At the same time the room opened in which Staps had been confined for

three days, under the close surveillance of two gendarmes. An officer

entered; eight soldiers, shouldering their muskets, drew up in front of

the door. Frederick Staps met the officer with a serene smile. He still

wore the short black velvet coat, fastened around his slender waist by a

broad leather belt, his neck surrounded by a white collar, on which his

long hair fell in dense masses. During the three days of his captivity

he had not undressed, taken no food, and even abstained from sleep. His

time was occupied in preparing for death, and in writing letters to his

beloved Anna and his old father. These letters, folded and carefully

directed, he placed in the belt which the fatal knife had adorned three

days before.

"Sir," said Staps, offering his hand to the officer, "I suppose you come

for me?"

"It will soon be seven o'clock," replied the officer, in a sad,

compassionate tone.

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Staps, "do not pity me! I shall die joyfully. But I

have a favor to ask of you. I should like to send my last love-greetings

to my father, and the young lady to whom I was engaged. Will you be kind

enough to send my letters to them? You hesitate? Reply to me, and

consider that a dying man always should be told the truth."

"Well, sir," replied the officer, "I am not permitted to forward these

letters to them. Not a word is to be said about your fate; it must

remain a secret."

"Ah, the tyrant is afraid lest my destiny should become generally known.

He wishes to hide it in obscurity; but my name, and that for which I

die, will not sink into oblivion. The day of freedom will dawn yet on my

native land, and my grave will be known and visited by my German

brethren. You will not forward my letters?"

"I am not allowed to do so, sir."

"Well, then I will forward them myself," exclaimed Staps, drawing the

letters from his belt and tearing them into small pieces, which he threw

away. "Go! my greetings and adieus!" he said; "let the winds bear ye

into the quiet parsonage of my old father, and the chamber of my

faithful Anna! Tell my countrymen of poor Frederick Staps, who wished to

save Germany, and could only die for it!--Now come, sir, let us go!"

"You have no other wish?" asked the officer. "There is nothing that you

desire, and that I could grant you?"

"Yes, sir, there is. I do not wish to be tied like a wild beast, but

conducted to the place of execution with my arms free; I do not wish to

be blindfolded. I would like to see the soil and the sky of my country

in the last moment!"

"That wish will be granted. You shall be executed with your eyes open,

and your arms unfettered."

"Thank you," said Staps, cordially grasping the officer's hand. "I

suppose it is time for us to go?"

"Yes," said the officer, mournfully, "we must go!"

"I am ready," responded Staps, and he walked with firm steps toward the

door.

The soldiers stepped aside, and then surrounded him and the officer. The

procession moved slowly and silently through the long and gloomy

corridors. Emerging into the open air, they came to a square inside the

bastions. High ramparts surrounded it on three sides; on the fourth rose

the rear wall of the barracks in which the condemned had spent the three

days of his imprisonment. A few French soldiers were standing here and

there at the open windows, gazing with indifferent face on the young

stranger led to execution, and of whose crime they knew nothing. He was

conducted across the square to the opposite rampart, and placed in front

of the newly-dug grave which was to receive his body.

A detachment of French soldiers marched from the gate of the barracks

and formed in line, just as the sun cast his first rays over the

rampart, and shone upon the head of the pale youth. At this moment the

earth seemed to tremble as beneath a peal of thunder.

"What is that?" asked Staps of the officer who was standing by his side.

"It is the salute announcing that peace has been concluded."

"Peace!" exclaimed the dying youth, joyfully. "Oh, tell me the truth,

sir, do not deceive me? Has peace really been concluded?"

"Yes, a treaty has been signed. The Emperor Napoleon leaves Schönbrunn

this very day to return to France. Three months hence there will not be

a single French soldier to be seen in all Austria."

"Peace restored to Germany!" cried Staps, and, sinking on his knees, he

raised his arms toward heaven; joy beamed from his countenance, and his

eyes filled with tears. "I thank Thee, my God, I thank Thee!" he

exclaimed aloud.

"Thou allowest me to depart amid the booming of cannon proclaiming peace

to Germany! I die happy!"

"Attention! Aim!" ordered the officer.

The young man rose from his knees. "Give me another minute," he cried;

"let me sing my death-hymn!"

The officer nodded assent. Staps, stretching his arms upward, sang in a

joyous voice:

"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---"

"Fire!" said the commanding officer, and twelve soldiers discharged

their muskets.

Frederick Staps immediately fell dead, and the blood streaming from his

breast reddened his native soil. While Napoleon's cannon was proclaiming

the conclusion of peace, this youthful martyr breathed his last sigh!

BOOK VII.

CHAPTER LIII.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

The 15th of December, 1809, was dawning. Queen Louisa had long looked

for this day with a throbbing heart, and now that it had come, she felt

embarrassed and anxious. It was the day when the royal family were to

leave Königsberg and return to Berlin, where the court was again to

reside. Since the 3rd of October the French troops and authorities had

left the capital, and Berlin was once more a Prussian city, yearning for

the return of its king and queen.

The carriages were at the door; the princesses, wrapped in fur robes,

were in the anteroom and awaited the queen, whose toilet had long since

been finished. But Louisa had not yet left her sitting-room. The king

made his appearance, ready to set out, and was somewhat surprised at not

finding her with her daughters.

"The queen does not know, perhaps, that the carriages are at the door,"

said the king. "I will inform her that it is time for us to start." He

walked rapidly through the adjoining rooms and noiselessly opened the

door of the queen's sitting-room.

Louisa, wrapped in her travelling-robe, sat on the sofa, her hands

folded, her face bathed in tears, and her eyes uplifted with an

imploring expression. She did not immediately notice the king, who, as

if in profound reverence, stood at the door. The queen was praying--how

could he dare to disturb her!

At last she lowered her eyes, and suddenly saw that her husband was

present. "Oh, my friend," she exclaimed, rising hastily, "my thoughts

were with you, and on taking leave of these rooms where, owing to your

love, I have enjoyed, these last years, so much calm and sacred

happiness, I prayed that God cause it to accompany us to our future

residence."

"But while praying you wept, Louisa?" asked the king. "I hoped that the

days of tears were past, and that my Louisa would become again as merry

and light-hearted as she used to be. Do you not like to return to

Berlin?"

The queen looked down musingly. "I cannot tell you," she said,

thoughtfully. "When I think that I shall soon be in Berlin, and meet

again the faithful people, my heart is joyful, and then again I shed

many tears when I consider that, while I may find every thing there as

formerly, there may in reality be sad changes, and I do not know how I

may be affected. Dismal forebodings are troubling me; I should like best

to sit always alone, behind my little lamp, and indulge in my

reflections. I am longing for Berlin, and yet I am almost afraid to go

there."

"What are you afraid of?" asked the king, pressing his wife tenderly

against his breast.

"I believe I am afraid of prosperity," she said, with a gentle smile. "I

had become entirely resigned, and forever bidden farewell to outward

splendor, so that its return surprises and almost alarms me. Oh, my

beloved friend, will it not destroy the humbled, inward repose, which,

during the time of privation, was our support, and the only source of

our happiness?"

"It is true," said the king, smiling, "during these quiet years here at

Königsberg, I was so happy as to have my wife, the charming consoler of

my afflictions, always at my side; henceforth, the queen will often take

my wife from me, and thousands of hearts which will welcome you so

rapturously, will separate me often enough from my ideal. But I am not

jealous, and the more my beautiful queen is honored, the greater will be

my happiness. Come, my Louisa, let us go! the carriages are in

readiness, and the children are waiting for us; but, before we leave

this quiet room, accept again my thanks for the fidelity and kindness

you have manifested toward me during my misfortunes. I am indebted to

you for many alleviations of the sorrows which weighed me down. I am not

a man of many words and cannot make fine phrases, but here in my soul I

feel fervently that God has placed you at my side as an angel of

consolation for the days of adversity, and of happiness for those of

prosperity. Because I love you, I gave your name to our youngest

daughter, born here at Königsberg. May she become a Louisa!"

"And may our sons inherit the noble spirit and the faithful and devout

heart of their father!" exclaimed the queen, deeply moved. "May they

bear adversity like him, without despondency, and enjoy prosperity

without haughtiness! Oh, my friend, why will we say, then, that we are

returning to Berlin poorer and less powerful than when we left the city

three years ago? No, we return richer and more powerful: for we left

with five children, and we return with seven--seven hearts that love us,

and belong to us. Do they not constitute wealth and power? Come, my

husband, let us hasten to our children! and with what a mother's pride

shall I show our treasures to the good people of Berlin!" She smiled and

drew the king along; her eyes, from which the tears had long since

disappeared, were now radiant with love and joy--not a shade of

melancholy was to be seen in her countenance when she embraced her

children.

The journey to Berlin could be performed but slowly and in short stages.

The snow-clad roads were almost impassable. Besides, every city and

village through which the royal family journeyed, would have its share

of congratulation. They were greeted with triumphal arches, and hymns

and addresses of welcome. No one had escaped the miseries of war;

mourning mothers and wives, amid the ruins of a former prosperity, were

everywhere to be seen; but all this was forgotten during those happy

hours when the people, delivered at length from foreign oppression,

rejoiced again in the presence of the sovereigns who had endured the

same afflictions. The whole journey resembled a triumphal

procession--everywhere enthusiastic receptions and love-offerings!

On the eighth day at noon they arrived at the village of Weissensee, a

league from Berlin. The shouts of thousands of happy people received

them. The whole population had gathered at the roadside in order to

greet the returning king and his family, and at the entrance of the

village were halting fifty young citizens of Berlin mounted on fine

horses. They had been commissioned by the inhabitants of the capital to

escort the carriage in which Louisa was to make her entry, and which the

citizens desired to present to her. It was a splendid gift, richly

decorated with silver, and lined with violet velvet, the favorite color

of the queen. The eight magnificent horses attached to the carriage wore

violet harness, adorned with silver rings and buckles. The queen entered

it with her daughter Charlotte and her third son, Prince Charles; the

king and the two oldest princes mounted on horseback.

"Now, Louisa," said the king, riding up, "we have nearly reached our

destination. There are the spires of Berlin; in half an hour we shall be

there. But how pale you are, and your lips quiver! Are you unwell? Are

you suffering?"

"No," she said; "I live only in my heart, which is throbbing as though

it were ready to burst. Oh, I believe that one may die of joy. But such

a death must be very happy!"

"But you shall live in joy," said the king, smiling. "Farewell now,

Louisa; I must leave you. According to the ceremonial, I must be with

the princes at the head of the procession. _Au revoir_ at our house in

Berlin!"

"_Au revoir_," said the queen, leaning back on the cushions of the

carriage. "Charlotte," she said to the princess sitting at her side,

"when we are near the gate, tell me. I want to be surprised, and, until

I have reached the dear city, I will look at the sky, and remember that

it is the same sky that was over us at Memel in the days of our deepest

affliction." She threw back her head. Her eyes, blue and pure as heaven

itself, were looking up, and the bright firmament seemed to inspire her

with devout and grateful thoughts. Prayers were in her heart, and the

memories of other days mingled with her prayers. It was exactly sixteen

years since she made her entry into Berlin as a happy young bride. At

that time, life was as the flowery spring, and she saw before her in her

hopeful dreams only a world of happiness, love, and glory. She was then

a bride, beautiful, loving, and beloved by her young husband, the

inheritor of a kingdom. Now, at her second entry, she was sixteen years

older, a matron of thirty-four, and a mother of seven children. The

storms of life had passed over her, destroying many of her hopes. Her

heart had been shaken as well as the throne of her husband. The ills of

common mortals had befallen the king and his consort, and it was not

their innate dignity and majesty that had enabled them to bear up, but

their warm human feeling; it was not their self-reliance that had

consoled them, but the faith that God, the Father of all, would be

merciful to them, if, conscious of their impotence, they recognized His

providence and believed in His wisdom and goodness.

The queen thought of all this, and compared the entry of the bride,

rejoicing in the dreams of her young love and in the reality of worldly

power, with the entry of the mother and queen, disappointed in her hopes

and robbed of her dominion.

"And yet it is better to-day," she murmured, "I am richer now than I was

then. My heart is richer, my soul is stronger, I--"

"Mamma," exclaimed the Princess Charlotte, "I see already the Bernauer

gate! Oh, hear the shouts, look at that triumphal arch!"

The queen turned her eyes toward the city. The cheers of the people

sounded in her ears like the early greetings of her happiness, and

filled her soul with ecstasy. As the king, between his sons, rode into

the gateway, the bells rang, and the cannon shook the ground. When the

queen's carriage entered, the soldiers formed in line on both sides of

the street, and behind them surged a dense crowd of men and women.

Nothing was to be seen but happy, smiling faces; love was beaming from

every eye, and with bells, cannon, waving hands, and the cheers of her

citizens, Berlin greeted the return of her sovereigns.

The king acknowledged these demonstrations with a grave, thoughtful

face; he saluted the people affectionately, but his countenance grew

sad. He thought of the many faithful subjects whom he had lost, of the

cities and provinces which had been taken from him, of the grievous and

bloody sacrifices of the last years; he remembered that he was returning

to his ancestors, possessed only of the smaller portion of the

inheritance which they had left him, and these reflections overshadowed

his joy.

The queen only felt and thought of the happiness of her return. These

thousands of hearts throbbing for her, this crowd of greeting men about

her carriage to see her and shout words of welcome, filled her soul with

profound emotion. She did not restrain her tears, and was not ashamed of

this expression of her feelings. She wept, smiled, and rejoiced with her

people.

When the cheers reëchoed through the street as she passed, the queen

exclaimed aloud: "What grateful music this is! It sounds in my ears as

sacred, and the city seems a vast cathedral! Charlotte, my beloved

daughter, listen! but with a devout heart. There is hardly any thing

more solemn and yet delightful to a princess than the cheers of her

subjects. She who deserves them must return the people's love, and

sympathize in their joys and sufferings. My daughter, if you yourself

should one day wear a crown, think of this hour, and let the affection

of the people now occupy your heart.--But, my child, there is our house,

the dear old house where you children were born! What persons are

standing in front of it? Who are they waving their handkerchiefs toward

us? The beloved sisters of your father, the Princesses of Orange and

Hesse! Who is that tall gentleman at their side? It is my father, my

honored father!" The carriage drove up to the portal of the royal

palace. "Welcome!" cried the princesses. "Welcome!" shouted the crowd,

filling the large square in front.

The queen did not utter a word; but, stretching out her arms toward her

father, she greeted him with a smile, while the tears rolled over her

cheeks.

The duke pushed the footmen aside and opened himself the door of her

carriage, when the queen, disregarding all etiquette, threw her arms

round his neck, and kissed him. The people who witnessed this touching

scene, became silent. With folded hands and tearful eyes they admired

her who had ever been an affectionate and grateful daughter as well as a

beneficent sovereign, and their prayers ascended to heaven for her

welfare. Half carried in the arms of her father, Louisa entered the

palace, and ascended the staircase. The doors of the large

reception-room were open. The king met her; her two oldest sons stood

behind him, and her two youngest children, held up by their nurses,

stretched out their little arms toward her. She joyfully hastened into

the room. "Come, my children," she exclaimed with a smile, "come, my

seven radiant stars!"

She took the two youngest children, Albert, not yet three years, and

Louisa, one year old, in her arms; the five other children walking by

her side, and thus, in the midst of these "seven stars," she approached

her father. Bending her knee before him, she exclaimed: "Grandfather!

here are your grandchildren; here is your daughter, who, with her

children, asks for your blessing, and here is the most faithful and

beloved man, my husband! Oh, father, honor him, for he has preserved to

your daughter her happiness!" She placed the two youngest ones at the

feet of the duke, and took the king's hand, which she pressed to her

bosom.

The king, who was afraid lest this excitement should become injurious to

the feeble health of his wife, after saluting the duke and his own

sisters in a cordial manner, proposed an inspection of the rooms of

their so long deserted house.

"Yes!" exclaimed Louisa, "let us show my beloved father the temple of

our happiness; and the good spirits around us no doubt welcome him and

us. Come!" Walking between her father and her husband, and followed by

the princesses and her oldest sons, the queen hastened through the suite

of rooms, hallowed by the remembrances of other days, and which now

seemed to her as beautiful as the halls of a fairy-palace. "How

tasteful, how brilliant!" exclaimed Louisa. "Formerly, the magnificence

of these rooms did not strike me at all; but now I am able to perceive

and appreciate it. Our houses at Memel and Königsberg were much plainer,

and I thought of the beauty of our residence at Berlin.--Ah, and there

is my piano! Oh, how often have I longed for it! Will you grant me a

favor, my king and husband?"

"The queen is in her own rooms; she has to ask no favors here, but only

to command," said the king.

"You will then permit me to salute the good spirits of our house with

music, and to sing a hymn of welcome to them?" asked the queen.

The king smilingly nodded, and Louisa, hastening to the piano, quickly

took off her gloves, and sat down on a chair in front of the instrument.

Her fingers swept over the keys in many brilliant cadences. Her face was

cheerful, but gradually she became grave, and, turning her large eyes

toward heaven, her concords were slow and solemn. She thought of the

past--of the day when, seized with forebodings, she sang here a hymn

which she repeated at the peasant's cottage during her flight to

Königsberg, when her presentiments were fulfilled. Her hands played

almost spontaneously that simple and beautiful air, and again she sang

with emotion:

"Who never ate his bread with tears,

Who never in the sorrowing hours

Of night, lay sunk in gloomy fears,

He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers!"[49]

[Footnote 49:

"Wer nie sein Brot mit Thränen ass,

Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte

Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,

Der kennt Euch nicht, Ihr himmlischen Mächte!"

CHAPTER LIV.

THE EMPEROR FRANCIS AND METTERNICH.

The Emperor Francis was pacing his cabinet in evident uneasiness and

excitement. Count Clement Metternich, since Stadion's withdrawal from

the cabinet, prime minister and confidential adviser, was standing at

the emperor's desk, and whenever Francis, in walking up and down, turned

his back to him, a scornful smile overspread his handsome countenance;

this manifestation of contempt disappeared, however, as soon as his

master turned again toward him.

"It will stir up a great deal of ill-feeling throughout Germany," said

the Emperor Francis, hastily. "No one will believe that I, who was

hitherto the most implacable enemy of Bonaparte, should have suddenly

done him so much honor."

"But at last every one will have to believe it, your majesty," said

Metternich, in his gentle, melodious voice. "The facts will refute the

surmises of the incredulous."

"But it is outrageous," cried the emperor, "and I can hardly think it

possible that I am to assist Bonaparte in making a decent match, and

that I am to stoop so low as to call the son of the Corsican lawyer my

son-in-law! Let me tell you, it will never do; I should ever after be

afraid of passing the church of the Capuchins; I should always imagine

that the tombs of my ancestors opened, and their ghosts arose and asked

me, 'How could you permit the imperial blood of the Hapsburgs to mingle

with that of the little Corsican lawyer's son, the insurgent and

revolutionary captain, who chances to be a successful warrior?' Yes, and

I ask myself the question: How can I permit an archduchess, my daughter,

to be married to a man seated on a throne which does not belong to him,

and which the Bourbons, the legitimate rulers of France, will one day

take from him?? How can I permit it, I ask, and how am I to bear it, if

this fellow without a pedigree should some day take the liberty to call

me his dear father-in-law? How is it possible for me to expose myself to

such risk?"

"Will your majesty permit me to answer these just questions of your

imperial conscience?" asked Metternich.

"Do so," exclaimed Francis. "Explain the whole matter to me as though I

were not the emperor, but a common citizen offended at the idea that the

Emperor of Austria should permit his daughter to be married to the

revolutionary leader who has the impudence to assume the imperial title.

What would you say? How would you excuse me?"

Metternich advanced a step toward the emperor, and replied: "I would say

the Emperor Francis has acted as a wise statesman and ruler, and as a

father of his people. In order to preserve Austria from new wars, he has

sacrificed his most precious treasure, his only child. It is a pledge

securing peace to his exhausted people. Austria is not now able to

resist Napoleon in case he should again attack her. Our frontiers are

defenceless; our finances are exhausted. Hitherto every war has caused

us grievous losses in money, men, and territory; and so long as we stand

alone, so long as Russia persists in her absurd policy of being the

cat's-paw of France, it would be senseless and criminal again to

endanger the existence of the monarchy. We have suffered such immense

losses, that we must have peace to recover what we have lost. Hence we

must be reconciled with France, and this reconciliation strengthens us

against Russia. The very fact that Napoleon desires to conclude an

alliance with Austria indicates a change in his political system, by

which we should try to profit, and if (what is unavoidable) a rupture

with Russia ensues, Austria ought to derive as much benefit therefrom as

possible, and enlarge her territories. We ought to render our present

position toward France as profitable as possible. The archduchess will

be a precious guaranty to Napoleon, for he will feel convinced that the

emperor will be unwilling to sacrifice his child, and this conviction

will fill him with confidence and a feeling of security. Austria becomes

closely connected with the political interests of Napoleon, and shares

the hatred which all Europe feels against the Emperor of the French. But

this very hatred incurred by Austria will be regarded by Napoleon as

another surety for his fidelity. He will ally himself more closely with

us, and become more hostile to Russia, the natural enemy of Austria;

hence it is better for us to fight in company with France against Russia

than to allow Russia and France to fight against us. Moreover, our

finances are in such a deplorable condition, that a bankruptcy of the

state would be the inevitable consequence of another war; not only the

future of the emperor's dynasty, but the fortunes of his subjects would

be endangered. In consideration of this, the emperor, in his wisdom, has

preferred to secure peace, the source of prosperity, to his beloved

subjects, and, like the patriarch, he sacrifices his own child willingly

and joyously. The noble emperor ought to be blessed and praised for

this, and his wisdom, which despises prejudice, and only weighs and

respects the benefits to be secured by such a measure, should be

gratefully acknowledged. That, sire," said Metternich, concluding his

speech, "is what I would reply to him who would dare in my presence

censure the marriage of the archduchess to the Emperor Napoleon."

"It sounds well enough," said the emperor, thoughtfully, "but it is

still an unpalatable dish for me, and my tongue will cling to the roof

of my mouth when I am to say, 'My son-in-law the Emperor Napoleon!' He

is no real emperor, although he has placed three crowns on his head, and

even had the impudence of dividing my order of the Golden Fleece,

contrary to law, into three classes; he can never become a real emperor;

he must always remain the son of a Corsican lawyer."

"Whom the pope, however, has anointed and crowned emperor," said

Metternich, with a sneer.

"Yes, and, in return, this ungrateful fellow has deprived the holy

father of his throne, and imprisoned him! In short, I detest the

usurper. It always deeply pained me to hear of Bonaparte and his new

victories; and since I saw him on that day after the battle of

Austerlitz, he is more hateful to me than ever. Oh, how superciliously

this fellow then looked at me! He talked to me so haughtily that I felt

quite miserable, and did not know what to say. I shall never forgive M.

Bonaparte, and yet I am to allow him to become my son-in-law! I tell

you, Metternich, it will not do, for the end will be bad."

"But the commencement," said Metternich, smiling, "will be good for

Austria, and that is the chief point. We shall take care that the end

will not be bad for us either, and that Austria will not be the loser by

it."

"It is all right," said Francis, nodding, "but the mischief is, that

when the unhappy time comes, M. Bonaparte will be my son-in-law, and

that it may be necessary for me to support him and his cause."

"Your majesty," said Metternich, in a low voice, and glancing cautiously

over the room, "if you do not now hesitate to sacrifice your own child

for the welfare of your country, at a later time you will not shrink

from sacrificing your son-in-law. There are no relatives in politics;

Austria has no sisters and brothers, no daughters and sons-in-law; that

is what the august uncle of your majesty, the Emperor Joseph, often

said, and he was right."

"Yes, indeed, my great uncle Joseph was right," exclaimed the emperor,

laughing; "there are no sons-in-law in politics! Oh, it would do my

heart good if I could revenge myself one day on M. Bonaparte for all the

humiliations that I have to bear now."

"Your majesty," said Metternich, in a lower voice than before, "there is

an excellent Italian proverb, 'Revenge must be eaten cold.' Your majesty

knows it?"

"Of course I do," whispered the emperor. "I know it, and shall surely

remember it. 'Revenge must be eaten cold;' he who wants to eat it hot,

will burn his tongue. Let us wait, therefore."

"Yes, let us wait," whispered Metternich. He then added in a loud voice:

"Your majesty, then, will graciously accept the proposals of the Emperor

Napoleon as to his union with the archduchess, order the marriage

contracts to be made out, and permit the Prince de Neufchatel, Marshal

Berthier, to apply to your majesty and the archduchess for the hand of

the imperial princess?"

"Yes, I will," said Francis, hesitatingly, "but let me tell you, I am

afraid of what the empress, my consort, will say about the matter, and

also of Maria Louisa herself. The empress never liked Bonaparte, and I

do not know how I shall break the news to her, that the man for whose

sake, but a few months since, so much Austrian blood was shed, and to

whom I had to sacrifice the brave Tyrolese, Andrew Hofer, is to become

my son-in-law. And Maria Louisa will be greatly surprised; I am afraid

she will weep a good deal on hearing the news."

"I believe the archduchess will cheerfully submit to her fate," said

Metternich. "I heard her imperial highness speak in terms of intense

admiration of the heroism and marvellous deeds of the Emperor Napoleon."

"Yes, she did," replied Francis, "but I commanded her not to give

expression to such sentiments. I explained to her how much misery and

ignominy Bonaparte had brought upon Austria and our house, and what a

cruel, tyrannical, and bloodthirsty man he is; and my words made so deep

an impression on the mind of my dutiful daughter, that she has detested

Bonaparte ever since, and is afraid of him, as though he were a

monster."

"Perhaps, if your majesty were to tell the archduchess that the Emperor

Napoleon is not so bad after all," said Metternich, smiling--"if you

were to assure her imperial highness that he is a very great and

admirable man, and that his laurels are as good as a long line of

ancestors, the words of your majesty would not fail to impress

themselves on her mind, and her hatred would disappear, particularly if

you should show her a correct likeness of the emperor, for care has been

hitherto taken to exhibit to the imperial princes and princesses only

those representations of Napoleon in which he is horribly caricatured. I

know that the mistress of ceremonies of the archduchess, Countess

Colloredo, in her passionate hatred against him, and against France

generally, tried this remedy to cure the imperial princess of her

admiration for the conqueror, and the archduchess sees, hears, and reads

nothing but what has been previously examined by the countess. I repeat,

that if your majesty could have a really correct likeness of Napoleon

brought to the young lady's notice, her ideas of him would be somewhat

changed."

"But I have no good likeness of Bonaparte," said the emperor, somewhat

embarrassed.

"Marshal Berthier brought one, which he is to present to the archduchess

on solemnly applying for her hand. It is very costly and correct. The

frame consists of twenty very large diamonds, for which one might buy a

whole principality. I requested the marshal to let me have it an hour,

when he permitted me to see it during the visit I paid to him. I told

him frankly I wished to take it to the emperor, who would show it to the

archduchess, that she might have some notion of the real emperor, and

receive his suit. The marshal granted my request, and intrusted the

miniature to me."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"I did, your majesty. Here it is." Metternich drew a morocco case from

his bosom and handed it to the emperor.

Francis opened it hastily, and contemplated the precious locket a good

while. "These are splendid diamonds, indeed," he said, "and I am

convinced Bonaparte did not inherit them of his father. Not the

slightest blemish, not a single imperfection in them; I believe I have

no more beautiful diamonds in my crown!"

"And the resemblance?" asked Metternich. "Does not your majesty think

that it is excellent?"

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Francis, laughing. "I had almost forgotten that,

in admiring the precious stones. Yes, it is a good likeness; he looks

precisely like that, but you must admit it is a revolting face, looking

as though there were but one man in the world, and he were that man."

"But the expression of so much haughtiness impresses the ladies very

favorably," said Metternich. "They like the man who loves to consider

himself a god, and he is one in their eyes. I really believe it would be

a good idea for your majesty to show this to the archduchess, and tell

her afterward that it is the likeness of her future husband. If your

majesty has no objection, I will, in the mean time, request an audience

of the Empress Ludovica, and try to convince her majesty of the

necessity of this marriage."

"Do so," exclaimed the emperor, joyously, "it will be very agreeable to

me, and as soon as possible. In the mean time I will go to the

archduchess, show her the miniature, and tell her plainly that it is

that of her future husband. It is better to tell her so without

circumlocution. The princess will not dare to oppose my wishes; she

knows that it is the duty of an obedient daughter to accept the husband

her father has selected for her. Go to the empress, Metternich; I shall

go to the Archduchess Maria Louisa."

CHAPTER LV.

THE ARCHDUCHESS MARIA LOUISA.

The imperial princes and princesses had just dined together, as had been

their custom since the reign of the Emperor Joseph, and were still in

the large dining-hall, which was also the play-room of the imperial

children. The Emperor Francis, who had recently married his fourth wife,

had children by his second marriage only, but numerous enough to secure

the continued existence of the dynasty, and, at the same time, furnish

beautiful princesses to other sovereign houses. Of these five daughters

and two sons, Maria Louisa, who was seventeen years old, was the eldest.

But though a grown young lady, she liked to be together with her younger

brothers and sisters, and remained sometimes with them after dinner, in

order to participate in their merry play and conversation. On this

occasion, instead of returning with the mistress of ceremonies to her

room, she remained with her brothers and sisters in the dining-hall.

While the younger princes and princesses were engaged in playing round a

large table, the two oldest, the archduchesses Maria Louisa and

Leopoldine, retired into one of the bay-windows to converse without

being disturbed.

It was a charming sight--those two young ladies standing in the niche,

surrounded by curtains as in a frame, and whose beauty seemed to have

caught a celestial radiance from the light beaming through the windows.

Both were in the morning of their age, but Maria Louisa, the older

sister, was even more attractive than Leopoldine. Thick ringlets of

light-brown hair floated around her forehead. She had large azure eyes,

telling of her happiness and the kindly emotions of her soul. Her

finely-cut nose gave an aristocratic expression to her countenance,

while her crimson lips, in their voluptuous fulness, contrasted not

unfavorably with the remarkable refinement of the rest of her features.

An enchanting smile played about her mouth, and spoke of her noble

simplicity and innocence.

She encircled the neck of her younger sister with her arms, and was

gazing at her with a tender expression. "Ah, Leopoldine," she said to

her in a sweet voice, "how happy I am that we are at length together

again! When I remained here ill and alone, and the enemy was besieging

our capital, I was always thinking of none but you, and yearned to be

again with you. But when the shells struck our palace, I thanked Heaven

that you were not here, and had not to undergo the fear and anguish

which I was enduring. When this Bonaparte arrived, I was suffering of

the scarlet fever, but the terror brought on an attack of intermittent

fever. I shall never forgive him. But, thank God, these evil times are

over! Now we need not be afraid of being expelled again from the palace

of our ancestors by this bad man, and of seeing our dear Schönbrunn

degraded by the presence of his marshals. Now we can live happily and

delightfully in undisturbed tranquillity."

"Yes, we can," said the Archduchess Leopoldine, smiling. "But do you not

think, sister, that our life is indescribably monotonous and tedious at

the present time? Our third mother, the Empress Ludovica, is certainly a

very amiable, virtuous, and pious lady, but she really believes us still

to be small children, who ought to remain in the nursery, and it does

not occur to her that amusements are sometimes necessary for young

princesses of our age. We have passed the whole winter in an intolerably

quiet and wearisome manner; we are already in the latter part of

February, and have not had a single ball at court. Ah, Louisa, it is,

after all, not so very pleasant to be a princess. Other girls of our age

are at liberty to indulge in a little pleasure, to attend balls,

concerts, and parties, where they see new faces and interesting persons.

We are forbidden all this. We must wait until diversion comes to us, and

unfortunately we are not thought of at all! We are never allowed to pay

visits or accept invitations. A formal court ball, where we may appear

for a few hours, and dance with the most aristocratic cavaliers, is our

only amusement, and at present we are deprived of that. We are guarded

in our apartments like prisoners."

"Yes, it is true," sighed Maria Louisa, "and we have a very rigorous

jailer in the Countess of Colloredo. Do you know, Leopoldine, that I

have had a violent scene with the mistress of ceremonies to-day?"

"Ah, I am glad of it," exclaimed Leopoldine, laughing. "What was the

matter?"

"I wanted to read, and requested the mistress of ceremonies to give me

new books. She deferred it until to-day and brought me then one of the

works I had asked for, 'the Maid of Orleans,' by Schiller, but it was

mutilated and disfigured like all books that are given to us. Whole

pages had been cut out, and on those remaining were to be found black

spots rendering whole lines and words illegible--a liberty which the

mistress of ceremonies is in the habit of indulging in, in reference to

all the books we read."

"Yes, it is true," sighed the younger archduchess, "we cannot read a

single good book from beginning to end; and we are thus deprived of much

pleasure. What did you do, dear sister?"

"I cast the book aside with horror, and requested her to let me have the

latest newspapers. She brought them to me, but everywhere the same foul

marks; not only all the news from France, but even the local Vienna

items were almost illegible to-day; lines had been cut out, words

erased, and half a column had entirely disappeared. I was almost beside

myself at this treatment. I returned the papers and said, 'Madame, this

is doubtless a mistake. I am sure these papers were intended for the

nursery, that the little archduchesses might learn to spell; as for

myself, I can both spell and read, and I request you, therefore, to give

me legible books and newspapers.'"

"Oh," exclaimed Leopoldine, merrily clapping her hands, "that was

glorious! You acted like a heroine, my dear sister!"

Maria Louisa smiled and added, "'Madame,' I went on to say, 'I cannot

bear any longer this system of surveillance. It is insulting and

repugnant to me to be treated like a child, and considered so weakminded

as to be forbidden books which thousands of girls of my age are allowed

to read. Or do you want to make me believe that all books and newspapers

come to Austria in this mutilated condition? Oh, I know full well that

the people would not submit to such a system of tyranny, and that, in

case such efforts should be made to deprive them of their mental food,

assuredly a revolution would break out, as in France at the time when my

unfortunate aunt, Marie Antoinette, was on the throne.'"

"Did you say so?" asked Leopoldine, in surprise. "But where did you find

the courage and the words?"

"I must avow to you that I had reflected about the matter for three

days, and drawn up, and learned by heart, this little speech in order to

address it to the mistress of ceremonies at the first opportunity. I am

really tired of being treated so childishly, when I am a woman, and may

expect soon to be married."

"Ah, married!" sighed Leopoldine. "Who knows to what dreadful princes we

may be married? For, as a matter of course, we shall not be asked

whether we like the match or not, and we shall not be as well off as the

daughters of common citizens, who, as my maid told me, marry only those

whom they love. We princesses must marry men whom we have never seen,

with whom we exchange the first word only after our marriage, and whom

perhaps we may not like at all."

"No matter, our marriage makes us free," exclaimed Maria Louisa,

impatiently. "We are then at least our own mistresses, and need submit

no longer to the restraints imposed on us. The example of our third

mother, the Empress Ludovica, shows it. She has taken the liberty to pay

no attention to etiquette, and holds a reception at her rooms every

night from eight to ten o'clock, when she does not admit the ladies and

gentlemen of the court, but invited persons, among whom there are

frequently those who do not even belong to the aristocracy."

"She does not invite us to the evening parties," exclaimed Leopoldine,

sneeringly. "Maybe we are too aristocratic for her. But you are right,

Louisa--as soon as we are married, we shall also have the right to

change rules of etiquette and live as we please."

"Do you know the first thing I am going to do after my marriage?" asked

Maria Louisa, quickly. "I shall buy all the books that I have now, and

peruse the cut-out and illegible passages. I am sure they are the most

interesting and beautiful in the books, and I believe they all treat of

love. Ah, Leopoldine, I should like to read for once a work containing a

very romantic love-story, and over which one might dream. But, good

Heaven! what makes the children shout so merrily? Come, let us see what

they are doing."

"Come, let us play with them," exclaimed Leopoldine.

The princesses stepped arm in arm from the bay-window and hastened to

the table. The little archduchesses and their brothers, it seemed, were

engaged in a highly-interesting game, which their governesses were

witnessing with smiling attention. They were standing about the large

round table, on which a small army of wax figures in green and blue

uniforms had been placed in neatly-arranged rows. At the head of this

army stood a somewhat larger figure of the most revolting appearance. It

was a little fellow with hunched shoulders, a rotund stomach and an

unnaturally large head. The face was of a black-and-green color, and had

eyes of a ferocious expression, and a tremendous mouth without lips,

showing rows of ugly yellow teeth. This figure was dressed in a green

uniform, with broad white facings, and on his head was a little cocked

hat. Opposite this army of wax figures a row of small brass cannon was

placed, and at their side lay diminutive bows, and arrows furnished

with pins. The ammunition-wagons were filled with black peas.

The game had just commenced. The imperial children had opened the

campaign against the hostile army of wax-figures. The little Archdukes

Ferdinand and Francis Charles stood as gunners at the field-pieces,

while the Archduchesses Caroline, Clementine, and Amelia, were armed

with small bows. The gunners fired at the ranks of the soldiers; the

archduchesses aimed at the terrible captain of the little army. Whenever

an arrow hit him, or a cannon-ball struck down one of the soldiers, the

children burst into loud cheers.

"What game is this?" asked Maria Louisa, contemplating with evident

delight the blushing cheeks and bright eyes of her young brothers and

sisters.

"That is the Bonaparte game," exclaimed little Archduke Francis Charles.

"Papa emperor presented the game to me when we were at Ofen, and taught

me how to play it. It is a long while since we played it, but to-day we

will try it again. Look, sister Louisa, that horrible fellow in front of

the soldiers is the villain Bonaparte, who is stealing the states of all

the princes, he is made entirely of brass, and no arrow can injure him,

but he has a vulnerable spot on the breast, where the heart is, that is

made of wax. On shooting at him, you always have to aim there; if you

hit it, the arrow remains, and you win the game and obtain the reward.

Oh, I am well versed in the Bonaparte game; papa emperor was so gracious

as to play it often with me at Ofen, when we were fleeing from that man;

and his majesty taught me also how to insult Bonaparte. See, sisters!"

and he took the little bow from the hands of the Archduchess Marianne,

and laid an arrow on the string. "Now, you miserable fellow," he shouted

in an angry voice and with flashing eyes, "now I will kill you without

mercy! You thief, you stole Venice and Milan from us--you must die!" He

discharged the arrow, but it glanced off from the figure.

"You missed him! you missed him!" shouted the little group.

"It is my turn now," exclaimed the little archduchess, taking the bow

from her brother. She put an arrow on it, and, contracting her eyebrows

and making her laughing little face assume an angry and menacing air,

shouted, "Now tremble, you bad man! for I will put you to death because

you drove us twice from Vienna, and frightened us so badly that you

compelled us to escape, while you were enjoying yourself in our fine

palaces. Yes, I will kill you, because you shot our soldiers and took

our cannon. You are a wretch, a miserable thief, and I will now shoot

you that you may no longer murder our men and expel our princes, you

robber and assassin!" She discharged her arrow, but with no better

success than the little archduke, and the laughter of her brothers and

sisters punished her for her lack of skill.

"Why, this is a very pretty game," exclaimed the Archduchess Maria

Louisa, laughing. "Come, Leopoldine, let us try it, and see whether we

are able to hit the monster." The princesses sat down laughingly between

the little archdukes, and each took one of the bows.

"Pray let me shoot first, dear sister," exclaimed Leopoldine, eagerly.

"Look, my arrow lies already on the string. Now I will aim at you,

miserable Bonaparte, and take revenge for all the sufferings you have

brought upon us. Your last hour has come; fold your hands and pray, if

you can. But you cannot pray, for you have a conscience burdened with

crimes; you have sinned grievously against God by insulting and

imprisoning His representative on earth. The Holy Father has

excommunicated you for this, and you are accursed, delivered over to the

tortures of hell, and every honest Christian turns away from the wretch

against whom the bolt of excommunication has been hurled. You must die

without confession and absolution--in the midst of your sins." She

discharged the arrow, but, like those of her little brother and sister,

it glanced from the figure and dropped at its feet.

The little archduchesses and princes, who, on hearing the imprecations

uttered by their sister, had assumed a very grave air, felt as though

they had been relieved of an oppressive burden, and burst into loud

laughter.

"It is my turn now!" exclaimed Maria Louisa. She took the bow and fixed

her blue eyes with an expression of profound contempt on the repulsive

figure. "You must die--ay, die!" she said, gravely. "Bonaparte, I will

deliver the world from you, for you are as insatiable as the Minotaur,

that required every day a human victim for breakfast. You devour men and

countries, and the wails of whole nations are music to your ears. You

must die, also, because you look so horrible! God has marked you, and

given you a monstrous body, because your soul is that of a monster. I

will kill you, therefore, that you may no longer frighten mankind!" She

put the arrow on the string and shot.

A loud shout resounded. The arrow remained in the figure. Maria Louisa

had hit Bonaparte.

"Hurrah, the Archduchess Maria Louisa has killed Bonaparte!" cried the

little ones. "The monster is dead! The robber lives no more! The wretch

and villain!"

"Why, what is going on here? Whom are you abusing so shockingly?" asked

a voice behind them, and the children, turning around, saw their father,

the Emperor Francis, who had entered unnoticed by them.

"We are abusing the malicious robber, papa emperor," exclaimed the

Archduchess Marianne, pointing at the figure.

"Your majesty, dear papa emperor," exclaimed little Francis Charles,

eagerly--"only think of it, Maria Louisa has hit the heart of Bonaparte.

The monster is dead; he is unable now to steal any thing more from us!"

"Sancta Maria!" cried the emperor, "how can you use such language, my

son? How can you utter such disrespectful epithets about the illustrious

Emperor Napoleon?"

The boy looked at his father in dismay. "Your majesty," he said,

timidly, "you yourself told me Napoleon could not be abused enough, and

a genuine Hapsburg ought to execrate the infamous robber. Those were

your majesty's own words, papa!"

"Oh, I was only joking," exclaimed the emperor, angrily, "and a clever

prince, like you, ought to have noticed it at once. But I am talking in

earnest now, and forbid you playing this stupid game any more, or

uttering another word against the Emperor Napoleon. He is a very

illustrious, and moreover an excellent man--a very great emperor--whom

every one loves and praises."

"Papa emperor," cried the Archduke Francis Charles, wonderingly, "but

your majesty told me at Ofen that every one was abhorring Bonaparte,

and--"

"You are a pert little fool!" replied the emperor, vehemently. "What I

said then has no sense now. For at that time we were at war, and

Napoleon was our enemy. But now we have made peace, and he is our

friend, and so dear a friend, that I would willingly intrust to him my

most precious treasure; I am sure he would honor and cherish it! Listen

to my orders, therefore, all of you: do not utter another word against

the Emperor Napoleon. We all love and admire him, and that stupid game

must never be played again. It must be laid aside forever."

The children were frightened and downcast; the emperor turned from them,

and beckoned to the Archduchess Maria Louisa to follow him. "I came to

see you at your rooms," he said; "the mistress of ceremonies told me

that I would find you here. I want to speak to you."

"Your majesty was very gracious to come to me instead of sending for

me," said the archduchess, bowing to her father. "Does your majesty

command me to follow you to your cabinet?"

"No, just step with me into this window-niche," said the emperor; "I

will not detain you long. I wish to show you something." He stepped with

the princess into the last window-niche, and closed the curtain. "Now

look," he said, "I want to show you a miniature, and you must tell me

how you like it." He opened the locket and presented it to the

archduchess. She gazed at it long and musingly, and a blush suffused her

cheeks. "Well! what do you think of this man?"

"Your majesty, he must be a very great and distinguished man," exclaimed

the archduchess. "It is a countenance that makes my heart throb; it is

more than merely fine-looking, it is sublime! How much majesty is

enthroned on that brow, and yet the smile seems petulant and childlike;

but the eyes are magnificent."

"Look at him carefully," said the emperor, "and do not restrain your

feelings, but fall in love with him. For let me tell you a secret,

Louisa; it is the likeness of your future husband."

A deeper blush crimsoned the face of the archduchess, and half ashamed,

half anxious, she fixed her eyes again on the miniature.

"Yes," added the emperor, in a graver tone, "it is the portrait of your

husband, and you will receive this very day his ambassador, who will

apply to you for your hand. He has already received my consent, and I am

sure my daughter knows her duty, and will accept obediently the husband

I have destined for her."

"Yes," whispered the archduchess, "I know that to be my duty, and shall

humbly submit to the will and commands of my emperor and father."

"And it is a grand destiny that Providence offers you," said the

emperor, gravely. "You are to preserve peace to the world, my daughter;

you are to be the bond of reconciliation between those who have hitherto

hated and waged war with each other."

"Sire," exclaimed the archduchess, anxiously, "your majesty did not tell

me whose likeness this is?"

"And whom I have determined to become your husband," added the emperor.

"I will tell you now, but be courageous and brave, my daughter, and

remember that you must obey me unconditionally."

"I shall not forget to do so, your majesty."

"Well, then, did I not, on entering this room, hear the children rejoice

at your having hit the heart of the Emperor Napoleon?"

"I was playing with the children, your majesty, and--"

"And your play is to become earnest now, and you are to take pains to

conquer Bonaparte's heart, that he may love and trust you. For, my

daughter, this miniature, which you pronounced so fine-looking, is a

correct likeness of the Emperor Napoleon, who will become your husband."

The Archduchess Maria Louisa uttered a cry, and tottered to the wall.

Her father clasped her in his arms, and placed her gently on the

easy-chair standing in the niche. The cheeks of Maria Louisa had turned

livid, her eyes were closed, and her arms hung down by her side.

"It is strange how easily women faint!" muttered the emperor. "I found

that to be the case with all my wives. When they do not know how to do

any thing better, they faint. All four of mine did, but they always

revived, and so will Louisa. I like it much better that she should faint

than that she should weep. She knows now what she had to know, and will

act accordingly." He opened the curtain, and stepped back into the room.

"Leopoldine!" he shouted to the archduchess, "step in here to your

sister, Maria Louisa. She has swooned, but it is of no consequence! Tell

her to wake up, and conduct her to her room. She will tell you what has

happened to her."

CHAPTER LVI.

THE QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY.

There were great rejoicings in Berlin. It was the 10th of March, the

queen's birthday, and she celebrated it again at the capital for the

first time in three years. Every one hastened to manifest his love and

sympathy for the queen, and all classes had sent in requests for

permission to choose committees to present their congratulations to her

majesty. The queen had cheerfully granted these requests, and the

deputations of the old aristocracy, the states, the clergy, the

municipality, the academy, the painters, and other artists, the

mechanics, and citizens, were assembled in the large hall of the royal

palace, waiting her arrival.

The folding-doors at length opened, and the queen, preceded by the

grand-marshal of the court, entered. She looked pale and exhausted, but

received with affability and grace the cheers given by the assembly at

her appearance, and walked slowly down the long line of the deputations,

addressing a kind word or casting a grateful glance to every one, and

charming all by her beauty, gentleness, and majesty. Suddenly her

countenance brightened, and she approached a tall, stout gentleman

standing in the midst of the committee of the artists. "M. Manager

Iffland,"[50] she said, "let me bid you welcome. I expected to see you

here to-day, in order to express once more my thanks for the joy you

afforded me on my last birthday, and for the sufferings you underwent

for my sake. But I should like to hear an account of the event from your

own lips, and I ask of you, as a birthday present, to relate to me what

happened to you last year on this day."

[Footnote 50: The celebrated German actor.]

While uttering these words, the queen stepped back into the middle of

the hall, and thereby compelled Iffland to leave the committee, and

follow her. "Your majesty is really too kind to remember so

insignificant an occurrence," said Iffland, bowing respectfully. "I was

on that day only so happy as to give expression to the feelings

animating all. 'Queen Louisa, our royal lady!' that was the motto

encouraging us to bear up under the foreign yoke; it was our consolation

when we thought of his majesty, our beloved king. However galling our

chains might have been, we felt comfort. 'The royal lady is with him!'

we said to each other, and with grateful tears every one remembered his

queen."

"Yes, it is true," exclaimed the queen with feeling, "we met with much

love and fidelity during the years of affliction, and to-day I thank

from the bottom of my heart all those who were faithful to us." Her eyes

gazed long and affectionately on the brilliant circle of those

assembled, and she then turned again to Iffland. "Well, how was it on my

birthday last year?" she asked. "Tell me, but speak loudly, that every

one may hear."

"Last year on this day we were not as happy as we are to-day," said

Iffland. "Our queen was not with us, and we could not let her read in

our eyes the love and fidelity which we had been forbidden from

manifesting toward her by word or deed. The French authorities had

issued stringent orders everywhere, that the citizens should abstain

from any allusions to or recollections of our queen's birthday, and that

no demonstrations whatever should be made. We were obliged to submit to

the petty tyranny, but our hearts were filled with anger, and the love

which we could not assert was strengthened in its concealment. It needed

only a spark to bring about an explosion, and the theatre was so

fortunate as to kindle this spark in the hearts of the loyal Prussians.

On the evening of that 10th of March, a small family drama which I had

written was to be performed. It was the simple and affecting history of

a family celebrating happily the reunion of a mother and her children.

The mother's name was Louisa, and this name was sufficient to fill the

house with a distinguished audience. All felt that the theatre was on

that day the only place where the public heart, devoted to the queen,

was allowed to throb for her; where glances could be exchanged and

understood, and where it was permitted to whisper, 'It is her birthday

to-day! Heaven bless her!' Every seat was occupied in the galleries as

well as in the dress-circle, in the orchestra stalls as well as in the

pit, everywhere reigned the same joyous commotion. Only in the boxes of

the French, faces were seen that cast an angry and hostile expression on

that audience.--The curtain rose, and the performance commenced. The

actor Lange and myself appeared in the first scene. Lange had to play

the part of a friend of the house, happening to arrive there on that

day. I represented the son of Louisa, the mother, and appeared on the

stage with a large bouquet on my breast. 'Why do you look so happy and

well-dressed to-day?' said Lange. 'I suppose you are celebrating a

family festival?' 'Yes!' I exclaimed in a loud and joyous voice, 'we are

celebrating a family festival, and it is a beautiful festival; we are

celebrating the return of our beloved mother, God bless her! God bless

the dear lady who is to receive these flowers!' Carried away by my

enthusiasm, I tore the bouquet from my breast, and held it out toward

the audience. Moved by one and the same feeling of love and admiration,

the whole assembly rose, and thousands of voices shouted, as it were

with one mouth and from one heart, 'God bless her! God bless the dear

lady--the adored mother!' Oh, queen, it was a sublime moment, and God

counted the tears and understood the prayers that we addressed to Him.

He has restored to us our queen, the beloved mother of her country and

people!"

The queen at first listened smilingly: gradually, however, her

countenance became grave. She was standing with profound emotion in

front of Iffland, when he concluded his narrative, and tears dropped

from her downcast eyes. Silence reigned in the vast hall, and all faces

were turned to the queen. She raised her eyes slowly, and directed them

toward Iffland with an expression of indescribable kindness. "I thank

you," said Louisa; "you stood faithfully by your queen at a time when

many were deserting her. You have been a faithful knight of mine, and

the king, therefore, wants you to retain always the title of knight. He

permits me to give you to-day another decoration instead of the bouquet

you wore on your breast a year ago. In the name of his majesty I have to

present to you the insignia of the order of the Red Eagle."

A pallor overspread. Iffland's countenance, while he received the order

which the queen handed to him. "O queen," he said, deeply affected,

"such an honor to me, the actor! I thank your majesty in the name of all

my colleagues, from whom you have removed at this moment the interdict

excluding them from the honors and dignities of other men."

The queen smiled. "It is true," she said, "I believe you are the first

actor who ever received an order in Prussia. And are you not indeed the

first actor? However, you owe us still the conclusion of your narrative.

You described to us the scene at the theatre, but not the disagreeable

consequences of the occurrence."

"Ah! your majesty," exclaimed Iffland, smiling, "the consequences were

easy to bear after the sublime moment which I had witnessed. I was

imprisoned for forty-eight hours at the French guard-house, where they

put me on a diet of bread and water. That was all."

"I thank you for suffering so cheerfully for me," said the queen,

dismissing Iffland with a pleasant nod. "Would I were able to reward all

those who have suffered for us, and endured persecution in love and

patience, and to return days of joy for days of sorrow!"

Iffland, who looked proud and happy, stepped back among the members of

his committee, and Louisa continued her walk, uttering words of

gratitude and acknowledgment, and charming all by her winning and withal

queenly bearing.

After the reception was over, she returned to her apartments. The smile

disappeared from her lips, and her countenance assumed a melancholy

expression. She motioned to her two ladies of honor to leave her, and

remained alone with her confidante, Madame von Berg. "Oh, Caroline,"

sighed the queen, "I can bear it no longer. My heart succumbs under

these tortures. They call this day a holiday, but to me it is a day of

terror. To-night a party at the palace--a banquet previous to it,--and I

must be gay, though suffering severe pain! My heart is bleeding, and yet

I am to dance, address pleasant words to every one, and assume an

appearance of happiness. I do not know whither to escape with my grief!

To whom will Prussia belong a year hence? Whither shall we all be

scattered? God have mercy on us!"

"Your majesty views the situation in too gloomy a light," said Madame

von Berg, consolingly. "No further events have occurred that need alarm

you."

"No further events!" exclaimed the queen, vehemently. "You do not know,

then, Caroline, that Count Krusemark arrived from Paris this morning?"

"No," replied Madame von Berg, anxiously; "I do not know any thing about

it. What is the meaning of this unexpected arrival of the ambassador?"

"A new calamity is threatening us. Count Krusemark is the bearer of a

letter from Napoleon to the king. Oh, Caroline, what a letter it is! One

cannot help blushing with shame and anger on reading it, and yet it is

necessary for us to be silent. Napoleon menaces because the war

contributions are not promptly paid: he talks as a superior to his

inferior who neglects his duty; he scolds as a schoolmaster does his

pupil who has not learned his task. And we must bear it, we must stoop

so low as to beg him to be indulgent! Caroline, we must now solicit the

forbearance of the man who has insulted us by every word he addressed to

us, and by every look he cast upon us. For do you really know what he

threatens to do? He writes that if the king does not immediately pay up

the arrears of the war contributions, he will send an army to Prussia,

to collect the money, and punish the king for his breach of faith. He

will send another army to Prussia!--that is to say, the war is to begin

anew, and, as we have become powerless, and cannot defend our frontiers,

he means to crush us. He will take every thing, and Prussia will cease

to exist. And we cannot pay, we have no means to obtain those millions

so unjustly claimed!"

"But the ministers will devise means to pay the contribution, dearest

queen; the minister of finance will be able to suggest a scheme to

fulfil the engagements that have been entered into, and to discharge the

claims which Napoleon has against us."

The queen laughed scornfully. "Baron von Altenstein, the minister of

finance, is not of your opinion," she said. "The king asked him to

suggest measures by which the liabilities we had incurred might be

discharged. But Altenstein replied that he did not know of any, and he

then proposed to the king to pay the debt by ceding the province of

Silesia to Napoleon."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Madame von Borg, indignantly. "A Prussian minister

does not shrink from advising the king, although we are at peace, to

sacrifice the best province that has remained, and which even the

defeats of Jena and Friedland, and the intriguing days of Tilsit did not

endanger!"

"And if we do not consent to such a sacrifice (and we shall not), what

next?" exclaimed the queen, despairingly. "Napoleon will send his army

and expel or imprison us, as he treated the unfortunate royal family of

Spain. Oh, Caroline, I shall be uneasy night and day. Dreadful

apprehensions are constantly meeting me. I think of Spain, and fears

oppress me lest my husband have the same fate as King Charles. Believe

me, his life, his liberty is threatened, and he is every day in danger

of being suddenly seized and taken away as a hostage, until we have

fulfilled the behests of the tyrant, and given him all that still

belongs to us--our honor, our crown, and, perhaps, our lives. We are

surrounded by French spies: every word, every look, is watched; only a

pretext is sought to ruin us, and it will be found, as it was in Spain.

Oh, he will take my husband from me! he will drag him as a prisoner from

one place to another as he did the King of Spain; he will sow the seeds

of discord in our family as he did in that unhappy country. He, the

tyrant Napoleon, brought about a quarrel between the Infante and his

father; he compelled, with his iron hand, the unfortunate King Charles

to write that his son's guilt had raised a barrier between father and

son. But whose hand was it that constructed it? Can there be any doubt?

It was his alone! Oh, will there be a time, and shall I live to see it,

when the hand of God will at length write the 'Mene, mene, tekel,' on

his wall?"

"Your majesty will live to see that time," exclaimed Madame von Berg.

"You will witness the judgment of Heaven and of the nations overthrowing

the tyrant."

The queen shook her head. "No," she whispered, "I shall not live to see

it. I think this will be the last time that I celebrate my birthday

here."[51]

[Footnote 51: The queen's own words.]

"Oh, Louisa," cried Madame von Berg, bursting into tears, "do not titter

such cruel, heart-rending words. You will live, you must live, for the

consolation and joy of us all. It would be an injustice, and we should

despair of divine equity, if our queen depart without having seen again

the days of deliverance and happiness."

"My dear, Providence permits such acts of injustice," said Louisa, with

a mournful smile. "Was it just that noble Palm should be shot, that

Schill had to fall, and to be stigmatized as a deserter for his heroic

actions? Was it just that Andrew Hofer had to expiate his glorious

struggle for freedom by his death? The Emperor of Austria was in the

same position as we were. He had to sacrifice Andrew Hofer as we

Ferdinand von Schill. The cruel hand of the tyrant rested on him as it

did on us. And now they have shot the brave, heroic leader of the

Tyrolese at Mantua! My soul mourns for him, for I hoped in him. It is

but recently that I understood Schiller's words, 'On the mountains there

is freedom!' They resounded in my heart like a prophecy, when in my

thought I looked over to the mountaineers who had risen at Hofer's call.

My heart fought at his side! And what a man this dear, honest, simple

Andrew Hofer was! A peasant who had become a general, and what a

general! His weapon--prayer! His ally--God! He fought with folded hands,

with bended knees, and struck down the enemy as with a cherub's sword.

And the brave Tyrolese were fighting with him--children in the

simplicity of their hearts, they fought like Titans, by hurling down

rocks from the summits of their fastnesses. And yet it was all in vain!

They were sacrificed, and their leader was shot by the man who to-morrow

marries the daughter of their emperor. And you doubt that Providence

permits acts of injustice? Oh, I do not doubt that God is just, but we

mortals are often unable to comprehend his justice, because our life is

too short to witness the result of that of which we have seen only the

inception; but He knows the end from the beginning. And an end will come

for Napoleon with all his glory. But shall I or any of us ever live to

witness it?"

"All of us will," said Madame von Berg; "our belief in the final

retribution of Divine justice will give us our strength, I hope, for

many years."

"I shall not live to see that blessed time," said the queen, solemnly.

"This man, who is to be married to a German princess to-morrow, has

wounded my heart so that it will at last destroy me. I do not speak

figuratively, but mean what I say. There is something in my heart that

leaves me no rest night and day. Its palpitations strike like a

death-watch. There is something gnawing there incessantly; at times I

feel that it has nearly pierced my life, that death is surely near. And

I am dying of the wretchedness and disgrace which he who is enthroned in

France has brought upon Prussia! I am dying, and he will win further

triumphs; the whole of Europe will lie prostrate at his feet, and his

songs of victory will be my dirge, leaving me no rest even in my grave.

But hush, hush! Let us say no more. I have allowed you to look into the

depths of my soul. You, my friend, are the only one to whom I sometimes

raise the veil covering my bleeding heart. But tell no one what you have

seen; keep my secret a little while longer, my dear Caroline.--And how

is your friend, excellent Baron von Stein? You told me yesterday you had

received letters from him. What does he write? Where does he live?"

"He lives in Brünn; his wife and children have joined him, and his life

therefore is outwardly at least less sad than formerly. He is in

constant communication with the prominent statesmen of Germany; all

patriots hope in him, and receive advice and consolation from him. He is

preparing quietly and secretly the great work of deliverance, which,

when completed, will delight the eyes of my queen and receive her

blessing. His eyes are constantly turned toward Prussia, and it is his

profoundest sorrow that he is not permitted in these times to devote his

services to the king."

"Yes," said the queen, sighing, "it is the terrible misfortune of the

king that, in times so calamitous as these, he is deprived of the

assistance of the patriotic men who alone would be able to save him and

the state. The tyrannous decrees of Napoleon have taken his noblest and

best servants from him. Stein is in exile. Hardenberg has to keep aloof

from us because the emperor so ordered it. We might have ministers

competent to hold the helm of the ship of state and take her

successfully into port, but we are not allowed to employ them. Our

interests are consequently intrusted to weak and ill-disposed ministers,

who will ruin them, and we shall perish, unless assistance come

soon--very soon! Stein and Hardenberg are exiled, and we have only

Minister Altenstein, who is bold enough to propose the voluntary cession

of Silesia to the king! Oh, my beloved, unfortunate Prussia, where is

there a prospect of safety for thee?--Ah, the worm is again at my

heart--oh, it oppresses me so that I can scarcely breathe! Tell me,

Caroline, what else has Baron von Stein written to you?"

"He describes the deep and painful impression which the marriage of the

Archduchess Maria Louisa with the Emperor Napoleon has made throughout

Austria. There was no rejoicing, for all regarded it as another

humiliation of Austria--as a chain by which she fastens herself to

France, and makes herself a vassal of a powerful enemy. The Viennese

particularly received the intelligence with profound indignation, and

even seditious gatherings took place, which had to be dispersed by the

troops. In their sorrow, the inhabitants of the Austrian capital

consoled themselves with a little wit; for, on the day when the Viennese

had to illuminate their city in honor of the betrothal, the populace,

marching through the streets, reached the residence of the French

ambassador, and shouted in a loud and scornful tone: 'Napoleon is now

ruined! We have at last played him a trick! We have inoculated him with

Austrian bad luck and Austrian stupidity!'"[52]

[Footnote 52: Hormayr, vol. I., p. 89, and other historians relate this

occurrence.]

The queen laughed. "That sounds very silly, and does not indicate much

self-esteem, but there is a deep meaning in it after all. A connection

with Austria has always been disastrous to France. Louis XVI. died of

his marriage with Marie Antoinette, and Napoleon will not derive much

benefit from his with the archduchess. He intends to strengthen his

empire by this step, but it will alienate his own people from him. By

this connection with an old dynasty he recedes from the people and from

the liberal ideas of the revolution, which enabled him to ascend the

throne. If this throne should ever be shaken, he would find that Austria

will not support him."

"It will be shaken and fall!" exclaimed Madame von Berg. "There is an

ominous commotion everywhere. Spain is the first fruit of the new era

about to dawn upon us. She has not yet been conquered, nor will she be,

notwithstanding Napoleon's high-sounding phrases and so-called

victories. She is as a rock that will first break the waves of his

haughty will. As a proof of the hatred prevailing in Spain, Baron von

Stein sent me a page from the catechism, which the priests are teaching

the people at the present time, and he added to it a few passages from

the new French catechism. Will your majesty permit me to read them?"

"Read," exclaimed the queen; "pray, dear Caroline, let me hear them!"

Madame von Berg drew several papers from her pocket. "Let us first be

edified by the Spanish catechism, if it please your majesty," and she

read:

"Who are you, my child?"

"A Spaniard, by the grace of God."

"What does that mean?"

"A man of honor."

"Who is our enemy?"

"The Emperor of the French."

"What is the Emperor of the French?"

"A villain, the source of all evil."

"How many natures has he?"

"Two. A human and a diabolical nature."

"How many Emperors of the French are there?"

"One emperor in three."

"What are their names?"

"Napoleon, Murat, and Manuel Godoy."

"Which is the worst?"

"They are all equally bad."

"Whence does Napoleon come?"

"From sin."

"Murat?"

"From Napoleon."

"Godoy?"

"From both."

"What are the French?"

"Christians who have become heretics."

"What punishment deserves the Spaniard who neglects his duties?"

"The death and disgrace of a traitor."

"Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman?"

"No, a man gains heaven by killing one of the heretical dogs."

"Horrible!" exclaimed the queen, shuddering. "But that is their

catechism, and these are the doctrines which are actually taught the

people, and which filled them with such desperate courage at Saragossa.

And now, Caroline, let me hear something of the French catechism."

"Here is a passage reading: 'To honor and serve our Emperor Napoleon, is

to honor and serve God Himself, for it is he whom the Lord has given to

us, that he may restore the holy faith of our fathers and to rule over

us with wisdom and firmness. He is the anointed of the Lord, owing to

the consecration he has received at the hands of the pope, the head of

the Holy Catholic Church. Those who would not fulfil their duties to the

Emperor Napoleon would rebel against the will of God, and be doomed

eternally.'"

"That is the fanaticism of a man who believes in nothing but himself,

and whom this self-deification nevertheless will one day hurl into the

abyss," exclaimed the queen. "But hark, it strikes twelve! The king will

soon be here to take me to the palace. I will dress, for I must not keep

him long waiting. Ah, there he is already!" Louisa rose quickly from the

sofa and hastened toward the king, who entered the room. Madame von Berg

withdrew quietly, and the king and the queen remained alone.

The king took the hands which the queen extended toward him, and pressed

them tenderly to his lips. "I come, perhaps, earlier than you expected,"

he said, "but I wished to see my beloved Louisa on this festive day,

before she again becomes the queen. It seems to me I have not yet seen

you to-day. Since early morning the people offering congratulations and

presents have perfectly besieged the house."

"That is the consequence of celebrating my birthday in Berlin, my

friend," exclaimed the queen laughing; "it is your just punishment for

refusing to spend the day with me and the children quietly at our dear

Parez, as we always used to do."

"I could not do that," said the king, gravely. "I had to give our

subjects an opportunity to manifest their love for you and to indemnify

them for the last three years, when they were unable to do so. But do

you know, Louisa, why I come now? I should like to present you two

acceptable gifts."

"More gifts?" exclaimed the queen, almost reproachfully. "Your love has

lavished so many costly and beautiful presents on me to-day that I

hardly know what you may give me."

"You need not be afraid, for the gifts are not very expensive; they are

only two pieces of paper. They will not make your casket heavier, but I

hope they will render your heart lighter. Here is the first." He drew a

letter from his bosom and handed it to the queen. "Read the address," he

said.

The queen read: "'To his excellency, Count von Hardenberg, at present at

the farm of Grohnde.'"--"What?" she asked, looking joyously at the king.

"My friend, you have yourself written to Hardenberg?"

The king nodded, "I myself," he said.

"And what did you write to him?"

"I requested him to come to me without delay, if he feel strong enough,

and resume his former position at the head of the government."

"But you know Napoleon does not want Hardenberg to be your minister."

"I am now again, and intend remaining, master in my own country."

"Napoleon ordered that Hardenberg should not come within twenty leagues

of the place where the king resides. Remember, dear friend, he is

proscribed."

"But I disregard this proscription, and call Hardenberg to my side. If

he is courageous enough he will come, and when he is here we shall take

pains to pacify the emperor's wrath. He is at present too busily engaged

in arranging his wedding festivities, and in preparing for the reception

of his young wife; he will not have time to notice that the little King

of Prussia has chosen another minister. We shall try to manage the

matter as prudently as possible, and prevail upon Napoleon to leave

Hardenberg at the head of my cabinet. I cannot do any thing with a

minister who proposes to me to sacrifice the province of Silesia, and

to sell loyal subjects like cattle. I will dismiss Altenstein, and

appoint Hardenberg in his place. I have called him. If he is a good

patriot, he will come; he must write a penitent letter to the emperor,

that he may permit him to remain with us."[53]

[Footnote 53: Hardenberg complied immediately with the king's request,

and came to Potsdam, where he had a long interview with him, and

declared his readiness to resume his position at the head of the

administration. He submitted also to the galling necessity of

conciliating Napoleon by an humble letter, in which he assured the

emperor of his devotedness to France, and promised that the

war-contributions should be promptly paid. Napoleon was favorably

impressed with this letter, and ceased to object to Hardenberg's

appointment.]

"Oh, he will come, my friend, and also write the letter," exclaimed the

queen.

"And do you approve my resolution to intrust Hardenberg with

Altenstein's department?" asked the king.

"Approve it? My heart rejoices at it! Now I have hopes again of Prussia;

now I look full of confidence into the future, for Hardenberg is a true

German patriot, who has the honor and dignity of his country at heart,

who does not want us to become mere vassals of France, and who will not

propose to sacrifice provinces when we may discharge our liabilities

with money. Oh, my dear, beloved friend, how grateful I am to you for

this joyful surprise! This paper is my most precious birthday gift, and

it really makes my heart glad."

"But I have another paper which will afford you pleasure," said the

king, drawing it from his bosom. "Here, my dear, affectionate Princess

of Mecklenburg, here is my second gift!"

He placed a folded paper into the hands of the queen. She opened it, and

a joyous cry burst from her lips. "'Passenger ticket for Queen Louisa,

good for a trip to Mecklenburg-Strelitz,'" she read, laughing. "'First

travelling companion: Frederick William.' I am to go to Mecklenburg,"

cried the queen, joyously, "and you will accompany me? Oh, my beloved

husband, you have divined, then, the most secret and ardent wish of my

heart, and you grant it even before my lips have uttered it! Oh, how

shall I thank you, my own dear friend?" She encircled the king's neck

with her arms, with passionate tenderness, and pressed a long kiss on

his lips. "Dear, dear husband, how shall I thank you?" she whispered,

once more with tearful eyes.

The king looked at her long and lovingly. "That you are with me is my

greatest happiness. I was thinking to-day of a poem written by good old

Claudius; it expresses my own feelings. It is an echo of my heart's

gratitude!"

"What poem is it?" asked the queen.

Frederick William laid his hand on her head, raised his eyes toward

heaven, and said aloud:

"Ich danke dir mein Wohl, mein Glück in diesem Leben,

Ich war wohl klug, dass ich dich fand;

Doch ich fand nicht, Gott hat dich mir gegeben,

So segnet keines Menschen Hand!"[54]

[Footnote 54:

"On thee my joy, my hopes rely!

How wise to win thee mine!

But surely it was Heaven--not I,

That made me ever thine.

To thee, my loving spouse, I owe

Whate'er of good may be,

Nor could a human hand bestow

This priceless gift on me."

CHAPTER LVII.

LOUISA'S DEATH.

The happy and long-yearned-for day, the 25th of June, had dawned at

last. The queen's wish was to be fulfilled; she was to set out for her

old Mecklenburg home, for her paternal roof at Neustrelitz. The king

intended to follow her thither in a few days, for he was detained in

Berlin by state affairs; they were then to go with her family to the

ducal country-seat of Hohenzieritz, and thence to return to Berlin.

How had the queen longed for this day! how joyously had she awaited the

moment when she was to see her old home again! Even her separation from

her beloved children, from her husband, did not shade her beautiful

countenance. She was to miss her children but for a short time, and her

husband was to join her at the earliest moment; she could therefore

yield to the joy with which the prospect of seeing her father and his

family, and of returning to her old home, filled her heart.

Home! The carriage rolled from the palace-gate of Charlottenburg, and

the green fields as she passed had never seemed so beautiful. But her

eyes were often turned to the sky, and she gazed on the white clouds

floating over it as swans on an azure lake. "Precede me, clouds! inform

my father and my brothers that I am coming!" she exclaimed, smiling.

"Oh, why does not my soul unfold its wings, and carry me home through

the air? The horses are too slow!"

And yet the horses were running along the turnpike, swiftly passing

towns and villages, fields and meadows. The queen, in her impatience,

counted the relays. "We are already at Gransee; the next town will be on

Mecklenburg soil. The frontier of my father's state is between Gransee

and Fürstenberg. Forward! home! home!"

"Queen, here we are on the frontier! Here is Mecklenburg!" exclaimed

Madame von Berg.

"Mecklenburg!" said the queen, smiling. "Hail my native country!" And

she kissed her hands to the landscape spread out before her in all its

summer beauty. "I greet and kiss thee, my Mecklenburg! I return with a

faithful heart!"

Why did the queen start up so suddenly, and press her hands so anxiously

against her heart? "Oh, Caroline," she whispered, "the death-worm, the

death-worm! Could it not be still at this moment? Could it not let me

enjoy the bliss of this hour? Oh, how it tortures my heart!"

"O queen, why such gloomy thoughts now? Look at the sky, how bright it

is!--how mild and pleasant the air--the air of Mecklenburg!"

"The air of my native country is fanning my face, but the death-worm is

at work in my heart. The gates of my home above will soon be thrown open

for me! But hush! Why put this drop of wormwood into the cup of joy? I

will not drink it, I will not listen to my palpitating heart! Let us see

whether I am stronger than my pain. I will laugh and be happy!"

And the queen, leaning forward with smiling countenance, said: "I greet

thee, my Mecklenburg, with thy waving wheat-fields and fragrant meadows,

thy transparent lakes and forest oaks, and, above all, thy ruddy sons

and daughters! Look, Caroline, what sunny waves are passing over those

ripening fields, bringing to the farmer the fruits of his labor. Look at

that pretty scene yonder! At the door of the lonely cottage, in the

middle of the rye-field, sits a peasant's wife; her babe is resting on

her breast, and three flaxen-haired children are playing at her feet.

She does not see us; she sees nothing but her children, and sings to

them. Stop, that I may hear the song of the good young mother!" The

carriage halted. The wind swept across the plain, and played with the

white veil of the queen, who listened with bated breath to the lullaby

of the peasant's wife:

"Oh, schlop, mihn lewes, lüttes Kind,

Oh, schlop un dröhm recht schön!

Denn alle Engel bi di sünd

Un Gott, de het di sehn.

Leev Gott het alle Minschen gihrn,

De Kinner doch am leevsten,

Drüm wenn wi man wi Kinner wirn,

Denn har uns Gott am leevsten!

Oh, schlop, mihn lewes, lüttes Kind,

Oh, schlop, und dröhm recht schön!"[55]

[Footnote 55:

Oh sleep! my darling baby, sleep!

And dream without a tear,

For loving angels round thee keep

Their watch, and God is near!

O baby mine,

Sweet dreams be thine!

If we as little children were

The Lord would love us best;

Of such he said, with tender care,

Is heaven's eternal rest!

O baby mine,

Sweet dreams be thine!

]

The queen laughed with delight. "That is a Mecklenburg _patois_ song,"

she exclaimed, "and yet how sweetly it sounds; how gentle and winning,

as though it were the language of the heart! My native country has

greeted me now with its most tender notes, with the song that the mother

sings to her children! Forward! I am also a child of Mecklenburg, and

long for my father's kiss and the embrace of my dear old grandmother!"

"There are the spires of a town in Mecklenburg! the spires of

Fürstenberg!"

The carriage rolled through the gloomy old gate, and halted in front of

the palace.

"My father! My beloved father!"

"My daughter! My beloved Louisa! Welcome!--a thousand times welcome!"

They embraced each other and wept with joy. He is no duke, she is no

queen; he is a father, and she is his child!

From the arms of her father she sank into those of her brother--her

darling George. "Oh, thanks, dear father and brother, thanks for this

surprise! Now I shall have two hours of happiness more than I hoped for,

for I thought I would meet you only at Neustrelitz."

"Come now, my daughter, come; the horses are ready, and your old

grandmother is longing for you."

"Grandmamma, I am coming!" exclaimed the queen, and entered the carriage

as merrily as a light-hearted child. Her father and brother were at her

side, and the ladies of the queen took seats in the duke's coach.

"Forward, home!" Her hands clasping those of her father and her brother,

the queen rode across the meadows and waving fields. Was the death-worm

still at her heart? Which will triumph, that or the queen? She did

triumph for a season--for holy love conquers all, even death.

The face of the queen beamed with happiness. Smiles played upon her

lips; greetings flashed from her eyes to the people standing at the

roadside, and loudly cheering her. She reached her destination! There is

Neustrelitz, there is the palace! At the gate stood the old grandmother

who had charge of Louisa in her childhood, the old landgravine, now

eighty years of age. She stretched out her arms toward the queen; she

called with tender words for her foster-child, her Louisa! And Louisa

rushed into the arms of her grandmother. They remained locked in a long

embrace, weeping. The duke himself wiped tears from his eyes. Happiness

also has tears, and sometimes sadness.

"Grandmother," whispered the queen, "I have wept a great deal in grief

and anguish. Now I am weeping in delight, and my tears are praising

God!" The queen was at home with her father, and under the roof of her

ancestors. The storms of adversity had spent their fury. Gladness beamed

from her face as she welcomed the friends and acquaintances of former

times.

A brilliant party was given at court on the second day. A ball took

place in the evening. Numerous guests were assembled in the festive

halls; all were waiting for the arrival of the queen. Suddenly the

folding doors opened; she entered the ball-room leaning on her father's

arm, and greeted the assembled guests. How beautiful she was! Her whole

bearing had an indescribable mildness and majesty. She had adorned

herself, for the first time since her adversity, as it became a queen.

Her noble figure was wrapped in a white satin dress, and her bare arms

and neck were magnificently adorned.

"Oh, queen, how charming you are to-day!" exclaimed one of her early

friends, transported with admiration. "And how splendid these pearls

are!"

"Yes!" said the queen, "they are. I value them very highly, and retained

them when I was obliged to part with my other jewelry. Pearls are more

suitable to me, for they denote tears, and I have shed many." And as the

queen uttered these words, she started and pressed her hand against her

heart. Was the death-worm there again? Was it penetrating her heart? Was

it, after all, stronger than the queen? No! Louisa triumphed over it!

Joy was in her face; merry words dropped from her lips, and she glided

in the mazes of the dance.

And this day was followed by another of still greater happiness. The

king came to see again his longed-for consort and take her back to her

second home, his house, and heart. She was again united with her most

faithful friend. She gazed with delight at his fine, manly countenance;

she was proud of his regal form, and his constant and earnest love

transported her with gratitude. As she looked toward the king, who was

leaving the room with the duke, in order to look at the old palace

church,--"Oh, George," she said to the hereditary prince, who had

remained with his sister in the duke's sitting-room, "now I am

altogether happy! I would like to repeat it to all of you!" And, as if

these words were not sufficient, as if she ought to write them down--the

queen hastened to her father's desk. She took a scrap of paper and a

pen, and wrote in a hasty hand: "My dear father! I am very happy to-day

as your daughter, and as the wife of the best of husbands. Louisa."[56]

"So," she exclaimed, "I have written it down. My father will not find it

to-day, for we shall immediately set out for Hohenzieritz; but when he

returns the day after to-morrow, and steps to his desk, he will find

this greeting from his Louisa, and it will gladden him, and--"

[Footnote 56: These were the last words the queen ever wrote. The king

preserved the scrap as a sacred relic, and carried it constantly in his

memorandum-book.]

"Why do you start so suddenly, my sister? Your lips are quivering, and

you look so pale! What ails you, dear sister?"

"It is nothing, brother--it is nothing! An insignificant passing pain in

my heart; it was sudden, but it is nothing, it is over now. And if you

love me, George, you will forget it. You will not mention it to any one,

and, least of all, to my husband. They are already returning, our dear

ones! Let us meet them!"

They went from Neustrelitz to Hohenzieritz, the charming country-seat of

the duke on the shore of Lake Tollen. The carriages halted in front of

the palace-gate; Louisa, leaning on the king's arm, entered; suddenly a

shudder shook her frame; a mortal pallor covered her cheeks, and she

clung convulsively to her husband.

"What ails you, Louisa? Why do you look so ill, and tremble so

violently? What is the matter?"

"I am quite well, my beloved friend, but I am cold, and the air here

seems close and oppressive to me; and it is as silent and lonely as if

death were dwelling here. Come, let us go into the garden. Come!" She

hastened into the life and sunshine of the garden. The color came to her

cheeks again, and her eyes assumed their serenity. She walked with her

husband through the long, delightful avenues, and accompanied him to the

lake. It lay before them, beautiful Lake Tollen, shining like silver,

and fringed with gigantic oaks.

"Oh, my dear Mecklenburg, my dear native country, how beautiful thou

art!" exclaimed the queen, and an echo replied from the opposite shore,

"Beautiful thou art!"

"The echo is right," said the king. "And, as I am gazing at you, you

seem to me again the young princess whom I saw seventeen years ago for

the first time. Your return to your native country has made you once

more a girl."

"But the girl of seventeen years ago was not so happy as is the matron

and mother of to-day," said the queen. "At that time I did not have you,

my husband, nor my beloved children! I am younger in my heart to-day

than then, for love imparts and preserves youthfulness."

"God preserve you this youth, my Louisa, to the delight of myself and

our children! But come, it is cool here by the lake, and you look pale

again." They returned to the palace, and the queen spent in the midst of

her family a day of unalloyed pleasure. The last day!

When the next morning's sun shone into the queen's bedroom, Louisa

attempted to raise herself; her head fell back heavily, and she pressed

her hands convulsively against her bosom, exclaiming: "Oh, my heart!"

Poor queen! The death-worm was conquering!

"It is nothing!" she whispered to her husband, when the struggle was

over. "Nothing but a cold!" she repeated, when the doctors, who had been

called from Neustrelitz, came to her bedside.

It was a cold, but the queen was unable to leave her bed to accompany

the king to Berlin, when, a few days afterward, pressing state affairs

called him back to the capital. She was obliged to remain a few days at

Hohenzieritz, in order to rest and recover her strength. But the few

days became weeks. She was still ill, and suffered as she had never

suffered. Often, in the night, when her friend Caroline von Berg was

sitting at her bedside, she beckoned to her and whispered in her ear:

"The conquering death-worm! Did I not tell you, Caroline, that it was

attacking my heart? Oh, I would the king, my beloved husband, were with

me!"

Couriers went to Charlottenburg to the king, and they came every day to

Hohenzieritz and inquired in his name for Louisa's health. He himself

was unable to come; he was also ill with fever, confining him to his

bed.

"And I am not with him!" lamented the queen. "I cannot nurse him, and

smile away his cares! I am myself an object of anxiety to him! Oh, shall

I not soon be well again? Tell me, dear Doctor Heim, you whom the king

has sent, shall I not soon be well, that I may nurse my husband?"

"Yes, your majesty, if it please God, you will soon be well. But now let

me deliver to you a letter from the king, which his majesty has

intrusted to me."

Louisa's eyes beamed with joy; she opened the letter and read it. The

words of tender love and ardent longing which the king addressed to her

brought tears to her eyes. "What a letter!" she exclaimed. "How happy is

she who receives such!" She kissed the paper and then laid it on her

heart. "It shall remain there, and will cure me better than all your

medicine, doctor. If the spasms would only leave me, I should be well!

When they seize me, I cannot help thinking that my end is drawing nigh."

Doctor Heim made no reply; he turned and prescribed cooling beverages

and anodynes. No one but God was able to help her. Her spasms became

frequent and violent, and she of ten cried--"Air! air! I am dying!" She

yearned more and more for her husband and children.

"Doctor! must I die, then? Shall I be taken from the king and from my

children?" The doctor made no reply.

"My God, I am young to die!" groaned the queen. "Life has still to

fulfil many promises to me; I have shed many tears and suffered much!

Oh, there are these dreadful spasms again! Doctor, help me! Ah, nothing

but death can help me!"

It was in the night of the 18th of July that the queen uttered these

complaints to her physicians. It was a stormy night, and the gigantic

trees in the garden of Hohenzieritz rustled weirdly and dark. The

silence of the palace was broken only by low groans.

It was dawning when a carriage rolled into the palace-yard. The duke

hastened out. A pale man alighted and rushed toward him. "How is she?

How is Louisa?"

The duke was unable to make a reply. He took the king's arm and

conducted him into the palace. The two sons of the king, who had arrived

with their father, followed them in silence and with bowed heads. The

duke conducted the king into his room, where he found the old

landgravine and the three physicians of the queen.

Frederick William saluted the princess only with a silent nod; he then

turned his quivering face toward the physicians. "How is the queen?" he

asked. "What hopes have you?"

They made no reply, standing before him with gloomy faces and downcast

eyes. The king's face turned livid, and, pressing his hand upon his

forehead, covered with perspiration, he said, sternly and imperiously,

"Reply to me, I want to know the truth! How is the queen? What hopes

have you?"

"No hopes whatever, your majesty," said Dr. Heim, solemnly. "It is an

organic disease of the heart, and in such cases our skill is powerless.

The queen has but a few hours to live!"

The king staggered back to the wall. He neither spoke nor wept, so great

was his sorrow. The venerable old landgravine went to him and laid her

hand gently on his shoulder. "Hope still, my son," she said, solemnly,

"Louisa still lives, and so long as she lives there is hope. God in His

mercy may yet preserve her to us!"

The king shook his head despairingly. "Ah," he cried in a husky, sombre

voice, "if she were not mine, she would live. But as she is my wife, she

will surely die! But I will see her, I must see her! So long as she

lives she belongs to me!"

"I will go and inform the queen that the king has arrived," said Heim,

and hastened into the sick-room.

A few minutes elapsed, and Louisa's voice exclaimed: "My Frederick! my

beloved husband, come to me!"

The king rushed to her room, the door of which had just been opened by

Dr. Heim. The queen lay on her couch, pale and beautiful as a broken

lily.

"My husband! my beloved friend!" she exclaimed, raising herself and

endeavoring to stretch out her arms toward the king, who stood at her

bedside, but alas, she was unable to do so. "Oh," whispered Louisa,

sadly, "I am a queen, but cannot move my arms!"

The king bent over, and, pressing her against his breast, kissed her

beloved face. Louisa smiled, laid her head on his shoulder and looked at

him long and tenderly. "You are here! You are mine again! But how are

the children? Have you come alone?"

"No," said the king, "our two oldest sons accompany me."

"My sons! Where are they?" exclaimed the queen. "Let me see them, oh,

pray let me see my sons!"

Heim hastened out and returned with the Princes Frederick and William.

With eyes filled with tears, they stepped on tiptoe to the bedside of

the queen.

"My children!" exclaimed Louisa, in a loud, powerful voice, and she

raised herself up. Her maternal love gave her strength to extend her

arms.

"Oh, my children, my beloved children!" She pressed them to her bosom,

kissing them with the passionate tenderness of a mother.

The two young princes, entirely overcome by grief, sank on their knees

at the bedside of their mother. She laid her hands on their heads, as if

to bless them, and lifted her eyes to the king, who, pale and silent,

was gazing at her in unutterable despair.

"Now I am happy," breathed the queen. "You are with me, and my beloved

sons!"

The king's sorrow was overpowering him, and he quickly turned and left

the room. Heim approached the princes and begged them in a low voice to

withdraw, because the queen was unable to bear so much excitement. They

rose from their knees and kissed their mother's hands. Louisa was so

faint that she could greet her children only with a smile, and was

unable to bear their presence longer. But her eyes followed them

steadfastly until they had withdrawn.

She lay long silent and motionless, and then whispered to her sister,

the Princess of Solms: "The king acted as though he wished to take leave

of me. Tell him not to do so, else I shall die immediately. But where is

he? Where is my husband? Oh, why is he not with me?"

Frederick William stood in a corner of the anteroom, his head leaning

against the wall, his hands pressed against his breast, in order to

suppress the sobs which escaped from it in spite of him. His eyes were

tearless; his quivering lips were murmuring: "My wife is dying! She is

dying!"

"Louisa wishes to see you," whispered the Princess of Solms, approaching

him. "But, pray be gentle; do not manifest your grief; Louisa says that

else she would die immediately."

"No," said the king, sternly, "she shall not die. I will endeavor to be

calm!" And, restraining his grief, he stepped to the queen's bedside. "I

just had a conference with the physicians," he said, almost smilingly.

"They make me hope for the best. Indeed, I never believed that you were

in danger; I was only deeply moved because I saw you suffering so

intensely."

The queen looked him full in the face, and made no reply. The king sat

down on her bed and took her right hand. Louisa pressed his hand gently,

and fixed her eyes with a thoughtful and grave expression on his

countenance. Suddenly a dark shadow passed over her face. "It is coming!

It is coming!" she cried in a tone of heart-rending anguish, and started

up in excruciating pain.

The king went to the door and called the physicians, who hastened into

the room, followed by the duke, the princes, and the whole family.

Madame von Berg raised the groaning sufferer. The physicians were

standing in the middle of the room. "We cannot help her. It is the last

convulsion!"

"Air! air!" cried the queen.

Frederick William bent over her with tearless eyes. The agony she was

suffering paralyzed his heart.

"Lord, end my sufferings!" cried the queen, with a last effort, and her

head sank back into the arms of Madame von Berg. Another sigh--a long,

tremulous sigh. The clock struck nine. A solemn silence reigned in the

palace. The queen was dead!

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia, by L. Mühlbach,