to lock the door after him. Napoleon, therefore, was alone with his

mistress, and thanked Duroc in his heart for this discretion. He clasped

the weeping and blushing lady in his arms, and tried with gentle force

to remove her hands, in which she had buried her face. "Mary," he asked,

in a tone of suppliant tenderness, "Mary, you weep, and yet you say you

love me?"

"Yes, I do love you," she exclaimed, sinking on her knees. "I love you

intensely! Ah, have mercy on me! Do not condemn me because I come hither

in spite of my conscience and my honor! Napoleon, I have no longer any

thing on earth but you! I have no longer a country, a family, a name! I

gave up every thing for you--my life, my honor, my happiness, are yours!

Remember it, and do not despise me!"

He raised her from her knees and pressed a kiss on her quivering lips.

"Mary," he said, "this kiss shall have the same effect upon you as of

old the gift of knighthood had on the warrior--it will impart to you a

higher and more sacred life, and confer the highest honor on you!

Henceforth you are mine, and shall be as immortal as myself; and when

posterity mentions the name of the Emperor Napoleon, it shall at the

same time remember his beautiful mistress, and repeat the name of Mary

Walewska together with that of Josephine!"

"Oh," murmured Mary, "you mention the noble and generous Empress

Josephine, whom I worship, and against whom I am committing a crime! May

fate enable me to atone for my guilt one day by sacrificing my life for

you, and proving to you and to the world that I loved you truly and

faithfully."

"No, you shall live--live for me," said Napoleon, ardently; "do not

complain any more, Mary; dry your beautiful eyes. Come, sit down with me

and tell me how it happened that you conquered your heart, and why I see

you in this disguise?" He drew her to the divan and wound his arm around

her waist. She laid her head on his shoulder, and gazed up to him with

dreamy eyes.