CHAPTER I.

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT

An Historical Romance

BY

L. MUHLBACH

AUTHOR OF JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER

I. The Queen Sophia Dorothea,

II. Frederick William I.,

III. The Tobacco Club,

IV. Air-Castles,

V. Father and Son,

VI. The White Saloon,

VII. The Maid of Honor and the Gardener,

VIII. Von Manteuffel, the Diplomat,

IX. Frederick, the Prince Royal,

X. The Prince Royal and the Jew,

XI. The Princess Royal Elizabeth Christine,

XII. The Poem,

XIII. The Banquet,

XIV. Le Roi est Mort. Vive le Roi!

XV. We are King,

XVI. Royal Grace and Royal Displeasure,

BOOK II.

I. The Garden of Monbijou,

II. The Queen's Maid of Honor.

III. Prince Augustus William,

IV. The King and the Son,

V. The Queen's Tailor,

VI. The Illustrious Ancestors of a Tailor,

VII. Soffri e Taci,

VIII. The Coronation,

IX. Dorris Ritter,

X. Old and New Sufferings,

XI. The Proposal of Marriage,

XII. The Queen as a Matrimonial Agent,

XIII. Proposal of Marriage,

XIV. The Misunderstanding,

XV. Soiree of the Queen Dowager,

XVI. Under the Lindens,

XVII. The Politician and the French Tailor,

XVIII. The Double Rendezvous,

BOOK III.

I. The Intriguing Courtiers,

II. The King and the Secretary of the Treasury,

III. The Undeceived Courtier,

IV. The Bridal Pair,

V. The French and German Tailors, or the Montagues and

Capulets of Berlin,

VI. In Rheinsberg,

VII. The King and his Friend,

VIII. The Farewell Audience of Marquis von Botter, the Austrian

Ambassador,

IX. The Masquerade,

X. The Maskers,

XI. Reward and Punishment,

XII. The Return,

XIII. The Death of the Old Time,

XIV. The Discovery,

XV. The Countermine,

XVI. The Surprise,

XVII. The Resignation of Baron von Pollnitz,

FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN SOPHIA DOROTHEA.

The palace glittered with light and splendor; the servants ran here and

there, arranging the sofas and chairs; the court gardener cast a

searching glance at the groups of flowers which he had placed in the

saloons; and the major domo superintended the tables in the picture

gallery. The guests of the queen will enjoy to-night a rich and costly

feast. Every thing wore the gay and festive appearance which, in the

good old times, the king's palace in Berlin had been wont to exhibit.

Jesting and merrymaking were the order of the day, and even the busy

servants were good-humored and smiling, knowing that this evening there

was no danger of blows and kicks, of fierce threats and trembling

terror. Happily the king could not appear at this ball, which he had

commanded Sophia to give to the court and nobility of Berlin.

The king was ill, the gout chained him to his chamber, and during the

last few sleepless nights a presentiment weighed upon the spirit of the

ruler of Prussia. He felt that the reign of Frederick the First would

soon be at an end; that the doors of his royal vault would soon open to

receive a kingly corpse, and a new king would mount the throne of

Prussia.

This last thought filled the heart of the king with rage and

bitterness. Frederick William would not die! he would not that his son

should reign in his stead; that this weak, riotous youth, this dreamer,

surrounded in Rheinsberg with poets and musicians, sowing flowers and

composing ballads, should take the place which Frederick the First had

filled so many years with glory and great results.

Prussia had no need of this sentimental boy, this hero of fashion, who

adorned himself like a French fop, and preferred the life of a

sybarite, in his romantic castle, to the battle-field and the

night-parade; who found the tones of his flute sweeter than the sounds

of trumpets and drums; who declared that there were not only kings by

"the grace of God, but kings by the power of genius and intellect, and

that Voltaire was as great a king--yes, greater than all the kings

anointed by the Pope!" What use has Prussia for such a sovereign? No,

Frederick William would not, could not die! His son should not reign in

Prussia, destroying what his father had built up! Never should Prussia

fall into the hands of a dreaming poet! The king was resolved,

therefore, that no one should know he was ill; no one should believe

that he had any disease but gout; this was insignificant, never fatal.

A man can live to be eighty years old with the gout; it is like a

faithful wife, who lives with us even to old age, and with whom we can

celebrate a golden wedding. The king confessed to himself that he was

once more clasped in her tender embraces, but the people and the prince

should not hope that his life was threatened.

For this reason should Sophia give a ball, and the world should see

that the queen and her daughters were gay and happy.

The queen was indeed really gay to-day; she was free. It seemed as if

the chains which bound her bad fallen apart, and the yoke to which she

had bowed her royal neck was removed. To-day she was at liberty to

raise her head proudly, like a queen, to adorn herself with royal

apparel. Away, for to-day at least, with sober robes and simple

coiffure. The king was fastened to his arm-chair, and Sophia dared once

more to make a glittering and queenly toilet. With a smile of proud

satisfaction, she arrayed herself in a silken robe, embroidered in

silver, which she had secretly ordered for the ball from her native

Hanover. Her eyes beamed with joy, as she at last opened the

silver-bound casket, and released from their imprisonment for a few

hours these costly brilliants, which for many years had not seen the

light. With a smiling glance her eyes rested upon the glittering

stones, which sparkled and flamed like falling stars, and her heart

beat high with delight. For a queen is still a woman, and Sophia

Dorothea had so often suffered the pains and sorrows of woman, that she

longed once more to experience the proud happiness of a queen. She

resolved to wear all her jewels; fastened, herself, the sparkling

diadem upon her brow, clasped upon her neck and arms the splendid

brilliants, and adorned her ears with the long pendants; then stepping

to the Venetian mirror, she examined herself critically. Yes, Sophia

had reason to be pleased; hers was a queenly toilet. She looked in the

glass, and thought on bygone days, on buried hopes and vanished dreams.

These diamonds her exalted father had given when she was betrothed to

Frederick William. This diadem had adorned her brow when she married.

The necklace her brother had sent at the birth of her first child; the

bracelet her husband had clasped upon her arm when at last, after long

waiting, and many prayers, Prince Frederick was born. Each of these

jewels was a proud memento of the past, a star of her youth. Alas, the

diamonds had retained their brilliancy; they were still stars, but all

else was vanished or dead--her youth and her dreams, her hopes and her

love! Sophia had so often trembled before her husband, that she no

longer loved him. With her, "perfect love had not cast out fear." Fear

had extinguished love. How could she love a man who had been only a

tyrant and a despot to her and to her children? who had broken their

wills, cut off their hopes, and trodden under foot, not only the queen,

but the mother? As Sophia looked at the superb bracelet, the same age

of her darling, she thought how unlike the glitter and splendor of

these gems his life had been; how dark and sad his youth; how colorless

and full of tears. She kissed the bracelet, and wafted her greeting to

her absent son. Suddenly the door opened, and the Princesses Ulrica and

Amelia entered.

The queen turned to them, and the sad expression vanished from her

features as her eyes rested upon the lovely and loving faces of her

daughters.

"Oh, how splendid you look, gracious mamma!" exclaimed the Princess

Amelia, as she danced gayly around her mother. "Heaven with all its

stars has fallen around you, but your sweet face shines out amongst

them like the sun in his glory."

"Flatterer," said the queen, "if your father heard you, he would scold

fearfully. If you compare me to the sun, how can you describe him?"

"Well, he is Phoebus, who harnesses the sun and points out his path."

"True, indeed." said the queen, "he appoints his path. Poor sun!--poor

queen!--she has not the right to send one ray where she will!"

"Who, notwithstanding, assumes the right, gracious mamma," said Amelia,

smiling, and pointing to the diadem, "for I imagine that our most royal

king and father has not commanded you to appear in those splendid

jewels."

"Commanded," said the queen, trembling; "if he could see me he would

expire with rage and scorn. You know he despises expense and ornament."

"He would immediately calculate," said Amelia, "that he could build an

entire street with this diadem, and that at least ten giants could be

purchased for the Guard with this necklace." She turned to her sister,

who had withdrawn, and said:

"Ulrica, you say nothing. Has the splendor of our mother bewildered

you? Have you lost your speech, or are you thinking whom you will

command to dance with you at the ball this evening?"

"Not so," replied the little Ulrica, "I was thinking that when I am to

be a queen, I will make it a condition with my husband that I shall be

entirely free to choose my toilet, and I will never be forbidden to

wear diamonds! When I am a queen I will wear diamonds every day; they

belong to majesty, and our royal mother was never more a queen than

to-day!"

"Listen," said Amelia, "to this proud and all-conquering little

princess, who speaks of being a queen, as if it were all arranged, and

not a doubt remained; know you that the king, our father, intends you

for a queen? Perhaps he has already selected you for a little margrave,

or some unknown and salaried prince, such as our poor sister of Bairout

has wedded."

"I would not give my hand to such a one!" said the princess, hastily.

"You would be forced to yield, if your father commanded it," said the

queen.

"No," said Ulrica, "I would rather die!"

"DIE!" said Sophia; "man sighs often for Death, but he comes not; our

sighs have not the power to bring him, and our hands are too weak to

clasp him to our hearts! No, Ulrica, you must bow your will to your

father, as we have all done--as even the prince, your brother, was

forced to do."

"Poor brother," said Amelia, "bound to a wife whom he loves not--how

wretched he must be!"

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders. "Is not that the fate of all princes and

princesses; are we not all born to be handled like a piece of goods,

and knocked down to the highest bidder? I, for my part, will sell

myself as dearly as possible; and, as I cannot be a happy shepherdess,

I will be a powerful queen."

"And I," said Amelia, "would rather wed the poorest and most obscure

man, if I loved him, than the richest and greatest king's son, to whom

I was indifferent."

"Foolish children," said the queen, "it is well for you that your

father does not hear you; he would crush you in his rage, and even

to-day he would choose a king for you, Amelia; and for you, little

Ulrica, he would seek a small margrave! Hark, ladies! I hear the voice

of the major domo; he comes to announce that the guests are assembled.

Put on a cheerful countenance. The king commands us to be joyous and

merry! but remember that Frederick has his spies everywhere. When you

speak with Pollnitz, never forget that he repeats every word to your

father; be friendly with him; and above all things when he leads the

conversation to the prince royal, speak of him with the most

unembarrassed indifference; show as little interest and love for him as

possible, and rather ridicule his romantic life in Rheinsberg. That is

the way to the heart of the king; and now, my daughters, come."

At this moment the grand chamberlain, Pollnitz, threw open the doors

and announced that the company was assembled. The queen and princesses

followed the master of ceremonies through the room, giving here and

there a smile or a gracious word, which seemed a shower of gold to the

obsequious, admiring crowd of courtiers. Pride swelled the heart of

Sophia, as she stepped, to the sound of soft music, into the throne

saloon, and saw all those cavaliers, covered with stars and orders--all

those beautiful and richly-dressed women bowing humbly before her. She

knew that her will was more powerful than the will of all assembled

there; that her smiles were more dearly prized than those of the

most-beloved bride; that her glance gave warmth and gladness like the

sun. While all bowed before her, there was no one to whom she must bend

the knee. The king was not near to-night; she was not bound by his

presence and his rude violence. To-night she was no trembling,

subjected wife, but a proud queen; while Frederick was a poor, gouty,

trembling, teeth-gnashing man--nothing more.

CHAPTER II.

FREDERICK WILLIAM I.

Mirth and gayety reigned in one wing of the palace, while in the other,

and that occupied by the king himself, all was silent and solitary; in

one might be heard joyous strains of music, in the other no sound

reached the air but a monotonous hammering, which seemed to come

immediately from the room of the king.

Frederick William, when in health, had accustomed himself to use his

crutch as a rod of correction; he would shower down his blows, careless

whether they fell on the backs of his lacqueys, his ministers of State,

or his wife. When ill, he was contented to vent his wrath upon more

senseless objects, and to flourish a hammer instead of his crutch.

Under the influence of the gout, this proud and haughty monarch became

an humble carpenter; when chained to one spot by his disease, and

unable to direct the affairs of State, he attempted to banish thought

and suffering, by working with his tools. Often in passing near the

palace at a late hour of the night, you might hear the heavy blows of a

hammer, and consider them a bulletin of the king's health. If he worked

at night, the good people of Berlin knew their king to be sleepless and

suffering, and that it would be dangerous to meet him in his walk on

the following day, for some thoughtless word, or careless look, or even

the cut of a coat, would bring down on the offender a stinging blow or

a severe reprimand. Only a few days had passed since the king had

caused the arrest of two young ladies, and sent them to the fortress of

Spandau, because, in walking through the park at Schonhausen, he

overheard them declare the royal garden to be "charmant! charmant!" One

French word was sufficient to condemn these young girls in the eyes of

the king; and it was only after long pleading that they were released

from confinement. The men were fearful of being seized by the king, and

held as recruits for some regiment; and the youths trembled if they

were caught lounging about the streets. As soon, therefore, as the king

left the proud castle of his ancestors, all who could fled from the

streets into some house or by-way, that they might avoid him.

But now they had nothing to fear. His queen dared to wear her jewels;

his subjects walked unmolested through the streets, for the king was

suffering, chained to his chair, and occupying himself with his tools.

This employment had a beneficial effect: it not only caused the king to

forgot his sufferings, but was often the means of relief. The constant

and rapid motion of his hands and arms imparted a salutary warmth to

his whole body, excited a gentle perspiration, which quieted his

nervous system, and soothed him in some of his most fearful attacks.

To-day the king was once more freed from his enemy, the gout; this evil

spirit had been exorcised by honest labor, and its victim could hope

for a few painless hours.

The king raised himself from his chair, and with a loud cry of delight

extended his arms, as if he would gladly embrace the universe. He

commanded the servant, who was waiting in the adjoining room, to call

together the gentlemen who composed the Tobacco Club, and to arrange

every thing for a meeting of that august body.

"But those gentlemen are at the queen's ball," said the astonished

servant.

"Go there for them, then," said the king; "happily there are no dancers

among them; their limbs are stiff, and the ladies would be alarmed at

their capers if they attempted to dance. Bring them quickly. Pollnitz

must come, and Eckert, and Baron von Goltz, and Hacke, the Duke of

Holstein, and General Schwerin. Quick, quick! In ten minutes they must

all be here, but let no one know why he is sent for. Whisper to each

one that he must come to me, and that he must tell no one where he is

going. I will not have the queen's ball disturbed. Quick, now, and if

these gentlemen are not all here in ten minutes, I will give a ball

upon your back, and your own howls will be the most appropriate music."

This was a threat which lent wings to the feet of the servant, who flew

like a whirlwind through the halls, ordered, with breathless haste, two

servants to carry the tobacco, the pipes, and the beer-mugs into the

king's chamber, and then hurried to the other wing of the palace, where

the ball of the queen was held.

Fortune favored the poor servant. In ten minutes the six gentlemen

stood in the king's ante-room, asking each other, with pale faces, what

could be the occasion of this singular and unexpected summons.

The servant shrugged his shoulders, and silently entered the king's

room. His majesty, dressed in the full uniform of his beloved Guard,

sat at the round table, on which the pipes, and the mugs, filled with

foaming beer, were already placed. He had condescended to fill a pipe

with his own hands, and was on the point of lighting it at the smoking

tallow candle which stood near him.

"Sire," said the servant, "the gentlemen are waiting in the next room."

"Do they know why I have sent for them?" said the king, blowing a cloud

of smoke from his mouth.

"Your majesty forbade me to tell them."

"Well, go now, and tell them I am more furiously angry to-day than you

have ever seen me; that I am standing by the door with my crutch, and I

command them to come singly into my presence."

The servant hurried out to the gentlemen, who, as the door was opened,

perceived the king standing in a threatening attitude near the door,

with his crutch raised in his hand.

"What is the matter? Why is the king so furious? What orders do you

bring us from his majesty?" asked the gentlemen anxiously and hurriedly.

The servant assumed a terrified expression, and said:

"His majesty is outrageous to-day. Woe unto him over whom the cloud

bursts. He commanded me to say that each of you must enter the room

alone. Go now, for Heaven's sake, and do not keep the king waiting!"

The gentlemen glanced into each other's pale and hesitating

countenances. They had all seen the threatening appearance of the king,

as he stood by the door with his raised crutch, and no one wished to be

the first to pass under the yoke.

"Your grace has the precedence," said the grand chamberlain, bowing to

the Duke of Holstein.

"No," he replied, "you are well aware his majesty does not regard

etiquette, and would be most indignant if we paid any attention to it.

Go first yourself, my dear friend."

"Not I, your grace, I would not dare to take precedence of you all. If

you decline the honor, it is due to General Schwerin. He should lead on

the battle."

"There is no question of a battle," said General Schwerin, "but a most

probable beating, and Baron von Pollnitz understands that better than I

do."

"Gentlemen," said the servant, "his majesty will become impatient, and

then woe unto all of us."

"But, my God," said Count von Goltz, "who will dare go forward?"

"I will," said Councillor Eckert; "I owe every thing to his majesty,

therefore I will place my back or even my life at his service."

He approached the door with a firm step, and opened it quickly.

The others saw the flashing eyes of the king, as he raised his stick

still higher. They saw Eckert enter, with his head bowed down and then

the door was closed, and nothing more was heard.

"Against which of us is the anger of the king directed?" faltered

Pollnitz.

"Against one and all," said the servant, with a most malicious

expression.

"Who will go now?" the gentlemen asked each other, and, after a long

struggle, the grand chamberlain, Von Pollnitz, concluded to take the

bitter step. Once more, as the door opened, the king was seen waiting,

crutch in hand, but the door closed, and nothing more was seen. Four

times was this scene repeated; four times was the king seen in this

threatening attitude. But as General Schwerin, the last of the six

gentlemen, entered the room, the king no longer stood near the door,

but lay in his armchair, laughing until the tears stood in his eyes,

and Baron von Pollnitz stood before him, giving a most humorous account

of the scene which had just taken place in the ante-room, imitating the

voices of the different gentlemen, and relating their conversation.

"You all believed in my rage," said the king, almost breathless with

laughing. "The joke succeeded to perfection. Yours, also, Schwerin. Do

you at last know what it is to be afraid, you who never experienced the

feeling on the field of battle?"

"Yes, sire, a shot is a small thing in comparison with the flashing of

your eye. When the cannon thunders my heart is joyful, but it is very

heavy under the thunder of your voice. I do not fear death, but I do

fear the anger and displeasure of my sovereign."

"Oh, you are a brave fellow," said the king, warmly giving the general

his hand. "And now, gentlemen, away with all constraint and etiquette.

We will suppose the king to be at the ball. I am only your companion,

Frederick William, and will now proceed to the opening of the Tobacco

Club."

He once more lighted his pipe, and threw himself into one of the

chairs, which were placed round the table; the other gentlemen followed

his example, and the Tobacco Club was now in session.

CHAPTER III.

THE TOBACCO CLUB.

There was a short interval of silence. Each one busied himself with

pipe and tobacco. The dense clouds of smoke which rolled from the lips

of all had soon enveloped the room with a veil of bluish vapor, from

the midst of which the tallow candle emitted a faint, sickly light.

The king ordered the man in waiting to light several additional

candles. "To-day our Tobacco Club must also present a festive

appearance, that the contrast between it and the ball may not be too

great. Tell me, Pollnitz, how are matters progressing over there? Is

the assemblage a handsome one? Are they enjoying themselves? Is the

queen gay? and the princesses, are they dancing merrily?"

"Sire," said Pollnitz, "a more magnificent festival than to-day's I

have never witnessed. Her majesty was never more beautiful, more

radiant, or gayer than today. She shone like a sun in the midst of the

handsomely dressed and adorned ladies of the court."

"Indeed! she was then magnificently attired?" said the king, and his

countenance darkened.

"Sire, I had no idea the queen possessed so princely a treasure in

jewels."

"She has put on her jewels, then, has she? It seems they are taking

advantage of my absence. They are merry and of good cheer, while I am

writhing on a bed of pain," exclaimed the king, who, in his easily

excited irritability, never once remembered that he himself had

appointed this festival, and had demanded of his wife that she should

lay aside care, and be cheerful and happy.

"Happily, however, your majesty is not ill, and not on a bed of pain.

The queen has, therefore, good reason to be happy."

The king made no reply, but raised his mug to his lips, and took a long

draught of beer, and let fall its lid with an angry movement.

"I should not be surprised if Frederick had clandestinely come over to

this ball," murmured the king. "They dare any thing when not

apprehensive of my taking them by surprise."

"But taking by surprise is your majesty's forte," exclaimed Count

Hacke, endeavoring to give the conversation another direction. "Never

before in my life did I feel my heart beat as it did when I crossed the

threshold of this chamber to-day."

The king, who was easily soothed, laughed heartily. "And never before

did I see such pale faces as yours. Really, if the gout had not made my

fingers so stiff and unwieldy, I would paint you a picture of this

scene that would make a magnificent counterpart to my representation of

the Tobacco Club, and I would call it 'The Six Tailor Apprentices who

are afraid of Blue Monday.' See! we will now devote ourselves to poetry

and the arts, and our learned and fantastic son will soon have no

advantage over us whatever. If he plays the flute, we paint. While he

writes sentimental, we will write satirical poems; and while he sings

to sun, moon, and stars, we will do as the gods, and, like Jupiter,

envelop ourselves in a cloud. Let it be well understood, however, not

for the purpose of deluding a Semele or any other woman, at all times,

and in all circumstances, we have been true to our wives, and in this

particular the prince royal might well take his father as an example."

"Sire, he could do that in all things," exclaimed Count von Goltz,

blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.

"He thinks at some future day to govern the kingdom with his

book-learning and his poems," said the king, laughing. "Instead of

occupying himself with useful things, drilling recruits, drawing plans,

and studying the art of war, he devotes his time to the acquirement of

useless and superficial knowledge, which benefits no one, and is most

injurious to himself. A dreaming scholar can never be a good king; and

he who, instead of sword and sceptre, wields the pen and fiddle-bow,

will never be a good general."

"Nevertheless, no regiment made a finer appearance, or was better

drilled, at the last review, than that of the prince royal," said the

Duke of Holstein.

The king cast a distrustful look at him, and muttered a few words which

no one understood. He was never pleased to hear any defence of the

prince royal, and suspected every one who praised him.

"Your majesty forgets that this is a sitting of the Tobacco Club and

not of the State Council," said Pollnitz, in a fawning voice. "If your

majesty designed to be angry, it was not necessary to light the pipes

and fill the beer-mugs; for while you are neither smoking nor drinking,

the pipe goes out, and the beer becomes stale."

"True," replied the king, and raising his glass he continued: "I drink

this to the health of him who first overcame his timid heart and dared

to enter my chamber. Who was it? I have forgotten."

"It was the privy councillor Von Eckert, sire," said Count Hacke, with

an ironical smile. Eckert bowed.

"He entered the chamber as if going to battle," exclaimed Von Pollnitz,

laughing. "In the spirit he took leave of all the fine breweries, and

artfully constructed never-smoking chimneys which he had built; he also

took leave of the city exchanges, which he had not yet provided with

royal commissioners, destined to despoil them of their riches; he bade

adieu to his decoration and to his money-bags, and exclaiming, 'To the

king I owe all that I am, it is therefore but proper that my back as

well as my life should be at his service,' marched courageously into

the royal presence."

"Did he really do that? Did he say that?" exclaimed the king. "Eckert,

I am pleased with you for that, and will reward you. It is true that I

have elevated you from a lowly position; that I have made a gentleman

of the chimney-sweep; but gratitude is a rare virtue, men seldom

remember the benefits they have received; your doing so, is an evidence

that you have a noble heart, one which I know how to appreciate. The

new house which I am building in Jager Street shall be yours; and I

will not present you with the naked walls, but it shall be handsomely

furnished and fitted up at my expense."

"Your majesty is the most gracious, the best of monarchs!" exclaimed

Eckert, hastening to the king and pressing his hand to his lips. "Yes,

your majesty is right in saying that you have elevated me from the

dust, but my heart, at least, was always pure, and I will endeavor to

preserve it so. You have rescued me from the scum of the people. As the

ancient Romans gave freedom to those slaves who had rendered themselves

worthy of it by good and noble deeds, so has my king also delivered me

from the bondage of poverty and lowliness, and given me freedom, and I

also will strive to render myself worthy of this great boon by good and

noble actions."

"And Berlin offers you the best opportunities of doing so. There are

still many smoking chimneys and indifferent beer breweries. Privy

Councillor Von Eckert can, therefore, still execute many glorious deeds

before he is gathered to his forefathers," exclaimed Von Pollnitz.

All were amused at this, and the king himself could not refrain from

smiling. Von Eckert's countenance had become pale and lowering, and

casting an angry look at Von Pollnitz, he said, with a forced laugh:

"Really, your wit to-day is dazzling, and I am so charmed with your

pleasantries, that should your wine merchant refuse to supply you with

any more wine until your old accounts have been settled, I shall be

perfectly willing to send you a few bottles from my own cellar, that

your Grace may be able to drink my health."

"That I will gladly do," said Pollnitz, affably. "Yes, I will drink to

your long and lasting health, for the longer you live the more time

your ancestors will have to increase and to multiply themselves. And,

as it seems that you are not destined to become the father of a coming

generation, you should, at least, endeavor to become the progenitor of

your ancestors and the father of your fathers. Ancestors are born to

you as children are to others, and, if I am not mistaken, you are

already the possessor of three. For a gentleman of wealth and quality,

this is, however, too few. I will, therefore, drink to your health,

that you may still be able to create many ancestors. And I propose to

your majesty to give him an ancestor for every chimney which he frees

from smoke."

"Silence, Pollnitz!" exclaimed the king, laughing. "No more of this

raillery. Listen to what I have to say. I have given Eckert the new

house, and as I have invested him with a title of nobility, it is but

proper that a noble coat-of-arms should be placed over his door.

Gentlemen, let us consider what the escutcheon of Eckert shall be. Each

of you, in his turn, shall give me his opinion. You, duke, commence."

With grave and sober mien the gentlemen began to confer with each other

in regard to Von Eckert's escutcheon; and each one considering the

favor in which the former stood with the king, took pains to propose

the most magnificent coat-of-arms imaginable. But the king was not

pleased with the grave and learned devices which were proposed. He

disliked giving the newly-made baron a coat-of-arms worthy of any house

of old and established nobility, which would have placed him on an

equality with the oldest counts and barons of the kingdom.

"When I build a house," said the king, "I wish every one, to see that

it is a new one; I therefore give it a nice white coat of paint, and

not an old graystone color to make it look like a robber castle. Eckert

should, therefore, have a fresh touch of paint for his new dignity, a

spick and span new coat-of-arms."

"I am entirely of your majesty's opinion," exclaimed Von Pollnitz

solemnly; "and as every noble family bears on its coat-of-arms some

emblem and reminiscence of the deeds and events through which it became

great, so should also the escutcheon of the noble house of Eckert

contain some such reminiscence. I propose to quarter this shield. The

first field shall show on a silver ground a black chimney, in which we

will also have indicated the Prussian colors. The second field is blue,

with a golden vat in the centre, having reference to Eckert's great

ability as a beer-brewer. The third field is green, with a golden

pheasant in the middle, suggestive of Eckert's earlier occupation as

gamekeeper in Brunswick; and the fourth field shows on a red ground a

cock and a knife, a reminiscence of the good old times when Privy

Councillor Von Eckert fed and dressed fowls in Bairout."

A peal of laughter from the entire club rewarded Von Pollnitz for his

proposition. The king was also so well pleased, that he, in all

gravity, determined to accept it, and to have a coat-of-arms with the

above designated emblems adjusted over the door of the new house in

Jager Street.

The merriment of the gentlemen of the Tobacco Club was now becoming

energetic, and jests and jokes were contributed by all. The grand

chamberlain, Von Pollnitz, was, however, the gayest of the gay. And if

the pleasantries which bubbled from his lips like water from a

fountain, at any time threatened to flag, a glance at the pale face of

Von Eckert, who fairly trembled with suppressed rage, was sufficient to

renew his merriment.

While the king was conversing with Von Eckert on the subject of his new

house, Pollnitz turned to his neighbor and asked if he had not made

ample amends for his awkwardness in the first instance.

"By my thoughtless repetition of that hypocritical man's words, I

procured him the new house, but I have also given him a coat-of-arms;

and I wager the privy councillor would willingly relinquish the former,

if he could thereby get rid of the latter."

"Pollnitz, why are you looking so grave?" asked the king at this

moment. "I wager you are in a bad humor, because the handsome house in

Jager Street was not given to you."

"By no means, your majesty; as handsome as the house is, it would not

suit me at all."

"Ah, yes, you are right; it would be much too large a one for you!"

said Frederick William, laughing.

"No, your majesty, it would be much too small for me. When a cavalier

of my quality once determines to build a house, it should be arranged

in accordance with his rank and standing, and that costs a great deal

of money, much more than I ever possessed. It is true that my father

left me a fortune of about two hundred thousand dollars, but what is

such a trifle to a nobleman? It was not enough for a decent support,

and it was too much to go begging on. I calculated how long this sum

might be made to last, and finding that, with considerable economy, it

would perhaps do for four years, I lived like a noble and generous

cavalier for that time; and during that period I was fortunate enough

to have the most devoted friends and the truest sweethearts, who never

deserted me until the last dollar of my fortune was expended!"

"Do I understand you to say that you expended two hundred thousand

dollars in four years?" asked the king.

"Yes, your majesty; and I assure you that I was obliged to practise the

most, rigorous economy."

Frederick William regarded him with surprise, almost with admiration.

To the king there was something in this man's nature which was

imposing. It was perhaps the great contrast between the unlimited

extravagance of the baron and his own frugality, which exerted so great

an influence on the king, excited his astonishment, and enlisted his

admiration in behalf of this ready, witty, and ever-merry courtier.

"An income of fifty thousand dollars is, therefore, not sufficient for

a decent support?" asked the king.

"Your majesty, if one attempted to live in a style befitting a

nobleman, on that sum, he might die of hunger."

"Ah, explain that. What sum would you consider necessary to enable you

to live in a style befitting a nobleman?"

Pollnitz remained lost in thought for a moment, and then replied:

"You majesty, in order to live somewhat respectably, I should require

four hundred thousand dollars yearly."

"That is not true, not possible!" exclaimed the king.

"That is so very possible, sire, that I hardly know whether it would

suffice or not."

"Gentlemen, do you believe that?" asked the king.

"I, for my part, have not the fourth part of this income," said the

Duke of Holstein, smiling.

"I not the tenth!" said Count Von der Goltz.

"And I not the twentieth!" exclaimed General Von Schwerin and Count

Hacke at the same time.

"And yet," said the king, "you all live as respected cavaliers, as

esteemed gentlemen of my court. Let us hear how Pollnitz would manage

to spend so much money. Quick, Jochen, quick, give us a sheet of paper

and a pencil."

The valet hastily executed this commission, and handed the king paper

and pencil.

"Fill the glasses, Jochen," ordered the king, "and then seat yourself

at the foot of the table, and pay attention to what Von Pollnitz is

about to explain. It is worth the trouble to learn how an income of

four hundred thousand dollars can be spent in a respectable manner. You

shall dictate, and I will be your secretary. Woe to you, however, if

you do not keep your word, if you expend less! For every thousand which

you fail to account for, you shall drink ten glasses of beer, and smoke

a pipe of the strong Havana tobacco recently sent me by the stadtholder

of Holland."

"But what shall I receive for every thousand which I expend over and

above that sum?" asked Von Pollnitz, laughing.

"Oh, it is impossible that a nobleman should need more, that is,

provided he does not expend it in a foolish manner, like a madman."

"And if, in order to live in a style befitting a nobleman, I should

nevertheless need more, what am I to receive for every thousand?"

"Well, then, for every thousand, I will pay a hundred of your oldest

debts," said the king. "But commence. And you, gentlemen, drink and

smoke, and pay attention to what he has to say."

CHAPTER IV.

AIR-CASTLES.

"I will begin," said Pollnitz. "First of all, I shall need a

respectable house, to receive my guests in, to exhibit my collections,

and entertain my friends; to pursue my studies, without being disturbed

by the slightest noise; a house, in which my wife must have her

separate apartments, and as I shall wish to have my friends with me,

every now and then, to smoke, my wife's reception-rooms must be

entirely separated from mine."

"But," exclaimed the king, "your wife will certainly allow you to smoke

in her rooms!"

"And if she permitted it, your majesty, I would not do so; it becomes

not a cavalier to smoke in a lady's room."

The king reddened a little, and carried the mug to his lips, to hide

his embarrassment; he remembered how often he had smoked in the queen's

rooms, notwithstanding her sighs.

Pollnitz continued quietly: "I must then have several different

reception-rooms, and as my wife and myself will frequently be at

variance with each other, two different and widely-separated staircases

will be necessary, that we may not meet, unless we wish it!"

"Oh! you mean to lead a wretched life with your wife; to quarrel with

her every now and then, do you?"

"No, sire, we will never quarrel; it ill becomes a cavalier to have a

contest with his wife."

The king reddened again, this time from anger. This exposition of a

cavalier began to offend him; it seemed to be a satire upon himself;

for unhappily the king not only smoked in the queen's rooms, but the

world knew that his wife and children were often the objects of his

violent temper, and that the queen had more than once been terribly

frightened by his thundering reproaches and unbearable threats.

"Your highness sees that my house must be large, and as it is so, a

host of servants and a large income will be necessary. But of this

hereafter. Let us speak of my houses, for it is easily understood that

I must have a country residence."

"Yes, that is a reasonable demand," said the king, in adding the

country house to his list.

"But as I do not go to the country to live as I do in the city, but to

enjoy the beauties of nature and scenery, I must have a garden, with

vineyards, and beautiful walks, and, for their cultivation, many

servants. And, as I cannot ask my friends to visit me simply to pluck

my flowers, and eat my fruits, I must procure for them other and rarer

pleasures. I must have a park for hunting, and a lake for fishing."

"Yes, that is well argued and true," said the king, noting the park and

the lake on his paper.

"Now we are coming to the most important points--the kitchen and

wine-cellar. On these two I must bestow most particular care. It would

be most unworthy a cavalier to present such dishes to his friends as

they can enjoy every day at home. No, if I invite my friends, they must

be certain of having such luxuries as they cannot procure

elsewhere--such rare and costly viands as will recall the wonders of

fairy land!"

"I am quite of your opinion," cried the king, and his face brightened

at the thought of the delightful and costly dishes that the rich

Pollnitz would set before his friends. "Listen: from time to time you

can prepare for me the delightful bacon-pie that I once tasted at

Grumbkou's. Oh, that was really splendid, and reminded one, as you say,

of the wonders of fairy land! My cook obtained the receipt immediately;

but what do you think? three bottles of champagne and three bottles of

burgundy were necessary to stew the meat. I had to give up the

intention of having such a pie, but I told Grumbkou that when I felt

like eating such an expensive dish, I would be his guest."

"I will obey your commands, your highness," said Pollnitz, earnestly,

and bowing low to the king. "Let us continue to furnish my house; after

that we will speak of the pie. As hunting is decided upon, we must now

consider the horses, for I cannot ask my friends to hunt on foot, or

walk to the lake. I must have beautiful and noble steeds, and as horses

and carriages do not take care of themselves, I must have a number of

servants to attend to them."

"That is true," said the king, adding the carriages and horses to his

list. "That is true; but I find that you think a great deal of your

friends and very little of yourself. Your whole demand, so far, is for

the benefit of your friends."

"Sire, hospitality is one of the noblest virtues of a cavalier, for

which one can never do too much, but easily too little."

The king frowned and looked threateningly before him; the rest of the

club looked at Pollnitz with increasing astonishment, surprised at his

daring to show the king in this manner his faults and weaknesses.

Pollnitz alone remained gay and unembarrassed. "Now, as I have attended

sufficiently to the pleasure and comfort of my friends, it is time that

I should think a little of myself. I therefore beg your highness to

name the sum you deem necessary for my yearly expenses for charities

and presents for my sweetheart."

"Your wife is your sweetheart. You intend to be a very tender husband,

notwithstanding the two staircases."

"Sire, it would not become a cavalier to possess a wife and sweetheart

in the same person. Your wife represents your family, your sweetheart

amuses you. You give your wife name and rank, your sweetheart your love

and whole heart. A true cavalier does not love his wife, but he demands

that the world shall honor her as the lady that bears his name."

"Pollnitz, Pollnitz," said the king, shaking his hand threateningly at

him, "take care that I never see your cavalier in my house, and no one

that is like him; I would have no pity with him, but crush him with my

kingly anger!"

Pollnitz was frightened, and covered himself in a cloud of smoke, that

the king might not see his perplexity.

"Continue," said Frederick William, after a short pause. "I have set

aside a certain amount for every single article you have mentioned, but

I truly hope you have concluded; and that the demon that dwells in you,

and masters you, will make no further suggestions to your luxurious and

insane fancies."

"Yes, your highness; and I beg you will calculate the sum total

necessary for these different articles."

The king calculated, his guests smoked and drank in silence, and

Pollnitz listened attentively to the sound of voices, and noise of

horses in the court.

The king suddenly uttered an oath, and brought his fist heavily down on

the paper. "As truly as God lives, Pollnitz is right! Four hundred

thousand dollars are not sufficient to support a cavalier of his

pretensions. The sum here amounts to four hundred and fifty thousand

dollars."

"Your highness confesses that I have demanded nothing superfluous or

exaggerated?"

"Yes, I confess it."

"Consequently, your highness will be kind enough to pay me five

thousand dollars."

"The devil! How can I understand that?"

"Your majesty forgets that you promised me one hundred dollars for

every thousand over and above the sum of four hundred thousand."

"Did I say that?" said the king; and as all present confirmed it, he

laughed aloud, saying, "I see that none of you understand Pollnitz.

That was not my meaning. I did not say I would pay Pollnitz the gold;

but for every thousand above his four hundred thousand I would pay a

hundred of his oldest debts, and that is quite a different affair. You

know well, if I gave him the gold, his creditors would never receive a

cent of it. But what I have promised I will do; bring me, to-morrow, a

list of your oldest debts, and I will pay five thousand dollars upon

them."

"Your highness, my account is not yet finished. I have only mentioned

the most pressing and necessary articles, and much has been forgotten.

I must have a forester to chase the poachers from my park, and a night

watch to guard my country house, to feed the fish in my pond, to strike

upon the water in order to silence the frogs, that my sleep and that of

my friends may not be disturbed."

"Enough, enough of your castles in the air, fool that you are!" cried

the king, half angry, half amused. "Seek another sovereign, who is rich

enough to provide for your follies."

"Sire," said Pollnitz, "I will seek nothing elsewhere. I am too happy

to have found so noble and gracious a monarch. I only wished to prove

to your majesty, and these gentlemen that do me the honor to consider

me a spendthrift, that a great fortune can be easily spent without

extravagance and folly, and you will now understand that I have given a

worthy proof of economy in fixing my yearly income at four hundred

thousand dollars, when I could easily dispose of that sum in six

months."

The king laughed, and, raising the beer-pot aloft, commanded the

gentlemen to drink to the health of the miser Pollnitz.

The beer-pots were raised, and were jingling merrily, when suddenly it

seemed as if an electric shock had struck them all simultaneously--all

with the exception of the king. The six cavaliers placed their

beer-pots upon the table, and, rising with breathless haste from their

chairs, bowed lowly and humbly.

CHAPTER V.

FATHER AND SON.

The king, in speechless amazement, sank back in his chair. He could not

yet conceive what spell had taken hold of these gentlemen, that made

them rise from their seats in spite of the rules of the Tobacco Club.

The king did not see that, behind him, the door had opened, and, in the

midst of the smoke that filled the whole room, a young man was visible,

whose appearance had produced this astounding impression upon the six

cavaliers. And, certainly, there was something exalted and imposing in

this youth. A wondrous combination of beauty, nobility of soul, youth,

royalty, and melancholy was expressed in this face, whose sharp and

marked lines spoke of severe pain and bitter experience, while so fresh

and youthful a smile played upon the soft red lip, you could but

suppose the heart young, confiding, and impressible. But the eyes were

in wonderful contrast to these beautiful lips; they shone like great,

mysterious, unfathomable stars--one moment sparkling with youthful

superciliousness, the next with the firm, steady, piercing glance of an

observing sage. The lofty, somewhat retreating forehead, and the

straight, finely-pointed nose, formed a profile indicating commanding

elevation of character. And the soul imprisoned behind these temples

was powerfully agitated, seeking ever for freedom of thought and

expression. It was the eye, the head of a hero; and, had his form

corresponded with the giant strength of his glance, he would have been

a Titan, and might have crushed the world like a toy in his hand. But

his slender, symmetrical, and graceful form was more weak than

powerful, more maidenly than heroic.

You felt, however, that this head might lend strength to the body, and

if the Titan could not overcome by physical strength, he could rule and

conquer by the commanding power of his genius.[1]

[1] A French traveller, by the name of Birre, who went from Paris to

Berlin to see Frederick, describes him in this manner: Buste admirable

el vraiment royal, mais pauvre et miserable pedestal. Sa tete et sa

poitrine sont au dessous des eloges, le train d'en bas au dessous de la

critique.--(See Thiebault.)

This was the unexpected apparition that shocked the gentlemen of the

Tobacco Club, and forced them hastily from their seats! The king sat

speechless and amazed in his chair, while the youth stood close behind

him.

"Allow me to wish your majesty good-evening," said the prince, with his

full, clear-ringing voice.

The king was greatly agitated, and the blood rushed to his face.

"Fritz!" said he, in a light tone. "Fritz!" repeated he more sternly,

and already the sound of a coming storm was perceptible in his voice.

"I come from Ruppin," said the prince, in a quiet, kindly voice, "where

I was reviewing my regiment, and I beg pardon for my unexpected

appearance."

The king made no reply; his mistrust was scornfully exhibited. He

thought that the queen believed him to be suffering and confined to his

room. He did not doubt for a moment that she had sent for the prince,

and Frederick was there to see if the life of the king was not in

danger; if the throne of Prussia would not soon be empty, and ready for

its successor.

These dark suspicions excited the king's ire, and filled his heart with

bitter distrust. With a hasty movement he dashed back the hand of the

prince royal, and arose from his chair. His scornful eye took in at a

glance the whole circle, still standing in awe-struck silence around

the table.

"Why have you arisen from your chairs?" cried the king, with trembling

voice. "How dare you arise contrary to my command, and thus set

yourselves in opposition to my kingly power? Do you no longer know the

laws of the Tobacco Club? Do you not know that these laws positively

forbid you to arise from your seats to greet any one? You are all

silent, miserable cowards that you are, who do not attempt to defend

yourselves, who go always with wind and tide, and deceive and flatter

in every direction. Answer me, Pollnitz, did you not know the law of

the Tobacco Club, forbidding you to arise from your seat?"

"I know it, sire, but thought I might be allowed to make an exception

of the prince royal."

"So thought we all," said General Schwerin, in a steady voice.

The king struck with doubled fist on the table, and the pitchers and

beer-mugs trembled.

"You thought that," said the king, "and yet knew that no exception was

ever made for me! But certainly the prince royal is of more consequence

than the king. The prince royal is the future sovereign, the rising

sun! What the king was not able to give, the prince royal may bestow.

From the king there is nothing left to hope, nothing to fear; for this

reason you turn to the prince royal; for this reason you ridicule the

laws of the father to flatter the son. The son is a fine French

cavalier, who loves ornament and courtesy, to whom the question of

etiquette is important. You stand up also when the prince royal enters,

although you know in this room all are equal, and here you have often

forgotten that I am king. Yes, the king can be forgotten--the prince

royal never; he may soon be king!"

"God grant your majesty a long and happy life," said the prince royal.

During this passionate speech of the king, he had stood silent and

immovable behind his chair.

"Who spoke to you? Who told you to speak until you were questioned?"

said the king, whose whole form trembled with rage. "You, the slave of

etiquette, should know that no man speaks to the king until he is

spoken to. Truly you think the king does not understand etiquette. He

is an old-fashioned man, and knows not how a true cavalier should

conduct himself. Now, Pollnitz, you see there a cavalier after your own

heart, a veritable model. Ah, you thought perhaps I did not see the

face lurking behind your picture; you suppose I did not recognize the

cavalier you painted in such glowing colors, in order to prove that he

must have four hundred thousand dollars yearly or be forced to make

debts. Patience! patience! my eyes are at last opened! Woe, woe to you

all when I see that you dare brave me in order to please the prince

royal! I will prove to you that I yet live, and am your master. The

Tobacco Club is closed, and you may all go to the devil!"

"As I don't know the way there, will your majesty allow me to return to

Rheinsberg? I now take my leave," said the prince royal, bowing

respectfully to the king.

Frederick William turned his head, and said but one word--"Go!"

The prince bowed again; then, turning to the cavaliers, he said:

"Good-evening, gentlemen. I sincerely regret to have been the cause of

the king's anger. Against you this displeasure is however just, for a

command of the king should never be disobeyed, not even with a kind and

magnanimous intent."

The prince had with these words put himself beyond the reach of the

king's rage, and at the same time done justice to all: to the king in

acknowledging the justice of his anger; to the cavaliers in praising

their good intentions. He was evidently master of the situation.

With a firm, steady tread he left the room, while the king, in spite of

his anger, could not help feeling that he had again failed in kindness

to the prince royal. But this consciousness only made him the more

passionate. He muttered a deep curse, and looked threateningly at the

pale, trembling cavaliers.

"Hypocrites and eye-servants are you all," muttered he, as he slowly

passed by them. "Give me your arm, Hacke, and lead me into the other

room. I cannot look at these men any longer."

Count Hacke rushed forward, and, leaning on his arm, the king tottered

into the adjoining room.

When the door closed behind them, the cavaliers seemed to awaken from

their torpidity. They raised their heads, and looked at one another

with a half-confused, half-angry gaze. They had been scolded like

children, and felt that they were men. Their honor had received a

sensitive wound, but their awe of the king kept them from demanding

satisfaction.

When the count returned to order the gentlemen in the king's name to

leave the palace, they did not have the courage to obey this command,

but sent the count as their ambassador to the king to ask in the

humblest manner for forgiveness and pardon, and to assure him that

their behavior to the prince royal was but the consequence of

involuntary thoughtlessness.

The count, after much trembling, left the room to deliver this message

to the king; the cavaliers waited in anxious silence for his return. At

length the door opened, and the count appeared.

"Well, what says the king? Has he forgiven us? Will he take us into his

favor again? Is he convinced that we are his true, humble, and obedient

servants?"

All these questions the count answered by a slight motion of the hand.

It was a moment of anxious expectation; all were eagerly looking at the

count, who was to pronounce for them the words of forgiveness or

condemnation.

"Gentlemen," at length said the count, and his voice sounded to the

trembling courtiers hollow and awful as that of an angel of death,

"gentlemen, the king says if you do not leave here at once, he will

easily find means to compel you to do so!"

This was a menace that gave strength to the trembling limbs of the

courtiers. Silently, with sad, troubled looks, they hastened away, and

not until the great portals of the palace had closed upon them did they

feel safe from the fear of imprisonment, and the king's crutch.

The king had not yet subdued his anger. He thirsted for another victim.

The servants wisely remained at a distance beyond the reach of the

royal crutch; the king's ungovernable anger had even banished Count

Hacke from the room.

The king was alone, entirely alone in this dark, empty room, and its

comfortless silence filled him with anxiety. He sank into his

arm-chair, and looked with a sad glance around this large room, which,

because of his parsimony, was but badly lighted with four tallow

candles. Nothing broke the silence but from time to time the gay music

of the dance, which was heard from the other wing of the castle. Mirth

still reigned in the saloons of the queen. The king sighed; his heart

was filled with melancholy and rage. The queen was gay, while her

husband suffered. The court was joyful, while he sat alone and

neglected, gnashing his teeth in this dark and joyless room. And yet he

was the king, the all-powerful ruler of millions of subjects, who

trembled before him, and yet not one of them loved him.

All eyes were fixed upon the rising sun, upon Frederick, so unlike his

father, and so little the son of his father's heart. As the king

thought of this, deep grief and a foreboding melancholy overcame him.

In the anguish of his heart he turned to God and prayed. He silenced

the voice of self-accusation and remorse, now whispering in his breast,

by prayer.

The king prayed. Exhausted with rage, he fancied that he had given

himself up to pious contrition and world-despising godliness.

As the tones of the music were again heard, he experienced a pious

exasperation over this unholy levity, a peaceful self-content; he

belonged not to the ungodly, who gave themselves up to worldliness and

vanity, but alone and deserted he prayed to his Father in heaven. How

small, how pitiful, how contemptible did the gay dancers appear to him!

How pleased he was with himself, his holy walk and conversation! At

this moment the anxious face of his valet appeared at the door.

"Your majesty commanded me to tell you so soon as the coffins which

came yesterday were unpacked and placed in the white saloon: this is

done, and the coffins can be seen."

"Ah! My coffin is ready!" said the king, involuntarily shuddering. "My

coffin, and that of the queen! And Sophia gives a ball, and perhaps

dances, in place of bowing her soul in contrition before God. I will

awaken her from these soul-destroying vanities; the arrival of the

coffins now was an especial providence of God. The queen shall see

them!"

He called his two valets, commanded one to lead him to the ball-room,

the other to illuminate the white saloon in which the coffins were

placed.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WHITE SALOON.

The queen had no suspicion of all that had happened in the chambers of

the king; she had not observed the absence of the Tobacco Club, and

after having made the grand tour of the saloons, she seated herself at

the card-table.

Her majesty had no idea that her husband was free from pain, and had

left his arm-chair; she was, therefore, gay and careless, filled with a

sense of freedom and power. The cruel eye of Frederick William was not

bent upon her to look her down, and cast a veil of humility over the

sparkling diamonds which adorned her brow; no, she was to-night

entirely herself--every inch a queen! proud and happy, smiling and

majestic. Rejoicing in her own greatness and glory, she was still

amiable and obliging to this great crowd of devoted, submissive,

flattering, smiling men, who surrounded her; never had she been so

gracious, never so queenly. As we have said, she had seated herself at

the card-table, and the margrafin Maria Dorothea and the English and

French ambassadors were her partners; behind her chair stood her two

maids of honor, to whom she now and then addressed a word, or sent them

to look after the young princesses, who were dancing in the adjoining

room, and giving themselves up merrily to the pleasures of the evening.

Suddenly the music ceased, and a strange, unaccustomed silence reigned

throughout the rooms.

The queen was arranging the cards, and turned smilingly to one of her

maids of honor, commanding her as soon as the dance was ended to lead

the princesses to her side; she then gave her attention to the game,

when suddenly the Princess Amelia, pale and terrified, rushed hastily

to her mother, and whispered a few words in her ear.

Sophia Dorothea uttered a low cry of terror, and exclaimed: "The king!

my God, the king! he seems very angry!" said the princess; "do not let

him see your diamonds." The partners of the queen sat in respectful

silence, waiting for her to play; she dashed her cards upon the table,

removed her necklace and bracelets hastily, and thrust the glittering

heap into her dress pocket.[2]

[2] See Thiebault.

"Remove my long ear-rings," she whispered to Amelia, and while the

princess obeyed the command, the queen took her cards from the table.

The glory was departed; the diamonds were hiding timidly in her pocket,

and the fire of her eye was quenched.

The king was there; Sophia Dorothea was no longer a royal queen, but a

trembling, dependent woman, cowering before the rage of her husband.

The partners of the queen sat quietly with downcast eyes, and did not

appear to see the rash change in the toilet of her majesty, still

seemingly waiting for the play of the queen. Sophia played a queen,

Lord Hastings played the king.

"Lost!" said her majesty, "so must the queen ever lose when the king

comes; but it is always a comfort," she said, with a bitter smile, "to

be overcome only by a king." She played on quietly, though she knew

that the king was already in the door of the room and watching her

closely.

As the king stepped forward and called her name, she rose and advanced

toward him with an expression of joyful surprise.

"Ah, my husband, what a great pleasure you have prepared for us!" she

said smiling; "it is most amiable of your majesty to glorify this feast

with your presence."

"I come, however," said the king, in a rude, harsh voice, and thrusting

the queen's arm in his own, "to cast gloom upon this fete; it is good

and necessary in the midst of tumultuous earthly pleasures to be

reminded of the fleeting vanity of all sublunary things; and to still

the voluptuous music with prayer, I am come to administer this medicine

to your vain and sin-sick soul. Come with me, you there!" said the

king, turning his head backward to the courtiers, who were gathered in

silent and frightened groups. "You there, follow us!" He dragged the

queen forward; silently the procession of richly-adorned guests

followed the royal pair, no one knew where.

The queen had in vain implored the king to make known his purpose. This

long procession, adorned with flowers, diamonds, uniforms, and orders,

had a gay and festal appearance; you might well suppose them wedding

guests on their way to church. The principal actors on this occasion,

however, did not promise to be a happy pair.

The king looked steadily, with a frowning brow and tightly-compressed

lips, right before him; the queen, wan and trembling, turned her eyes

anxiously from side to side, seeking everywhere some new danger, some

new terror prepared for her. The procession stepped silently and

earnestly through the dressing-rooms, odorous with flowers; through the

illuminated antechamber; further on through the corridors and up the

wide stair steps; onward still through long passages till they reached

the great doors of the White Saloon, which Frederick had built and

adorned.

"We have arrived," said the king, opening the door, and leading in the

queen. Suddenly Sophia Dorothea uttered a cry of horror, and fell

backwards; behind her stood the curious, astonished, and shocked

courtiers, pressing themselves hastily through the door of the saloon.

"Two coffins!" murmured the queen, with horror; her timid glance rested

first upon the solemn coffins, then wandered anxiously to the lofty,

imposing marble statues of the prince electors, who, in solemn rest, in

this chamber of the dead, seemed to hold a watch over the coffins of

the living.

"Yes, two coffins," said the king--"our coffins, Sophia; and I resolved

in this hour to show them to you and the assembled court, that this

solemn warning might arouse you all from your unholy and sinful lusts.

Death must strike at your heart to awaken it from voluptuous sleep and

cause you to look within. In these coffins we will soon rest, and all

earthly vanity and glory will be at an end. No one will fear my glance

or my crutch; no one will compliment the beautiful toilet of the queen,

or admire her diamonds; dust will return to dust, and the king and the

queen be nothing more than food for worms!"

"Not so," said Sophia, whose noble and proud heart felt humbled by this

pious grovelling of her husband; "not so, we will be more than dust and

food for worms. The dust of common mortals will be scattered in every

direction by the hand of Time, and over their graves will History walk

with destroying feet; but she will remain with us and will gather our

dust, and build therewith a monument to our memory; when our bodies of

flesh and blood are placed in the vault of our ancestors, our forms

will arise again with limbs of marble and bosoms without hearts. Look,

my husband, at these statues of your exalted ancestors; they have also

gone down into the vaults, but their marble forms have the best places

in our splendid rooms; perhaps they listen to our words and behold our

deeds."

Whilst the queen spoke, her countenance was illuminated with royal

energy and beauty; she was now, indeed, truly imperial, without the aid

of diamond coronets. The queen was herself again; she had conquered her

womanish fears; she felt herself not only the wife of Frederick, but

the sister of the king of England, the mother of the future king.

But Frederick, in what he considered his holy penitential mood, was

made angry by her self-possession, her proudly-erected head; he felt

that this soul had made itself free from his heavy yoke, and claimed

and enjoyed a separate existence; but she should acknowledge him again

as her lord, and he bowed down with humble penitence. The queen should

become the woman, the obedient wife; had not the Bible said, and "he

shall rule over thee"?

"So, then, let our ancestors behold how we try our coffins before

them," said the king, placing his hand heavily on the shoulder of the

queen; "the world knows that diamonds become you, and that I, in my

uniform, am a fine-looking fellow; let us see now how our coffins will

clothe us!"

"What do you mean, my king?" said Sophia, fixing her trembling glance

upon her husband.

"I mean that we will see if we can take our places with dignity and

worthily in our coffins; that we will do to-day in sport what we must

hereafter do in solemn earnest."

"This is indeed a cruel jest," said the queen.

"Oh, yes, to the children of this world every thing seems cruel which

reminds them of death and the fleeting nature of all earthly joys,"

said the king, "but such a warning is good and healthy to the soul, and

if we would accustom ourselves from time to time to leave the ballroom

and rest awhile in our coffins, we would, without doubt, lead more holy

and earnest lives. Lay yourself, therefore, in your coffin, Sophia; it

will be to your soul's advantage, and my eyes will see a picture which,

praised be God, you can never behold. I shall see you in your coffin."

"Oh, you are younger than I, my husband; you will surely see me buried;

it is not therefore necessary to put me to this trial."

"Conquer thy soul, and make it quiet and humble," said the king; "we

have come hither to try our coffins, and we will try them!"

"The king had a feverish attack of piety to-day. I would not have come

if I had known the intentions of your majesty," said the queen.

"You would have come as I willed it," murmured the king, while his

cheeks glowed with anger and his eye flashed fire.

Sophia saw these symptoms of a rising storm, and she knew that all

restraints would be removed if she resisted longer. She called with a

commanding tone to one of her maids of honor, and said proudly:

"Reach me your hand, duchess; I am weary, and will for awhile rest upon

this bed, of a new and uncommon form."

With the appearance and nobility of a truly royal soul, she raised her

robe a little, lifted her foot over the edge of the coffin, and placed

it firmly in the bottom. She stood in the coffin proudly erect,

commanding and majestic to behold; then, with inimitable grace, she

stooped and lay down slowly. The coffin creaked and groaned, and

amongst the crowd of courtiers a murmur of horror and disgust was

heard. The king stood near the coffin, and Sophia Dorothea looked at

him so steadily, so piercingly, that he had not the courage to meet her

glance, and fixed his eyes upon the ground. The queen stood up quietly.

The Countess Hacke held out her hand to assist her, but she waved her

proudly back.

"No," she said, "kings and queens leave their coffins by their own

strength and greatness, and sustained by the hand of History alone."

Sophia then stepped over the edge of the coffin, and, bowing profoundly

to the king, she said--

"Your majesty, it is now your turn."

The king was confused. He cast a dark, distrustful glance upon the

queen. Her simple words had for him a prophetic meaning, and he

shuddered as he drew near the coffin. With a powerful effort he

overcame himself, stepped into the coffin, and nodded to some of his

courtiers to assist him in lying down.

"Ah, I rest well upon this couch," said Frederick. "Here will I soon

sleep till it shall please God to wake me at the resurrection!"

"May that time be far removed, my king!" said Sophia earnestly. "Allow

me to assist you."

She reached her hand to the king; he seized it with alacrity, and was

in the act of rising, when a wild and unaccustomed sound was heard

without--a loud, piercing cry, which was many times repeated, then the

sound of hasty steps approaching the room! The pallid and awe-struck

courtiers whispered to each other.

"What is it?" cried the king, who was still sitting in his coffin.

No one answered. The courtiers whispered confused and wild words, but

no one dared to answer.

"I demand to know what has happened," said the king, as with much

difficulty he sought to raise himself up.

The major domo stepped forward. "Your majesty, two soldiers are without

who held watch in the corridor; they declare that a long, white figure,

with a veiled face and black gloves, passed slowly by them the whole

length of the corridor, and entered this room; they, believing that

some unseemly mask wished to approach your majesty, followed the figure

and saw it enter this room. They ran hither to seize the masker, but

your majesty knows no such person is here."

"The white lady!" cried the king, and sank powerless and as if broken

to pieces in the coffin. "The white lady! veiled and with black gloves!

That signifies my death!"

"The white lady!" murmured the courtiers, withdrawing involuntarily

from the door through which the evil-omened white lady should enter.

The queen alone was silent. She looked around with a searching glance

upon the marble statues of the prince electors, and her soul was far

away with her beloved son Frederick.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MAID OF HONOR, AND THE GARDENER.

It was a lovely day in May. The lilacs were in bloom; the birds were

singing their sweetest songs; the swans floating upon the tranquil

lake, which, bordered with water lilies and other fragrant plants, was

one of the chief ornaments in the garden of the prince royal at

Rheinsberg. It was still early; the residents of the palace, which was

surrounded by this beautiful garden, were sleeping; the windows were

closed and curtained, and you heard none of the sounds which usually

arose from this gay and charming place. No music fell on the ear but

the melting tones of the nightingale and the morning song of the lark.

The prince royal himself was still asleep, for his flute was silent,

and that was a sure sign to all who lived in the palace that the lord

of the house was not awake, or at least that he had not yet begun the

day.

The music of his flute was the morning sacrifice with which the young

prince greeted the day; it, like the pillar of Memnon, which gave forth

a sound when touched by the rays of the sun, announced to his

flattering courtiers that their sun had arisen.

But the flute was silent; the sun had therefore not arisen, although

its beams had long been flooding the park in golden light, and drinking

from every flower the dew that had fallen during the past sultry night.

Fritz Wendel, the gardener, was already busy with his watering-pot, and

was at the same time anxiously selecting and gathering the most

beautiful flowers, and concealing them carefully under the various

plants and bushes; perhaps to protect them from the heat of the sun,

perhaps to secure them from the curious eyes of some observer. Such

eyes were already observing him, and resting upon him with an

expression so tender and smiling, that you could see that the young

girl to whom they belonged had a special interest in the tall, handsome

gardener, who, in his modest, simple dress, and his great and imposing

beauty, appeared to realize the truth of the old fables, of the gods

who visited the earth in disguise. He might have been Apollo charmed by

some Daphne, and taking this rude dress to approach the shepherdess he

loved. Perhaps this charming young girl thought thus, and on that

account looked at him so smilingly from behind the lilacs, or perhaps

she believed him to be a prince, and waited anxiously for the moment

when he would throw off his disguise and declare himself her equal. For

she was, although not a princess, maid of honor to one, and of noble

birth.

But youth is indifferent to such things as a genealogical tree, or a

coat-of-arms, and what cared this child of thirteen summers whether

Fritz Wendel was the son of a prince or a peasant? He pleased her

because he was young and handsome, and he had one other great charm, he

was her first lover. Every one else called Mademoiselle von Sehwerin a

child, and jested with little Louise. The princess royal had begged her

from her mother, as a sort, of plaything with which to amuse her lonely

hours, and the title "maid of honor" was only a jest, which served

merely to secure the entrance of the young lady to her royal mistress

at any time.

But Louise was only a child in years; she possessed already the heart,

the feelings, and the desires of a woman; nothing, therefore, hurt her

pride so much as being called a child, and she was never happier than

when her beauty and talent caused her youth to be forgotten.

Fritz Wendel, the young gardener, knew nothing of her age. For him she

was Mademoiselle von Schwerin, a young lady, the goddess at whose

shrine he worshipped, the fairy under whose glance his flowers bloomed,

and his heart beat high. For her alone he tended the flowers and the

fruits; for her alone had God created the earth; was she not its queen,

and was it not natural that Fritz Wendel lay at her feet, and called

her the star of his existence?

The young lady having watched her silent, dreaming "first lover" long

enough, and tired of this unnatural silence, walked forward from her

place of concealment, and bade Fritz Wendel good-morning, just as he

was gathering a beautiful narcissus.

Poor Fritz trembled, and a deep blush overspread his face; he was so

embarrassed that he forgot to return the young girl's greeting, and

only bent still lower over the flower which he held in his hand.

"For whom are your flowers intended?" said Louise, "and why have you

hidden the most beautiful ones? Will you not place them in the bouquet

which you arrange every morning for the princess?"

"I have never been ordered to gather the most beautiful flowers for the

princess," said Fritz Wendel, who had not yet dared to glance at the

young lady. "The prince royal commanded me to place fresh flowers in

the vases every morning; that is all."

"But it seems to me that is not all," said Louise, laughing, "for you

are gathering other flowers; for whom are they intended, if not for the

princess royal?"

Fritz Wendel at length dared to raise his eyes, and glance timidly at

the smiling face of the young girl who stood near him.

"They are also intended for a princess," he said, in a low voice--"for

my princess."

"Oh! then you have a special princess for whom you gather flowers?"

"Yes, I have my princess, whom I serve, and for whom I would willingly

sacrifice my life," cried the impetuous young man, with all the energy

of his passionate and untamed nature.

Mademoiselle von Schwerin played carelessly with the branch of the

lilac which she held in her hand. She plucked off the small blossoms,

and throwing them in the air, blew them about, as she danced here and

there on tiptoe.

"I would like to know how it is that I find a magnificent bouquet in my

room every morning, and who it is that dares to gather more beautiful

flowers for me than any to be found in the vases of the princess royal?"

"It must be some one who adores you," said the young gardener, with his

eyes on the ground, and blushing deeply at his own temerity.

"Then it is a nobleman, perhaps one of the court gentlemen," she said,

casting a teasing glance on her embarrassed lover. "Who else would dare

to adore me, or to send me flowers?"

"Yes, you are right, who would dare?" murmured Fritz Wendel; "perhaps

some poor, deluded mortal, led by a wild insanity to forget his humble

condition, and consider himself your equal. There have been maniacs who

imagined themselves great among earth's greatest men, and equal even to

the very God in heaven."

"How pale you are!" cried Louise, looking at the young man with

undissembled tenderness. "Why do you weep, Fritz?"

She took his hand, and gazed into his eyes with a most singular

expression, half curious, half questioning.

Fritz Wendel trembled with delight at her touch, but withdrew his hand

almost with violence.

"I weep because I am a miserable gardener," he murmured; "I weep

because I am not great and noble, like the gentlemen at court."

"Yesterday Baron von Kaiserling gave an account of an Austrian general,

who was the son of a peasant, and had been a cowherd. Now he is a

general, and is married to the daughter of a count."

The countenance of Fritz Wendel beamed with energy and courage.

"Oh! why is there not a war?" he cried, enthusiastically. "I could not

fail to become a general, for I should fight like a lion."

"You would like to become a general, in order to marry the daughter of

a count?"

"Not the daughter of a count, but--"

"Fritz Wendel! Fritz Wendel!" called a voice in the distance.

"It is the head gardener," said poor Fritz, sadly. "Farewell, farewell;

be kind and gracious, and come again to-morrow to the garden."

He took his basket of flowers, and hurried down the avenue.

Mademoiselle von Schwerin followed him, with an angry glance. "Once

more no declaration of love," she murmured, stamping on the ground with

the spitefulness of a child. "He shall make me a declaration. Madame

von Morien says there is nothing more heavenly than to hear for the

first time that you are beloved. She also says it is wisest not to

choose your lovers among your equals, but either above or beneath you,

for then you may be sure that you will not be betrayed. She told me

yesterday that she was never so worshipped as by a young huntsman who

served her father when she was just my age, and that no other man had

ever adored her as he had done. Now Fritz Wendel loves me also, and he

shall make me a declaration, for I must know what this charming

sensation is. He shall do it to-morrow. I will be so kind and gentle

that he will tell me of his love. But now I must return to the palace.

I dare not be found here," and the young girl flew away lightly as a

gazelle.

CHAPTER VIII.

VON MANTEUFFEL, THE DIPLOMAT.

The garden was again solitary. Nothing was heard but the chattering of

birds, as they flitted from limb to limb, and the whispering of the

wind among the trees; all else was tranquil and still. But this did not

last long. The noise of advancing footsteps gave evidence of the

approach of some one, whose figure was soon visible at the entrance of

the grand avenue.

This person was again a lady, who, if not so beautiful as Mademoiselle

von Schwerin, was still pretty enough to be called one of the fair sex.

She was dressed in a charming and tasteful morning robe, which was

eminently adapted to display to advantage the beautiful contour of her

tall and stately figure.

Nor had she come into the garden merely to breathe the fresh morning

air, and enjoy the delightful fragrance of flowers; these were scarcely

observed, as she hurriedly swept past them. She stood still for a

moment at the end of the long avenue, and looked cautiously around in

all directions. Seeing that no one was near, that she was alone and

unobserved, she turned aside into the bushes, and, following a narrow,

overgrown path, at last arrived at the garden wall, where she remained

standing before a small door for a moment, listening with suppressed

breathing. Hearing nothing, she clapped her hands three times, and

listened again. And now a repetition of her signal could be heard from

the other side, and she cried in clear and silvery tones,

"Good-morning, good-morning!" A deep, manly voice returned her greeting

from the other side of the wall.

"It is he!" murmured the lady, and quickly drawing a key from her

pocket, she opened the door.

The man who had been standing outside sprang forward through the open

gate, and, bowing low to the lady, pressed her proffered hand to his

lips.

"Good-morning, Count Manteuffel," said she, smiling. "Really you are as

punctual as if coming to a rendezvous with your lady love."

"Tempi passali!" sighed the count. "I am married,"

"So am I," said the lady, laughing; "that is, however, no reason why--"

"You should not still have ardent and devoted admirers." said the

count, interrupting her. "But you are still young and beautiful, while

I have grown old. Tell me, kind lady, by what, art you have preserved

the charming freshness of youth, and those bright and sparkling eyes by

which I was so completely enslaved when I still had a heart?"

The lady gave him a penetrating, mocking look. "Count Manteuffel," said

she, "you are so friendly, and your adoration is of so profound a

nature, that you undoubtedly have some very particular favor to solicit

at my hands. But come, let us enter that little pavilion; there we will

find comfortable seats, and be secure from all interruption."

They passed silently along the wall to the pavilion, to which the same

key gave access which had before opened the garden door.

"Here we are safe," said the lady, throwing back the lace veil which

had concealed her face. "Come, count, let us be seated; and now tell me

why you desired this meeting, and why it is that your valet was not

sent as usual to deliver your letters and to receive mine?"

"I had an irresistible longing to see you, to behold once more your

lovely countenance," said the count, with a deep sigh.

"But just now you said you had no heart," said the lady, laughing.

"You are the enchantress who recalls it to life. Really you do credit

to your name, and, thanks to Madame Brandt, my heart is again in

flames."

"Count, it is very evident that you are now playing a part to which you

are not accustomed," exclaimed Madame Brandt, laughing. "When you

attempt to act the lover you become insipid, while your are known and

acknowledged to be one of the shrewdest and most ingenious of

diplomatists. But no diplomatic subterfuges with me, I pray. Let us

waste no time on the shell, but to the kernel at once! What do you

require of me? In my last letter I gave you an accurate account of the

state of affairs at court, and also of the state of my finances, which

is precisely that of the prince royal's; that is, his purse is as empty

as mine."

"And both of you have an empress who is only too happy to have the

privilege of supplying this deficiency," said Count Manteuffel, drawing

forth a well-filled purse, through the silken meshes of which gold

glittered, and presenting it to the lady. "I am only sorry to say there

are several empresses who have the inestimable privilege of assisting

the prince royal and Madame Brandt."

"What do you mean, count? We no longer understand each other, and I beg

of you not to speak in riddles, which I am not prepared to solve."

"I mean to say that the prince royal, in his moneyed embarrassments, no

longer addresses himself to the Empress of Austria, although she, as

his nearest relative, as the aunt of the princess royal, has

undoubtedly the first claim to his confidence."

"But perhaps the purse of the Empress of Austria is insufficient to

meet his demands," said Madame von Brandt.

"He should first have tested the purse of the empress, as he frequently

did in former times--in times when not only the prince royal, but also

his sister of Bairout, experienced the generosity of their imperial

aunt. But the prince royal readily forgets the benefits which he has

received."

"That he does," sighed Madame von Brandt. "We poor women are the

greatest sufferers. He has loved us all, and forgotten us all."

"All?" asked Count Manteuffel.

"All, count! We are nothing more to him than the plaything of an idle

hour; he then wearies of us, and throws us aside. There is but one whom

he truly loves and constantly."

"And this lady's name?"

"The flute, count! Ah, you looked sadly crestfallen. True, this lady

cannot be bribed, either with Austrian gold or with the flattery of the

skilful Count Manteuffel; she is always discreet, always mysterious;

she never betrays her lover. Ah, count, we might both learn something

from this noble flute. Yes, believe me, I would try to be like her, if,

unfortunately, I did not need so many things for which a flute has no

use, and if the glitter of Austrian gold were not so alluring. But you,

Count Manteuffel, why are you not like the flute? Why have you spies

and eavesdroppers at all places? Why are you an Austrian spy at the

court of Prussia--you who have wealth, rank, and standing which should

place you above such paltry considerations?"

Count Manteuffel's brow darkened, and he compressed his lips angrily.

But he quickly subdued this momentary irritation, and was once more the

affable, easy, and attentive diplomat.

"I serve the Austrian court from inclination," said he, "from

preference, and certainly with honest intentions. I serve that court,

because I am deeply convinced that upon Austria devolves the privilege

and duty of dethroning all other German princes, and uniting all

Germany under one government, of converting Austria into Germany.

Prussia must then cease to exist in Austria, and must bend the knee as

a vassal. That is my political conviction, and I act in accordance with

it."

"And for this political conviction you receive Austrian gold and

Austrian decorations," observed Madame von Brandt, laughing. "For the

sake of your political conviction you have spies at all points, at the

court of Potsdam, at the court of Dresden, and even here at the little

court at Rheinsberg. Not satisfied with having bought over the prince

royal's cook, and induced him to keep a diary for your inspection,[3]

you have also succeeded in securing the services of that humble and

modest little person, Madame von Brandt, who well knows that all this

costs your Grace a considerable amount of money. And now you wish to

make me believe that you do these things on account of your political

conviction. Softly, my dear count! I, too, am a little diplomat, and

have my convictions, and one of these is, that Count Manteuffel has but

one passion, and that is, to play a political role, and to make as much

money in that way as he possibly can. And to the good Count Manteuffel

it is a matter of perfect indifference whether this money comes from

Prussian or from Austrian sources."

[3] "Youth of Frederick the Great," by Preuss, page 132.

"And why these amiable pleasantries?" said the count, with a forced

smile.

"They mean, my dear count, that this miserable acting should cease;

that we should lay aside our masks, and deal with each other truly and

sincerely, when alone, as we are at present. I serve you, because I am

paid for it; you serve Austria, because you are paid for it. If, in

time of need, you were not at hand with a well-filled purse, I would

cease to serve you; and you would no longer be enthusiastic on the

subject of Austrian dominion, if Austria's money should cease to flow

into your coffers. And now, my dear count, I believe we understand each

other; and, without further circumlocution, what do you require of

me--what have you to communicate?"

"I must speak with you on matters of very grave importance."

"I knew it! your flattery betrayed you," said Madame Brandt, "Well,

begin."

"First of all, my dear baroness, you must know that the prince royal

will in a few days be king."

"Not so, count; a courier arrived yesterday evening with the

intelligence that his majesty was much better. The prince royal is so

rejoiced that he has determined to give a fete in honor of Madame von

Morien to-day."

"Does the prince royal still love this lady?"

"I told you before that he loved his flute alone," said Madame Brandt.

"Does he not, then, love the princess royal?"

"No! And perhaps he would not love her even if she were changed into a

flute. He would probably say to Quantz, 'It is not made of good wood,

and has a bad tone,' and would lay it aside."

"And do you believe he would do that with the princess? although she is

no flute, do you believe he would cast her aside?"

"The princess dreads it."

"And so does the empress!"

"But why was a woman, who not only knows nothing about music, but has a

hoarse and discordant voice, and who articulates so indistinctly that

the prince royal could not understand her were she to say the wittiest

things imaginable, why should such a woman have been given as a wife to

a prince of such remarkable musical proclivities? One does not marry a

woman merely to look at her."

"Then you believe the prince royal will separate himself from his wife

as soon as he obtains his freedom, that is, when he becomes king?"

observed Count Manteuffel, thoughtfully.

"Of that I know nothing, count. The prince never speaks of his wife,

even to his most intimate friends; and in his tenderest moments Madame

Morien herself endeavors in vain to obtain some information on this

subject."

"The prince is very discreet and very suspicious. Madame Morien must be

bought over," murmured the count.

"That will be a difficult task," said Madame Brandt. "She is

unfortunately very rich, and attaches but little importance to money. I

know of but one means. Procure for her a lover who is handsomer, more

ardent, and more passionate than the prince royal, and she can be won!

For it is well known that Madame Morien has a very susceptible heart."

"Baroness, no jesting, if you please; the matters under discussion are

of the gravest importance, and our time is limited. Madame Morion must

be won over. She alone can influence the prince through his heart, and

her influence must be exerted to prevent a separation of the prince

royal from his wife. You, my dear baroness, must induce Madame Morien

to do this; you, with your bewitching eloquence, must make Madame

Morien comprehend that this is the only means of doing penance for her

sinful life, and that her only chance of reconciliation with Heaven

depends upon her restoration of the faithless husband to the arms of

his noble wife. She could, perhaps, save the princess royal and the

imperial court the disgrace of a separation. The princess must remain

the wife of the king. This is the only tie which can bind the king to

Austria. The prince is surrounded by the enemies of Austria, of whom

Suhm is the most dangerous."

"Well, he, at least, is not near the prince. You know that he is the

ambassador of Saxony at the court of Petersburg."

"Therein lies the main difficulty! The prince royal places unlimited

confidence in him, they correspond in characters which we have vainly

endeavored to decipher; and the result of this correspondence is, that

Suhm has already procured the prince royal a loan of ten thousand

dollars from the Duke of Courland, and that he has now secured him the

annual sum of twenty-four thousand dollars from the Empress Anne. These

payments will continue until the prince ascends the throne; the first

has just been received."[4]

[4] Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand, vol. xvi., pp. 340, 356, 360, 384.

"That is a fable," exclaimed Madame Brandt, laughing. "The prince is as

poor as Job, and for some time past has been literally besieged by his

creditors!"

"And it can be no other than Russia who assists him in these

difficulties!" exclaimed Count Manteuffel, in despair. "We must leave

nothing undone to lessen the influence of this dangerous enemy, and to

win Prussia to Austrian interests. Germany wishes for peace, and

Prussia and Austria must be on good terms. If Prussia and Austria were

to take up arms against each other, the balance of power in Europe

would be destroyed, and a war would be inaugurated which, perhaps, for

years would deluge Germany with blood and tears! Austria will do all

that lies in her power to avoid this; and we, my dear friend, will be

Austria's allies, and will assist her to the best of our ability.

Russia has given Prussia money, it is true, but an indebtedness of this

kind ceases the moment the money is returned. When the prince royal

ascends the throne, he will pay to Russia what he owes her, and with

that all obligations will be at an end. Then another tie must be found

to bind Austria more firmly to Prussia. And you must help to weave this

tie. The prince royal must never be separated from his wife! The future

queen of Prussia will then be the niece of the empress. The duties of a

nephew will consequently devolve on the king. To unite the two houses

more closely, another marriage must be brought about. The Prince

Augustus William, the presumptive heir of the prince royal, must, like

the latter, espouse a princess of the house of Brunswick--a sister of

the princess royal."

"That is impossible!" exclaimed Madame Brandt, with vivacity.

"Impossible? Why impossible?"

"Because the heart of the Prince Augustus William is already filled

with a deep and passionate love--a love which would even touch you,

that is, if you are susceptible to pity."

"My dear madame, we are speaking of affairs of State, and you discourse

of love! What have politics to do with love? The prince may love whom

he will, provided he marries the Princess of Brunswick."

"But his is a great and noble, a real love, count--a love over which we

have no power, in which the devil had no hand; a love as pure as

Heaven, and deserving of Heaven's blessing! You must give this plan up,

count; the Prince Augustus William will never marry the Princess of

Brunswick. He is far too noble to give his hand without his heart, and

that is devoted to the beautiful Laura von Pannewitz."

"A prince of the blood who loves a little maid of honor, and wishes to

marry her?" exclaimed von Manteuffel, laughing loudly. "How romantic!

how sublime! what excellent materials for a sentimental romance! My

dear baroness, I congratulate you! This discovery does all honor to

your poetical temperament."

"Mock me, if you will, count; but I repeat, nevertheless, Prince

Augustus William will not marry the Princess of Brunswick, for he loves

the beautiful maid of honor of the queen, and is determined to make her

his wife."

"We will know how to break this determination," said Count Manteuffel.

"The prince royal will assist us, depend upon it. He is not an

enthusiastic lover, like Augustus William, and will never consent to

his brother's making a misalliance."

"And I tell you, the prince would rather die than give up the beautiful

Laura."

"Well, then she must give him up," said Count Manteuffel, with cruel

composure.

"Poor Laura," said Madame Brandt, with a sigh, "she loves him so

dearly! it will break her heart to lose him."

"Pshaw! the heart of every woman is broken one or more times, but it

always heals again, and when warmed by a new love, the old scars

disappear entirely. You, dear baroness, have experienced this in

yourself. Have you no recollection of the days of our ardent and

passionate love? Did we not expect to die when we were separated? Did

we not wring our hands, and pray for death as a relief? And are we not

still living, to smile pityingly at the pangs we then endured, and to

remember how often we have experienced delight, how often love has

since triumphed in our hearts?"

"It is true," sighed Madame Brandt, "we outlive our sorrows; the heart

of women resembles the worm--it still lives and quivers, although cut

in pieces."

"Well," said Count Manteuffel, laughing, "the heart of Laura von

Pannewitz is merely a worm, and we will not hesitate to cut it in

pieces, as it will still live merrily on. You, my dear friend, shall be

the knife which performs the operation. Are you willing?"

For a moment Madame Brandt looked down sadly, and seemed lost in

thought.

"True," she murmured, "we outlive it, but the best part of our being is

destroyed! I should never have become what I am, if I had not been

ruthlessly torn from my first dream of love. We will not kill Laura von

Pannewitz's body, but her soul will suffer!"

"And as it is not our province to look after souls, that need give us

no care; a political necessity demands that Prince Augustus William

shall marry the Princess of Brunswick. It demands, moreover, that the

prince royal shall not be divorced from his wife, but that the niece of

the empress shall be Queen of Prussia. In both of these affairs we need

your assistance. You must closely watch the Prince Augustus William and

his lady love, and, at the proper time, bring the affair to light. By

your eloquence you must convince Madame Morien that it is her duty to

exert her influence with the prince royal to prevent his separation

from his wife. This is your task, and a noble task it is. Its objects

are--to protect the peace of married life; to recall two noble hearts

to the duties which they owe to the world; and lastly, to create a new

bond of union between two mighty German powers. The wife of the Emperor

Charles VI., the noble empress, will not be ungrateful to her ally,

Madame Brandt. On the day on which Prince William espouses the Princess

Louisa Amelia of Brunswick, Madame Brandt will receive a present of

twenty thousand dollars from the empress."

The countenance of Madame Brandt was radiant with pleasure and delight.

"The prince shall and will marry the Princess Louisa Amelia--my word

for it. I am then to be the demon who, with his poisonous breath,

destroys this romantic, this beautiful love; the evil genius who drives

fair Laura to despair. But why should I pity her? She suffers the fate

of all women--my fate. Who pitied, who saved me? No one listened to my

cry of anguish, and no one shall heed the wailing cry of the fair Laura

von Pannewitz. Count, she is condemned! But, hark! Do you not hear

faint tones of distant music? The prince royal has arisen, and is

playing the flute at his open window. We must now separate; the garden

will soon be full of people, and we are no longer safe from intrusion.

A boat-ride on the lake is in contemplation for the early morning

hours, and then Chazot will read Voltaire's last drama to the assembled

court."

CHAPTER IX.

FREDERICK, THE PRINCE ROYAL.

Madame Brandt was not mistaken; the prince royal was awake, and was

bringing a tribute to beautiful, sunny Nature in return for the

sweetly-scented air that came through his window. There he stood, with

the flute at his lips, and looked out at God's lovely, laughing world

with a sparkling eye and joyful countenance. A cheerful quiet, a holy

peace radiated from his beautiful face; his whole being seemed bathed

in perfect harmony and contentment, and the soft, melting tones of his

flute but echoed his thoughts. Suddenly he ceased playing, and slightly

bowed his head to catch the sweet, dying notes that were still

trembling in the air.

"That was good," said he, smiling, "and I believe I can note it down

without exciting the anger of Quantz." He took his flute again, and

softly repeated the air he had just finished. "I will write it

immediately, and play it this evening before my critical musicians."

While speaking, Frederick left his bedroom, and passed into his

library. On entering this room, a beautiful smile flitted over his

face, and he bowed his head as if saluting some one. It would be

impossible to imagine a more charming and tasteful room. It had been

arranged according to the directions of the prince royal, and was in a

great degree a true portrait of himself, a temple which he had erected

to art, science, and friendship.

This room was in the new tower, and its circular form gave it a

peculiar appearance. It was most appropriately compared to a temple.

High glass cases around the walls contained the works of Voltaire,

Racine, Moliere, and Corneille; those of Homer, Caesar, Cicero, and

Ovid; also the Italian poets Dante, Petrarch, and Machiavel. All that

had a good name in the literary world found its way into the library of

the royal prince--all, excepting the works of German authors.

Between the book-cases, the shelves of which were ornamented here and

there with busts of celebrated writers, were alcoves, in which stood

small satin damask sofas, over which hung, in heavily-gilt frames, the

portraits of Frederick's friends and contemporaries.

The largest and most beautiful was one of Voltaire. He had received the

honored place; and when Frederick raised his eyes from his work, while

sitting at his escritoire, they rested upon the smiling face of the

talented French writer, whom the prince royal had selected as his

favorite, and with whom he had for many years corresponded.

The prince went with hasty steps to his table, and, without noticing

the sealed letters that were lying there, he took a piece of lined

paper, and began to write, humming softly the melody he had just

composed. He occasionally threw down his pen, and took the flute that

was lying at his side, to try, before noting them, different accords

and passages.

"It is finished at last," said the prince, laying aside his pen. "My

adagio is finished, and I think Quanta will have no excuse for

grumbling to-day; he must be contented with his pupil. This adagio is

good; I feel it; I know it; and if the Bendas assume their usual artist

airs, I will tell them--; no, I will tell them nothing," said the

prince, smiling. "It is useless to show those gentlemen that I care for

their approval, or court their applause. Ours is a pitiful race, and I

see the time approaching when I shall despise and mistrust the whole

world; and still my heart is soft, and gives a warm approval to all

that is great and beautiful, and it would make me very happy to love

and trust my fellow-men; but they do not desire it--they would not

appreciate it. Am I not surrounded by spies, who watch all my

movements, listen to every word I utter, and then pour their poison

into the ear of the king? But enough of this," said the prince, after a

pause. "This May air makes me dreamy. Away with these cobwebs! I have

not time to sigh or dream."

He arose, and walked hastily up and down his room, then approached the

escritoire, and took the letters. As his eye fell on the first, he

smiled proudly.

"From Voltaire," he murmured softly, breaking the seal, and hastily

opening the enclosure, which contained two letters and several loose

scraps of printed matter. The prince uttered a cry of joyful

astonishment, and scarcely noticing the two letters, he gazed with a

half-tender, half-curious expression on the printed papers he held in

his hand.

"At last! at last!" exclaimed the prince, "my wish will be

accomplished. The first step toward fame is taken. I shall no longer be

unknown, or only known as the son of a king, the inheritor of a throne.

I shall have a name. I shall acquire renown, for I will be a poet, an

author, and shall claim a place in the republic of genius. I shall not

need a crown to preserve my name in history. The first step is taken.

My 'Anti-Machiavel' is in press. I will tread under foot this monster

of knavish and diabolic statecraft, and all Europe shall see that a

German prince is the first to break a lance against this Machiavel, who

is making the people the slaves of princes. By his vile principles, he

is moulding princes into such monsters that all mankind must curse

them."

And again looking at the paper, the prince read a few lines, his voice

trembling with displeasure:

"If it is a crime to destroy the innocence of a private individual who

exercises a limited influence, is it not far worse to undermine the

moral character of princes who should exhibit to their subjects an

example of goodness, greatness, kindness, and love? The plagues sent by

Heaven are but passing, and destroy only in certain localities; and

although most disastrous, their effects pass away in time. But the

vices of kings create incurable misery; yes, misery enduring for

generations. How deplorable is the condition of nations who have every

evil to fear from their ruler, their property exposed to the

covetousness of a prince, their freedom to his humor, and their lives

to his cruelty!"

Frederick ceased, and turned over a few pages of his "Anti-Machiavel,"

and then continued to read:

"Machiavel speaks in his 'Principe' of miniature sovereigns, who,

having but small states, can send no armies to the field. The author

advises them to fortify their capitals, and in time of war to confine

themselves and their troops to them.

"The Italian princes, of whom Machiavel speaks, only play the part of

men before their servants. Most of the smaller princes, and especially

those of Germany, ruin themselves by spending sums far exceeding their

revenues, and thus by vanity are led to want. Even the youngest scion

of the least important salaried prince imagines himself as great as

Louis. He builds his Versailles, and sustains his army. There is in

reality a certain salaried prince of a noble house, who has in his

service all the varieties of guards that usually form the households of

great kings, but all on so minute a scale that it is necessary to

employ a microscope to distinguish each separate corps, and whose army

is perhaps strong enough to represent a battle on the stage of Verona."

Prince Frederick laughed aloud. "Well, I think my most worthy cousin,

Ernest Augustus, of Saxe-Weimar, will understand this allusion, and in

gratitude for my giving his name to posterity in my 'Anti-Machiavel,'

will unravel the mystery, and inform the world how it is possible, with

the annual income of four hundred dollars, to keep a retinue of seven

hundred men, a squadron of one hundred and eighty, and a company of

cavalry; if he is capable of accomplishing this, without plunging into

debt, he is certainly my superior, and I could learn a great deal from

him. I could learn of him how to rid myself of this torment that I

endure from day to day, from hour to hour. What could be a greater

degradation to an honorable man than to be compelled to flatter the

base pride of these vile usurers to whom I am forced to resort for the

money I need; this money pressed, perhaps, from widows and orphans? To

think that I, the inheritor of a kingdom, am in this condition--that I

must lower myself to sue and plead before these men, while millions are

lying in the cellars of my father's palace at Berlin! But what! Have I

the right to complain? am I the only one who suffers from the closeness

of the king? are not the people of Berlin crying for bread, whilst the

royal larder is filled to overflowing? But patience! the day will come

when the keys will be in my hands--on that day I will give the people

what rightly belongs to them, bread. I will unlock the treasury, and

set free the imprisoned millions. But what noise is this?" said the

prince, approaching the door.

Loud and angry voices were heard from without. "I tell you I must and

will speak with the prince royal," cried a threatening voice; "I have

waited in vain for two months, in vain addressed to him the most modest

and respectful letters; I have not even been deemed worthy to receive

an answer. Now I have come to receive it in person, and I swear I will

not leave this spot without an explanation with the prince royal."

"It is Ephraim," muttered Frederick, with a deep frown.

"Well, you can stand here until you become a pillar of salt, like your

great-grandmother of old," cried another voice.

"This is Knobelsdorf," said Frederick.

"The idea is good," said the first voice, "but it is not I who will

become a pillar of salt, but others will from fright and terror, when I

come with my avenging sword; for justice I will have, and if I do not

obtain it here, I shall go and demand it of the king."

"From the king! you do not know, then, that his majesty is dying?"

"Not so, not so! if that were so, I would not be here; I would have

waited quietly for that justice from the new king which I demanded in

vain from the prince royal. The king is recovering; I saw him in his

arm-chair in the garden; for this reason I insist on speaking to the

prince."

"But if I tell you his royal highness is still asleep?"

"I would not believe you, for I heard him playing on his flute."

"That was Quantz."

"Quantz! he is not capable of playing such an adagio; no, no, it could

only have been the prince royal."

"Ah! this man wishes to bribe me with his flattery," said the prince,

smiling, "and make me believe I am an Orpheus. Orpheus tamed lions and

tigers with his music, but my flute is not even capable of taming a

creditor."

"But I say it was Quantz," cried the poor frightened Knobelsdorf; "the

prince still sleeps, or is in bed, for he is not well, and gave orders

to admit no one."

"Ah! I know all about that; noble gentlemen are always ill if they have

to breathe the same air with their creditors," said Ephraim, with a

mocking smile; "but I tell you I will stay here until I have spoken to

the prince, until he returns me four thousand dollars that I lent to

him, more than a year ago, without interest or security. I must and

will have my money, or I shall be ruined myself. The prince cannot wish

that; he will not punish me so severely for the kindness and pity I

showed to him in his greatest need."

"This is really too much," cried Knobelsdorf, "you are shameless; do

you dare to speak of pity for the prince royal? do you dare to boast of

having lent him money, while you only did it knowing he could and would

repay you with interest?"

"If Ephraim knows that, he is cleverer than I am," said Frederick,

smiling sadly; "although I am a prince, I do not know how to get the

miserable sum of four thousand dollars. But I must leave poor

Knobelsdorf no longer in this condition; I must quiet this uproar." And

he hastened toward the door, as the noise without became louder and

louder.

CHAPTER X.

THE PRINCE ROYAL AND THE JEW.

At this moment, while Knobelsdorf was threatening the Jew and calling

the servants to thrust him out, the prince royal opened the door and

showed his smiling face to the two combatants.

"Come in," said the prince, "I grant you the audience you so

importunately demand."

Frederick stepped quietly back in his room, while Ephraim, confused and

humiliated by the calm dignity of the prince, advanced with bowed head

and downcast eyes.

"Dear Knobelsdorf," said Frederick, turning to his gasping secretary,

who stood amazed behind the Jew, "I pray you to assemble all the ladies

and gentlemen in the garden; we are going yachting; I will be with you

in five minutes."

"Five minutes," said Ephraim to himself, as Knobelsdorf withdrew, "only

one moment's audience for every thousand dollars! This is a proud

debtor; I would have done better not to place myself in his power. But

I will not be frightened, I will stand up boldly for my rights!"

"And now, what have you to say to me?" said the prince, fixing his

angry eyes upon Ephraim.

"What have I to say to your highness!" said Ephraim, astonished. "More

than a year ago I lent your highness four thousand dollars! I have as

yet received neither principal nor interest."

"Well, what more?"

"What more!" said Ephraim.

"Yes, what more? It is impossible that you have come from Berlin to

Rheinsberg to tell me what I have known for a year as well as yourself."

"I thought your highness had forgotten," said the Jew, fixing his eyes

upon the prince, but casting them suddenly to the floor, as he met the

flashing glance of Frederick.

"Forgotten," said he, shrugging his shoulders; "I have a good memory

for every act of kindness, and also for every offence against the

respect and reverence due to the son of the king."

His voice was so harsh and threatening, that Ephraim trembled in his

inmost heart, and stammered some words of apology.

"My prince," said he, "I am a Jew, that is to say a despised, reviled,

and persecuted man! no--not a man, but a creature--kicked like a dog

when poor and suffering, and even when the possessor of gold and

treasures, scarcely allowed human rights. It is better for the dogs

than for the Jews in Prussia! A dog dare have its young, and rejoice

over them, but the Jews dare not rejoice over their children! The law

of the land hangs like a sword over them, and it may be that a Jewess

may be driven out of Prussia because a child is born to her, only a

specified number of Jews being allowed in this enlightened land!

Perhaps the father is not rich enough to pay the thousand dollars with

which he must buy the right to be a father every time a child is born

to him! For this reason is gold, and again gold, the only wall of

protection which a Jew can build up between himself and wretchedness!

Gold is our honor, our rank, our destiny, our family, our home. We are

nothing without gold, and even when we extend a golden hand, there is

no hand advanced to meet it that does not feel itself contaminated by

the touch of a Jew! Judge, then, your royal highness, how much we love,

how highly we prize one to whom we give a part of our happiness, a part

of our honor. I have done for you, my prince, what I have done for no

other man. I have given you four thousand dollars, without security and

without interest. I lent to Knobelsdorf, for the prince royal, upon his

mere word, my honest gold, and what have I received? My letters, in

which I humbly solicit payment, remain unanswered. I am mocked and

reviled--the door contemptuously shut in my face, which door, however,

was most graciously opened when I brought my gold. Such conduct is

neither right nor wise; and as the worm turns when it is trodden upon,

so is there also a limit to the endurance of the Jew. He remembers at

last that he is also one of God's creatures, and that God himself has

given him the passion of revenge as well as the passion of love. The

Jew, when too long mishandled, revenges himself upon his torturers, and

that will I also do, if I do not receive justice at your hands. That

will I also do, if you refuse me my gold to-day."

"You have made a lengthy and impertinent speech!" said Frederick. "You

have threatened me! But I will forgive you, because you are a Jew;

because the tongue is the only weapon a Jew has, and knows how to use.

I now advise you to put your sword in its sheath, and listen calmly to

me. It is true, you have lent me four thousand dollars without security

and without interest. You need not extol yourself for this, for you

well know it is not the wish or the intention of the prince royal to

oppress even the most pitiful of his subjects, or to withhold the

smallest of their rights. You knew this; then why were you not

satisfied to wait until I sent for you?"

"I can wait no longer, your highness," cried Ephraim, passionately. "My

honor and credit are at stake. Count Knobelsdorf gave me his sacred

promise that at the end of six months my money with interest should be

returned. I believed him, because he spoke in the name of the prince

royal. I now need this money for my business. I can no longer do

without it. I must have it to-day."

"You must? I say you shall not receive one penny of it to-day, nor

to-morrow, nor for weeks!"

"If your highness is in earnest, I must go elsewhere and seek redress."

"That means you will go to the king."

"Yes, your highness, I will!"

"Are you ignorant of the law by which all are forbidden to lend money

to the princes of the royal house?"

"I am not ignorant of that law; but I know that the king will make an

exception--that he will pay the money I lent to his successor. It is

possible I may feel his crutch upon my back, but blows will not degrade

me. The Jew is accustomed to blows and kicks--to be daily trodden under

foot. Even if the king beats me, he will give me back my honor, for he

will give me back my gold."

"Suppose that he also refuses you?"

"Then I will raise my voice until it is heard over the whole earth,"

cried Ephraim, passionately.

"Well, then, raise your voice and cry out. I can give you no gold

to-day."

"No gold!" said Ephraim. "Am I again to be paid with cunning smiles and

scornful words? You will withhold my gold from me? Because you are

great and powerful, you think you can oppress and mistreat a poor Jew

with impunity, but there is a God for the just and unjust, and He--"

He stopped. Before him stood Frederick, blazing with anger. His lips

were pallid and trembling, his arm uplifted.

"Strike, your highness!--strike!" cried Ephraim, fiercely. "I deserve

to be beaten, for I was a fool, and allowed myself to be dazzled with

the glory of lending my gold to an unhappy but noble prince! Strike on,

your highness! I see now that this prince is but a man like the rest;

he scorns and loathes the poor Jew, but he will borrow his money, and

defraud him of his rights."

Frederick's arm had fallen, and a soft smile played about his lips.

"No," said he, "you shall see that Frederick is not a man like other

men. This day you shall have your money. I cannot pay you in money, but

I will give you jewels, and horses from the stud that the king lately

gave me."

"Then your highness has really no money?" said Ephraim, thoughtfully.

"It was not then to frighten and torment the poor Jew that my gold was

denied me. Can it be possible that the great Prince Frederick, on whom

the hopes of the people rest, and who is already dearly loved by his

future subjects, can be without money? Is it possible that he suffers

like other men? My God! how dare we poor Jews complain when the heir to

a throne is harassed for money, and must endure privations?"

The prince was not listening to Ephraim; he had opened a closet, and

taken from it a silver-bound casket, and was gazing intently at its

contents. He drew forth a large diamond cross and some solitaires and

approached the Jew.

"Here are some jewels, I think, well worth your four thousand dollars;

sell them and pay yourself," said the prince, handing him the sparkling

stones.

Ephraim pushed the prince's hand gently back. "I lent gold, and gold

only will I accept in payment."

The prince stamped impatiently upon the ground. "I told you I had no

gold!"

"Then I cannot receive any," said Ephraim, passively. "The poor Jew

will wait still longer; he will give to the prince royal the gold which

he needs, and of which the poor Jew still has a little. I humbly ask

your highness if you would not like to borrow another thousand, which I

will gladly lend upon one condition."

"Well, and this condition?"

"Your highness is to pay me upon the spot the interest upon the four

thousand in ready money? Does your highness understand? Just now you

wished to pay my capital with diamonds and horses. Will you give me as

interest a few costly pearls--pearls which lie hidden in that flute,

and which appear at your magical touch? I will count this as ready

money!"

Frederick came nearer to Ephraim, and eyeing him sternly, he said:

"Are you mocking me? Would you make of the prince royal a travelling

musician, who must play before the Jew, in order to soften his

heart?--would you--? Ah, Fredersdorf," said he, interrupting himself,

as his valet approached him in a dusty travelling-suit, "have you just

arrived from Berlin?"

"Yes, your highness; and as I was told who was importuning your

highness, I came in without changing my dress. The banker gave me this

package for you. I believe it is from Petersburg."

"From Suhm," said the prince, with a happy smile, and hastily breaking

the seal, he drew from the package a letter and several books. Casting

a loving glance at the letter, he laid it on his writing-table; then

turning away, so as not to be seen by Ephraim, he took up the two

books, and looked carefully at their heavily-gilded covers. Frederick

smiled, and, taking a penknife, he hastily cut off the backs of the

books, and took out a number of folded papers. As the prince saw them,

a look of triumph passed over his expressive face.

"Ten thousand dollars!" said he to himself. "The empress and the Duke

Biron have fulfilled their promise!"

Frederick took some of the papers in his hand, and walked toward

Ephraim.

"Here are your four thousand dollars, and one hundred interest. Are you

satisfied?"

"No, your royal highness, I am not satisfied! I am not satisfied with

myself. When I came to Rheinsberg I thought I had been wronged. It now

seems to me that I have wronged your highness!"

"Let that pass," said Frederick. "A prince must always be the scapegoat

for the sin-offering of the people. They make us answerable for all

their sufferings, but have no sympathy for us in our griefs. I owe you

nothing more--you can go."

Ephraim bowed silently, and turned slowly toward the door. The eyes of

the prince followed him with a kindly expression. He stepped to the

table, and took up his flute. Ephraim had reached the door of the

ante-chamber, but when he heard the soft melting tones of the flute, he

stopped, and remained listening breathlessly at the outer door. The

piercing glance of the prince rested on him; but he continued to play,

and drew from his flute such touching and melancholy tones that the

poor Jew seemed completely overcome. He folded his hands, as though

engaged in fervent prayer; and even Fredersdorf, although a daily

hearer of the prince, listened in breathless silence to those sweet

sounds.

When the adagio was ended, the prince laid down his flute, and signed

to Fredersdorf to close the door; he wished to give Ephraim an

opportunity of slipping away unobserved.

"Did your highness know that the Jew was listening?" said Fredersdorf.

"Yes, I knew it; but I owed the poor devil something; he offered to

lend me still another thousand dollars! I will remember this. And now,

Fredersdorf, tell me quickly how goes it in Berlin? How is the king?"

"Better, your highness. He set out for Potsdam a few days since, and

the pure fresh air has done him good. He shows himself, daily upon the

balcony, in full uniform. The physicians, it is true, look very

thoughtful; but the rest of the world believe the king is rapidly

improving."

"God grant that the physicians may be again mistaken!" said the prince.

"May the king reign many long and happy years! If he allow me to live

as I wish, I would willingly give an arm if I could thereby lengthen

his life. Well, now for mirth and song! We will be gay, and thus

celebrate the king's improvement. Make, therefore, all liberal

arrangements. Give the cook his orders, and tell the ladies and

gentlemen assembled in the garden that I will be with them immediately."

The prince was now alone; he opened the letter he had received with the

gold; his eye rested lovingly upon the handwriting of his distant

friend, and his heart glowed as he read the words of friendship,

admiration, and love from Suhm.

"Truly," he said, raising his eyes devoutly to heaven, "a faithful

friend is worth more than a king's crown. In spite of all my brilliant

prospects in the future, what would have become of me if Suhm had not

stood by me for the second time and borrowed this money for me in

Russia--this paltry sum, which I have in vain sought to obtain in my

own land? My heart tells me to write a few lines at once to Suhm,

expressing my unshaken friendship, my enduring love."

Frederick seated himself, and wrote one of those soul-inspiring letters

for which he was so celebrated, and which ended thus: "In a short time

my fate will be decided! You can well imagine that I am not at ease in

my present condition. I have little leisure, but my heart is young and

fresh, and I can assure you that I was never more a philosopher than

now. I look with absolute indifference upon the future. My heart is not

agitated by hope or fear, it is full of pity for those who suffer, of

consideration for all honest men, and of tenderness and sympathy for my

friends. You, whom I dare proudly count among the latter, may be more

and more convinced that you will ever find in me what Orestes was to

his Pylades, and that it is not possible for any one to esteem and love

you more than your devoted Frederick."

"Now," said the prince, as he arose, "away with the burdens, the

gravities and cares of life! Come, now, spirit of love! spirit of

bliss! We will celebrate a feast this day in thy honor, thou goddess of

youth and hope! Come, lovely Venus, and bring with thee thy son Cupid!

We will worship you both. To you belongs this day, this night. You,

goddess of love, have sent me the little Morien, that fluttering, light

gazelle, that imperious, laughing fairy--that 'Tourbillon' of caprice

and passion. Here is the poem I composed for her. Madame Brandt shall

hand it to her, and shall lead the 'Tourbillon' into the temple of

love. Away with earnest faces, dull eyes, and the wisdom of fools! Come

over me, spirit of love, and grant me one hour of blessed

forgetfulness."

The prince rang for his valet, and commanded him to lay out his latest

French suit; he entered his boudoir, and with a comic earnestness, and

the eager haste of a rash, impatient lover, he gave himself to the

duties and arts of a royal toilet.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PRINCESS ROYAL ELIZABETH CHRISTINE.

The princess royal had not yet left her rooms; she still waited for the

prince, whose custom it was to give her his arm every morning and lead

her to the saloon. On these occasions only did the Princess Elizabeth

ever see her husband alone, then only did he address one word to her,

touch her hand, or allow her to lean upon his arm. A sweet and sad

happiness for this young wife, who lived only in the light of her

husband's countenance; who had no other wish, no other prayer, no other

hope than to please him. She felt that the eye of Frederick never

rested upon her with any other expression than that of cold friendship

or absolute indifference. The reason for this she could never fathom.

Elizabeth would have given her heart's blood to be beloved by him for

one single day, yes, for one short, blessed hour; to be clasped to his

heart, not for form or etiquette, but as a loving and beloved wife, to

receive in her ear the sweet whispers of his tenderness and his

fondness. She would have given years of her life to have bought this

man, whom she so passionately loved; he was her earthly god, the ideal

of her maiden dreams. This man was her husband; he belonged to her; he

was bound to her by the holiest ties, and yet there was an impassable

gulf between them, which her unbounded love, her prayers, her sighs,

could not bridge over. The prince loved her not; never had the

slightest pulse of his heart belonged to her! He endured her, only

endured her by his side, as the poor prisoner, sighing for fresh air,

permits the presence of the jailer, when he can only thus buy a brief

enjoyment of God's gay and sunny world. The prince royal was a

prisoner, her prisoner. Not love, but FORCE had placed that golden ring

upon his hand, that first link in the long, invisible heavy chain,

which from that weary hour had bound his feet, yes, his soul; from

which even his thoughts were never free. Elizabeth knew that she was an

ever-present, bitter memento of his sad, crushed, tortured, and humbled

youth--a constant reminder of the noble friend of his early years,

whose blood had been shed for him, and to whose last wild death-cry his

tortured heart had been compelled to listen. Her presence must ever

recall the scorn, the hatred, the opposition of his stern father; the

hardships, the abuse, the humiliations, yes, even the blows, all of

which had at last bowed the noble mind of the prince and led him to

take upon himself the slavery of this hated marriage, in order to be

free from the scorn and cruelty of his father. To escape from his

dreary prison in Ruppin, he rushed into the bonds of wedlock. How could

he ever forgive, how could he ever love this woman forced upon him,

like drops of wormwood, and swallowed only with the hope of thereby

escaping the torturous pains and last struggles with death?

Elizabeth had been ignorant of all these bitter truths. The prince had

been ever considerate and kind, though cold, when they met: she had had

one single confidential interview with him, and in that hour he had

disclosed to her what had forced them together, and at the same time

forever separated them. Never could he love the wife associated in his

mind, though innocently, with such cruelties and horrors; he was fully

convinced that she, also, could not love a husband thus forced upon

her; could entertain no feeling for him but that of respectful

consideration and cold indifference.

Frederick did not know with what deadly wounds these words had pierced

the princess; she had the strength to veil her passion and her shame

with smiles, and in her modest maidenly pride she buried both in her

heart. Since that interview years had gone by, and every year the love

of the princess royal for her husband became more ardent; his eyes were

the sun which warmed and strengthened this flower of love, and her

tears were the dew which nourished and gave it vitality.

Elizabeth hoped still to ravish the heart of her husband; she yet

believed that her resigned, modest, but proud and great love, might

conquer his coldness; and yet, in spite of this hope, in spite of this

future trust, Elizabeth trembled and feared more than formerly. She

knew that the hour of decision was drawing nigh; she felt with the

instinct of true love that a new storm was rising on the ever-clouded

horizon of her marriage, and that the lightning might soon destroy her.

Frederick had been forced by the power of the king, his father, to

marry her; how would it be when this power should cease, when her

husband should be king? by no one held back; by no one controlled; free

himself, and free to give laws to the world; to acknowledge no man as

his judge; to be restrained by nothing but his conscience. Might not

even his conscience counsel him to dissolve this unnatural marriage,

which had within itself no spark of God's truth, no ray of God's

blessing? might not her husband cast her off and take this English

princess for his wife? had she not been the choice of his heart? had

not King George, although too late, declared his willingness for the

betrothal? had they not loved each other with the enthusiasm of youth,

although they had never met? did not Sophia Amelia's portrait hang in

the library of the crown prince? did not the English princess wear his

picture constantly near her heart? had she not sworn never to be the

wife of another man?

As Elizabeth thought of these things she trembled, and it seemed to her

that her whole life would go out in one great cry of anguish and horror.

"No," she said, "I cannot live without him! I will never consent! he

can kill me, but he cannot force me to break the solemn oath I have

sworn on God's holy altar. He shall not cast me out into the wild

wilderness, as Abram did Hagar, and choose another wife!"

He could not force her to leave him, but he could beseech her, and

Elizabeth knew full well there was nothing in the world she could

refuse to her husband, which he would condescend so far as to entreat;

for one loving, grateful word from his lips, she would give him her

heart's blood, drop by drop; for one tender embrace, one passionate

kiss, she would lay down her life joyfully. But she would not believe

in this separation; she would yet escape this unblessed fate--would

find a way to his love, his sympathy, at least to his pity.

It was a struggle for life, for happiness, for her future, yes, even

for honor; for a divorced wife, even a princess, bears ever a stain

upon her fair name, and walks lonely, unpitied, ever despised through

the world.

For these reasons the poor princess of late redoubled her efforts to

please her husband; she entered more frequently into the gayeties of

the court circle, and sometimes even took part in the frivolous and

rather free jests of her husband's evening parties; sometimes she was

rewarded by a smile and a glance of applause from Frederick. This was

for Elizabeth the noblest jewel in her martyr crown of love, more

costly, more precious than all her pearls and diamonds.

To-day one of these joyous and unrestrained circles was to meet. The

prince loved these fetes; he was more charming, witty, talented, and

unrestrained, than any of his guests. Princess Elizabeth resolved to be

no quiet silent member of this circle to-day; she would force her

husband to look upon her and admire her; she would be more beautiful

than all the other ladies of the court; more lovely than the gay and

talented coquette, Madame Brandt; more entrancing than the genial

'Tourbillon,' Madame Morien; yes, even the youthful Schwerin, with her

glancing eye and glowing cheek, should not excel her.

She was also young and charming, might be admired, loved--yes, adored,

not only as a princess, not only as the wife of the handsome and genial

prince royal, but for her own lovely self. She had dismissed her maid,

her toilet was completed, and she waited for the prince royal to lead

her into the saloon. The princess stepped to the glass and examined

herself, not admiringly, but curiously, searchingly. This figure in the

mirror should be to her as that of a stranger to be remarked upon, and

criticised coldly, even harshly; she must know if this woman might ever

hope to enchain the handsome prince royal. "Yes," whispered she to

herself, "this form is slender and not without grace; this white satin

robe falls in full voluptuous folds from the slender waist over the

well-made form; it contrasts well with these shoulders, of which my

maids have often said 'they were white as alabaster;' with this throat,

of which Madame Morien says 'it is white and graceful as the swan's.'

This foot, which peeps out from the silken hem of my robe, is small and

slender; this hand is fair and small and well formed. I was constrained

yesterday to promise the painter Pesne to allow him to paint it for his

goddess Aurora; and this face! is it ugly to look upon? No, this face

is not ugly; here is a high, clear forehead; the eyebrows well formed

and well placed, the eyes are large and bright, the nose is small but

nobly formed, the mouth good, the lips soft and red: yes, this face is

handsome. O my God! why can I not please my husband?--why will he never

look upon me with admiration?"

Her head sank upon her breast, and she was lost in sad and melancholy

dreams; a few cold tears dropping slowly upon her cheeks aroused her;

with a rash movement, she raised her head, and shook the tears from her

eyes; then looked again in the glass. "Why does not the prince love

me?" whispered she again to herself with trembling lips. "I see it, I

know it! It is written in unmistakable lines in this poor face. I know

why he loves me not. These great blue eyes have no fire, no soul; this

mouth has no magical, alluring smile. Yes, alas! yes, that is a lovely

form; but the soul fails!--a fine nature, but the power of intellect is

wanting. My Father, my heavenly Father, I sleep; my soul lies dead and

stiffened in the coffin with my secret sorrows; the prince could awaken

it with his kisses, could breathe a new life into it by a glance."

The princess raised her arms imploringly on high, and her trembling

lips whispered, "Pygmalion, why come you not to awaken thy Galatea? Why

will you not change this marble statue into a woman of flesh and blood,

with heart and soul? These lips are ready to smile, to utter a cry of

rapture and delight, and behind the veil of my eyes lies a soul, which

one touch of thine will arouse! O Frederick! Frederick! why do you

torture me? Do you not know that your wife worships, loves, adores you;

that you are her salvation, her god? Oh, I know these are unholy,

sinful words! what then? I am a sinner! I am ready to give my soul in

exchange for thee, Frederick. Why do you not hear me?--why have not my

sighs, my tears the power to bring you to my side?"

The poor, young wife sank powerless into her chair, and covering her

face with her hands, wept bitterly. Gay voices and loud laughter,

sounding from beneath her window, aroused her from this trance of grief.

"That is Madame Brandt and the Duke of Brunswick," said Elizabeth,

hastening to the window, and peeping from behind the curtains into the

garden. Yes, there stood the duke in lively conversation with Jordan

Kaiserling Chazot, and the newly-arrived Bielfeld; but the ladies were

nowhere to be seen, and the princess concluded they were already in the

ante-room, and that the prince would soon join her.

"He must not see that I have wept; no one must see that." She breathed

upon her handkerchief, and pressed its damp folds upon her eyes. "No, I

will smile and be gay like Madame Brandt and Morien. I will laugh and

jest, and no one shall guess that my heart is bleeding and dying with

inexplicable grief. Yes, gay will I be, and smiling; so only can I

please my husband." She gave a sad, heart-breaking laugh, which was

echoed loudly and joyously in the ante-room.

CHAPTER XII.

THE POEM.

The ladies of the court, and those who were guests at the palace of

Rheinsberg, were assembled, and waiting in the ante-room, as the

princess royal had supposed. A few of them had withdrawn to one of the

windows with Madame von Katch, the first lady of honor, and were

conversing in low voices, while Madame von Brandt and Madame von Morien

held an earnest but low-toned conversation in another part of the room.

Madame von Morien listened anxiously to her friend, arid the varying

emotions of her soul were clearly mirrored on her speaking countenance.

At one moment a happy smile overspread her lovely features, but the

next a cloud lay on that pure, fair brow, and darkened those black and

glorious eyes.

"As I told you," whispered Madame von Brandt, "the empress desires you

to understand that, if you will assist in carrying out her wishes, you

may depend upon her gratitude. You must employ all your eloquence and

influence to induce the prince royal to dismiss from his mind the idea

of divorcing his wife at the death of the king."

"I do not blame the empress," said Madame von Morien, with a roguish

smile. "It remains to be seen, however, whether the wishes of the

prince royal and those of the empress coincide. You are well aware that

Prince Frederick is not the man to be led by the will of others."

"Not by the will of the empress, dearest, but by yours."

"Well how does this good empress expect to bribe me, for I hope she

does not think me so silly and childish as to consider her words

commands, merely because they fall from the lips of an empress. No, the

little Morien is at this moment a more important person to the empress

than the empress is to me, and it is, therefore, very natural that I

should make my conditions."

"Only name them, my dear friend, and I assure you in advance that they

will be fulfilled, unless you should demand the moon and the stars;

these the empress cannot obtain for you."

"Ah, you have divined my condition," said Madame von Morien, smiling.

"I demand a star--one that is brighter and more beautiful than those in

the sky--one that the empress can give."

"I do not understand you," said her astonished friend.

"You will soon understand--only listen. Have you not heard that the

Austrian empress intends to establish a new order--an order of virtue

and modesty?"

Madame von Brandt burst into a clear, silvery laugh. "And do you wish

to belong to this order?"

"Yes; and if the empress will not present me with the star of this

order, I shall enter into no further arrangements."

Madame von Brandt, still laughing, replied: "This is a most edifying

idea. Le Tourbillon desires to become a member of the 'Order of

Virtue.' The beautiful Morien, whose greatest pride was to despise the

prudish, and to snap her fingers at morality, now wishes to be in the

train of modesty."

"Dear friend," said Madame von Morien, with a bewitching smile, which

displayed two rows of the most exquisitely white teeth, "dear friend,

you should always leave open a way of retreat; even as Aesop in

descending the mountain was not happy in the easy and delightful path,

but already sighed over the difficulties of the next ascent, so should

women never be contented with the joys of the present moment, but

prepare themselves for the sorrows which most probably await them in

the future. A day must come when we will be cut off by advancing years

from the flowery paths of love and pleasure, and be compelled to follow

in the tiresome footsteps of virtue. It is wise, therefore, to be

prepared for that which must come as certainly as old age, and, if

possible, to smooth away the difficulties from this rough path. To-day

I am Le Tourbillon, and will remain so a few years; but when the roses

and lilies of my cheek are faded, I will place the cross of the 'Order

of Virtue' on my withered bosom, and become the defender of the

God-fearing and the virtuous."

The two ladies laughed, and their laughter was as gay and silvery, as

clear and innocent as the tones of the lark, or the songs of children.

Le Tourbillon, however, quickly assumed an earnest and pathetic

expression, and said, in a snuffling, preaching voice: "Do I not

deserve to be decorated with the star of the 'Order of Virtue?' Am I

not destined to reunite with my weak but beautiful hands two hearts

which God himself has joined together? I tell you, therefore, procure

this decoration for me, or I refuse the role that you offer me."

"I promise that your caprice shall be gratified, and that you will

obtain the star," said Madame von Brandt, earnestly.

"Excuse me, my dear, that is not sufficient. I demand the assurance, in

the handwriting of the Empress of Austria, the exalted aunt of our

princess royal, that this order shall be established, and that I shall

become a member. It would do no harm for the empress to add a few words

of tenderness and esteem."

"I shall inform the empress of your conditions immediately, and she

will without doubt fulfil them, for the danger is pressing, and you are

a most powerful ally."

"Good! thus far we are agreed, and nothing fails now but the most

important part," said Madame von Morien, with a mischievous smile;

"that is to discover whether I can accomplish your wishes--whether the

prince royal considers me any thing more than 'Le Tourbillon,' 'the

pretty Morien,' or the Turkish music to which he listens when he is

gay. Nothing is wanting but that the prince royal should really love

me. It is true that he makes love to me; he secretly presses my hand;

he occasionally whispers a few loving, tender words in my ear; and

yesterday, when I met him accidentally in the dark corridor, he

embraced me so passionately, and covered my lips with such glowing,

stormy kisses, that I was almost stifled. But that is all--that is the

entire history of my love."

"No, that is not all. This history has a sequel," said Madame von

Brandt, triumphantly, as she drew a sealed letter from her bosom, and

gave it to her companion. "Take this, it is a new chapter in your

romance."

"This letter has no address," returned Madame von Morien, smiling.

"It is intended for you."

"No, it is mine," suddenly cried a voice behind them, and a small hand

darted forward, and tore the sealed paper from Madame von Morien.

"Mine, this letter is mine!" cried Louise von Schwerin, the little maid

of honor, who, without being remarked, had approached the two ladies,

and seized the letter at this decisive moment. "The letter belongs to

me; it is mine," repeated the presumptuous young girl, as she danced

laughingly before the two pale and terrified ladies. "Who dares affirm

that this letter, which has no address, is not intended for me?"

"Louise, give me the letter," implored Madame von Morien, in a

trembling voice. But Louise found a pleasure in terrifying her

beautiful friend, who invariably laughed at her, and called her a child

when she spoke of her heart, and hinted at a secret and unhappy

passion. Louise wished to revenge herself by claiming the privileges of

a child.

"Take the letter if you can," cried the young girl, as she flew through

the room as lightly as a gazelle, waving her prize back and forth like

a banner, "take the letter!"

Madame von Morien hurried after her, and now began a merry race through

the saloon, accompanied by the laughter of the ladies, who looked on

with the liveliest interest. And in reality it was a charming picture

to see these beautiful figures, which flew through the hall like two

Atalantas, radiant with eagerness, with glowing cheeks and smiling

lips, with fluttering locks and throbbing breasts.

The young girl was still in advance; she danced on, singing and

laughing, far before the beautiful Morien, who began already to be

wearied.

"The letter is mine!" sang out this impudent little maiden, "and no one

shall take it from me."

But fear lent wings to Madame von Morien, who now made a last

despairing effort, and flew like an arrow after Louise. Now she was

just behind her; Louise felt already her hot, panting breath upon her

cheek; saw the upraised arm, ready to seize the letter--when suddenly

the door opened, before which Louise stood, and the princess royal

appeared. The youthful maid of honor sank laughing at her feet, and

said breathlessly, "Gracious princess, protect me!"

Madame von Morien remained motionless at the appearance of the princess

royal, breathless not only from her rapid race, but also from fear,

while Madame von Brandt, concealing, with a smile, her own alarm,

approached her friend, that she might not remain without assistance at

this critical moment. The rest of the company stood silent at a

respectful distance, and looked with curious and inquiring glances at

this singular scene.

"Well, and from what shall I protect you, little Louise?" said the

princess royal, as she bent smilingly over the breathless child.

Louise was silent for one instant. She felt that the princess would

reprove her for her naughtiness; she did not wish to be again treated

as a child before the whole court. She hastily resolved to insist upon

the truth of her assertion that the letter was hers.

"Madame von Morien wished to take my letter from me," said Louise,

giving the latter a perverse look.

"I hope your royal highness knows this impudent child well enough not

to put any faith in her words," said Madame von Morien, evasively, not

daring to claim the letter as her property.

"Child! She calls me a child!" murmured Louise, enraged, and now

determined to revenge herself by compromising Madame von Morien.

"Then the letter does not belong to Louise?" asked the princess royal,

turning to Madame von Morien.

"Yes, your royal highness, it is mine," declared Louise; "your royal

highness can convince yourself of it. Here is the letter; will you have

the kindness to read the address?"

"But this letter has no address," said the astonished princess.

"And still Madame von Morion asserts that it is intended for her,"

cried Louise, wickedly.

"And Mademoiselle von Schwerin declares it belongs to her," said Madame

von Morien, casting a furious look on Louise.

"I implore your royal highness to be the judge," said Louise.

"How can I decide to whom the letter belongs, as it bears no name?"

said the princess, smiling.

"By opening and reading it," said the young girl, with apparent

frankness. "The letter is from my mother, and I do not care to conceal

its contents from your royal highness."

"Are you willing, Madame von Morien? shall I open this letter?"

But before the amazed and terrified young woman found time for a reply,

Madame von Brandt approached the princess with a smiling countenance.

She had in this moment of danger conceived a desperate resolution. The

prince royal had informed her that this paper contained a poem. Why

might not this poem have been intended for the princess as well as for

Madame von Morien? It contained, without a doubt, a declaration of

love, and such declarations are suitable for any woman, and welcome to

all.

"If your royal highness will permit me, I am ready to throw light on

this mystery," said Madame von Brandt.

The princess bowed permission.

"This letter belongs neither to Madame von Morien nor to Mademoiselle

von Schwerin," said Madame von Brandt.

"You promised to enlighten us," exclaimed the princess, laughing, "and

it appears to me you have made the mystery more impenetrable. The

letter belongs neither to Madame von Morien nor to little Louise. To

whom, then, does it belong?"

"It belongs to your royal highness."

"To me?" asked the astonished princess, while Madame von Morien gazed

at her friend with speechless horror, and Mademoiselle von Schwerin

laughed aloud.

"Yes, this letter belongs to your royal highness. The prince royal gave

it to me, with the command to place it upon your table, before you went

to your dressing-room; but I was too late, and understood that your

highness was occupied with your toilet. I dared not disturb you, and

retained the letter in order to hand it to you now. As I held it in my

hand, and said jestingly to Madame von Morien that the prince royal had

forgotten to write the address, Mademoiselle von Schwerin came and tore

it from me in a most unladylike manner, and declared it was hers. That

is the whole history."

"And you say that the letter is mine?" said the princess, thoughtfully.

"It is yours, and it contains a poem from his royal highness."

"Then I can break the seal?" said the princess, tearing open the paper.

"Ah!" she cried, with a happy smile, "it is a poem from my husband."

"And here comes his royal highness to confirm the truth of my

statement," cried Madame von Brandt, stepping aside.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BANQUET.

Madame von Brandt was right. The prince royal, surrounded by the

cavaliers of his court, entered the saloon just as the princess had

commenced reading the poem.

On his entrance a murmur of applause arose, and the countenance of his

wife was radiant with pleasure and delight on beholding this handsome

and engaging young prince, whom she, emboldened by the love-verses

which she held in her hand, joyfully greeted as her husband. On this

day the prince did not appear as usual in the uniform of his regiment,

but was attired in a French costume of the latest fashion. He wore a

snuff-colored coat of heavy moire-antique, ornamented at the shoulders

with long bows of lace, the ends of which were bordered with silver

fringe. His trousers, of the same color and material, reached to his

knees, and were here ornamented with rich lace, which hung far down

over his silk stockings. On the buckles of his high, red-heeled shoes,

glittered immense diamonds. These gems were, however, eclipsed by the

jewelled buttons which confined his long, silver-brocaded waistcoat.[5]

[5] Bielfeld, vol. ii., page 82.

The costume of the cavaliers who accompanied the prince was of the same

style, but less rich.

As this group of handsome and richly-attired gentlemen entered the

saloon, the bright eyes of the ladies sparkled, and their cheeks

colored with pleasure.

The princess royal's countenance was illumined with delight; never had

she seen the prince so handsome, never had he looked so loving. And

this was all for her, the chosen one, whom he now blessed with his

love. Yes, he loved her! She had only read the commencement of the poem

which he had written, but in this she had seen words of tender and

passionate love.

While she was gazing at her husband in silent ecstasy, Madame von

Brandt approached the prince, and gracefully recounting the scene which

had just occurred, requested him to confirm her statement.

The prince's quick glance flitted for a moment from the beautiful

Morien, who trembled with consternation and terror to his wife, and,

judging by the pleased expression of her face, he concluded that she

believed this poem had been really addressed to herself. She had,

therefore, not read it to the end; she had not yet arrived at the verse

which contained a direct appeal to the beautiful Tourbillon, the

charming Leontine. She must not be permitted to read the entire poem.

That was all!

The prince approached his wife with a smile, to which she was

unaccustomed, and which made her heart beat high with delight.

"I crave your indulgence," said he, "for my poor little poem, which

reached you in so noisy a manner, and is really scarcely worth reading.

Read it in some solitary hour when you are troubled with ennui; it may

then possibly amuse you for a moment. We will not occupy ourselves with

verses and poems to-day, but will laugh and be merry; that is, if it

pleases you, madame."

The princess murmured a few low and indistinct words. As usual, she

could find no expression for her thoughts, although her heart was full

of love and delight. This modest shyness of the lips, this poverty of

words, with her rich depth of feeling, was the great misfortune of the

princess royal. It was this that made her appear awkward, constrained,

and spiritless; it was this that displeased and estranged her husband.

Her consciousness of this deficiency made her still more timid and

constrained, and deprived her of what little power of expression she

possessed.

Had she at this moment found courage to make a ready and witty reply,

her husband would have been much pleased. Her silence, however, excited

his displeasure, and his brow darkened.

He offered her his arm; and, exchanging glances with Madame Morien, he

conducted his wife to the dining-saloon, to the magnificently arranged

and glittering table.

"The gardener of Rheinsberg, Frederick of Hohenzollern, invites his

friends to partake of what he has provided. For the prince royal is

fortunately not at home; we can, therefore, be altogether sans gene,

and follow our inclinations, as the mice do when the cat is not at

home."

He seated himself between his wife and Madame Morien, whispering to the

latter: "Beautiful Tourbillon, my heart is in flames, and I rely upon

you to quench them. You must save me!"

"Oh, this heart of yours is a phoenix, and arises from its ashes

renewed and rejuvenated."

"But only to destroy itself again," said the prince. Then taking his

glass and surveying his guests with a rapid glance, he exclaimed: "Our

first toast shall be youth--youth of which the old are envious!--youth

and beauty, which are so brilliantly represented here to-day, that one

might well imagine Venus had sent us all her daughters and playmates,

as well as her lovers, the deposed and discarded ones as well as those

whom she still favors, and only proposes to discard."

The glasses rang out merrily in answer to this toast, and all betook

themselves with evident zest to the costly and savory dishes, prepared

by the master-hand of Duvall the French cook, and which the prince

seasoned with the Attic salt of his ever-ready wit.

They all gave themselves up to gayety and merriment, and pleasure

sparkled in every eye.

The corpulent Knobelsdorf related in a stentorian voice some amusing

anecdotes of his travels. Chazot recited portions of Voltaire's latest

work. The learned and witty Count Kaiserling recited verses from the

"Henriade," and then several of Gellert's fables, which were becoming

very popular. He conversed with his neighbor, the artist Pesne, on the

subject of the paintings which his masterly hand had executed, and then

turning to Mademoiselle von Schwerin, he painted in glowing colors the

future of Berlin--the future when they would have a French theatre, an

Italian opera, and of all things, an Italian ballet-corps. For the

latter the most celebrated dancers would be engaged, and it should

eclipse every thing of the kind that had ever been seen or heard of in

Germany.

At the lower end of the table sat the two Vendas, the two Grauns, and

Quantz, the powerful and much-feared virtuoso of the flute and

instructor of the prince royal, whose rudeness was almost imposing, and

before whom the prince himself was somewhat shy. But to-day even Quantz

was quiet and tractable. His countenance wore the half-pleased,

half-grumbling expression of a bull-dog when stroked by a soft and

tender hand. He is inclined to be angry, but is so much at his ease

that he finds it absolutely impossible to growl.

In their merriment the gentlemen were becoming almost boisterous. The

cheeks of the ladies glowed with pleasure, and their lovers were

becoming tender.

The princess royal alone was silent; her heart was heavy and sorrowful.

She had carefully reconsidered the scene which had occurred, and the

result was, she was now convinced that the poem which she had received

was not intended for her, but for some other fair lady. She was ashamed

of her credulity, and blushed for her own vanity. For how could it be

possible that the handsome and brilliant man who sat at her side, who

was so witty and spirited, who was as learned as he was intelligent, as

noble as he was amiable, how could it be possible that he should love

her?--she who was only young and pretty, who was moreover guilty of the

great, unpardonable fault of being his wife, and a wife who had been

forced upon him.

No, this poem had never been intended for her. But for whom, then? Who

was the happy one to whom the prince had given his love? Her heart bled

as she thought that another could call this bliss her own. She was too

mild and gentle to be angry. She ardently desired to know the name of

her rival, but not that she might revenge herself. No, she wished to

pray for her whom the prince royal loved, to whom he perhaps owed a few

days of happiness, of bliss.

But who was she? The princess royal's glance rested searchingly on all

the ladies who were present. She saw many beautiful and pleasing faces.

Many of them had intelligence, vivacity, and wit, but none of them were

worthy of his love. Her husband had just turned to his fair neighbor,

and, with a fascinating smile, whispered a few words in her ear. Madame

Morien blushed, cast down her eyes, but, raising them again and looking

ardently at the prince royal, she murmured a few words in so low a tone

that no one else heard them.

How? Could it be this one? But no, that was impossible. This giddy,

coquettish, and superficial woman could by no possibility have

captivated the noble and high-toned prince; she could not be

Elizabeth's happy rival.

But who, then? Alas, if this long and weary feast were only at an end!

If she could but retire to her chamber and read this poem, the riddle

would then be solved, and she would know the name of his lady-love.

It seemed, however, that the prince had divined his wife's wish, and

had determined that it should not be gratified.

They had taken their seats at table at a very late hour to-day, at six

o'clock. It had now become dark, and candelabras with wax candles were

brought in and placed on the table.

"The lights are burning," exclaimed the prince; "we will not leave the

table until these lights are burned out, and our heads have become

illuminated with champagne."[6]

[6] Bielfeld, vol i., page 84. The prince's own words.

And amid conversation, laughter, and recitations, all went merrily on.

But the heart of the princess royal grew sadder and sadder.

Suddenly the prince turned to her. "I feel the vanity of an author,"

said he, "and beg permission to inquire if you have no curiosity to

hear the poem which I had the honor of sending you to-day by Madame

Brandt?"

"Indeed I have, my husband," exclaimed the princess, with vivacity. "I

long to become acquainted with its contents."

"Then permit me to satisfy this longing," said the prince, holding out

his hand for the poem. The princess hesitated, but when she looked up

and their eyes met, his glance was so cold and imperious, that she felt

as if an icy hand were at her heart. She drew the poem from her bosom

and handed it silently to her husband.

"Now, my little maid of honor, von Schwerin," said the prince royal,

smiling, "this sagacious, highly respectable, and worthy company shall

judge between you and me, and decide whether this paper is a letter

from her dear mother, as this modest and retiring child asserts, or a

poem, written by a certain prince, who is sometimes induced by his

imaginative fancy to make indifferent verses. Listen, therefore, ladies

and gentlemen, and judge between us. But that no one may imagine that I

am reading any thing else, and substituting the tender thoughts of a

lover for the fond words of motherly affection, Madame Morien shall

look at the paper I am reading, and bear witness to my truth."

He read off the first verses as they were written, and then

improvising, recited a witty and humorous poem, in which he did homage

to his wife's charms. His poem was greeted with rapturous applause.

While he was reciting the improvised verses, Madame Morien had time to

read the poem. When she came to the verses which contained a passionate

declaration of love, and in which the prince half-humbly,

half-imperiously, solicited a rendezvous, her breast heaved and her

heart beat high with delight. After the prince had finished he turned

to his wife with a smile, and asked if the poem had pleased her.

"So much so," said she, "that I pray you to return it. I should like to

preserve it as a reminiscence of this hour."

"Preserve it? By no means! A poem is like a flower. It is a thing of

the present, and is beautiful only when fresh. The moment gave it, and

the moment shall take it. We will sacrifice to the gods, what we owe to

the gods."

Having thus spoken, the prince tore the paper into small pieces, which

he placed in the palm of his hand.

"Go ye in all directions and teach unto all people that nothing is

immortal, not even the poem of a prince," said he, and blowing the

particles of paper, he sent them fluttering through the air like

snowflakes. The ladies and gentlemen amused themselves with blowing the

pieces from place to place. Each one made a little bellows of his

mouth, and endeavored to give some strip of paper a particular

direction or aim--to blow it on to some fair one's white shoulders or

into some gentleman's eye or laughing mouth.

This caused a great deal of merriment. The princess was still sad and

silent. Now and then a scrap fell before her; these she blew no

further, but mechanically collected and gazed at them in a listless and

mournful manner. Suddenly she started and colored violently. On one of

these strips of paper she had read two words which made her heart

tremble with anger and pain. These Words were, "Bewitching Leontine!"

The secret was out. The prince royal's poem had been addressed to

Leontine, to a bewitching Leontine, and not to Elizabeth! But who was

this Leontine? which of the ladies bore that name? She must, she would

know! She called all her courage to her assistance. Suddenly she took

part in the general merriment, commenced to laugh and jest; she entered

gayly into a conversation with her husband, with Madame Morien and the

young Baron Bielfeld, who was her vis-a-vis.

The princess had never been so gay, so unconstrained, and so witty. No

one suspected that these jests, this laughter, was only assumed; that

she veiled the pain which she suffered with a smiling brow.

The candles had burnt half way down, and some of the gentlemen had

begun to light the first tapers of the champagne illumination which the

prince had prophesied. Chazot no longer recited, but was singing some

of the charming little songs which he had learned of the merry peasants

of Normandy, his fatherland. Jordan improvised a sermon after the

fashion of the fanatical and hypocritical priests who for some time

past had collected crowds in the streets of Berlin. Kaiserling had

risen from his seat and thrown himself into an attitude in which he had

seen the celebrated Lagiere in the ballet of the Syrene at Paris.

Knobelsdorf recounted his interesting adventures in Italy; and even

Quanta found courage to give the prince's favorite dog, which was

snuffling at his feet, and which he hated as a rival, a hearty kick.

The prince royal alone had preserved his noble and dignified

appearance. Amid the general excitement he remained calm and dignified.

The candles were burning low, and the champagne illumination was

becoming intense in the heads of all the gentlemen except the prince

and the Baron Bielfeld.

"Bielfeld must also take part in this illumination," said the prince,

turning to his wife, and calling the former, he proposed to drink with

him the health of his fiancee, whom he had left in Hamburg.

After Bielfeld had left his seat and was advancing toward the prince

royal, the princess hurriedly and noiselessly gave her instructions to

a servant. She had observed that Bielfeld had been drinking freely of

the cold water which had been placed before him in a decanter. The

servant emptied this decanter and filled it with sillery, which was as

clear and limpid as water. Bielfeld returning to his seat, heated by

the toast he had been drinking, filled his glass to the brim, and drank

instead of water the fiery sillery.[7]

[7] Bielfeld, vol. i., page 85.

The princess royal, whose aim was to discover which of the ladies was

the bewitching Leontine, determined to strike a decisive blow. With an

ingratiating smile she turned to Bielfeld and said:

"The prince royal spoke of your fiancee; I may, therefore, congratulate

you."

Bielfeld, who did not dare to acknowledge that he was on the point of

shamefully deserting this lady, bowed in silence.

"May I know the name of your fiancee?" asked she.

"Mademoiselle von Randau," murmured Bielfeld, drinking another glass of

sillery to hide his confusion.

"Mademoiselle von Randau!" repeated the princess, "how cold, how

ceremonious that sounds! To imagine how a lady looks and what she is

like, it is necessary to know her Christian name, for a given name is

to some extent an index to character. What is your fiancee's name?"

"Regina, royal highness."

"Regina! That is a beautiful name. A prophecy of happiness. Then she

will always be queen of your heart. Ah, I understand the meaning of

names, and at home in my father's house I was called the Sibyl, because

my prophecies were always true. If you will give me your first names, I

will prophecy your future, ladies. Let us commence. What is your given

name, Madame von Katsch?"

While the princess was speaking, she played carelessly with the

beautiful Venetian glass which stood before her. The prince royal alone

saw what no one else observed; he saw that the hand which toyed with

the glass trembled violently; that while she smiled her lips quivered,

and that her breathing was hurried and feverish. He comprehended what

these prophecies meant; he was convinced that the princess had become

acquainted with the contents of his poem.

"Do not give her your name," he whispered to Madame Morien. He then

turned to his wife, who had just prophesied a long life and a happy old

age to Madame von Katsch.

"And your name, Mademoiselle von Schwerin?" said the prince royal.

"Louise."

"Ah, Louise! Well, I prophecy that you will be happier than your

namesake, the beautiful La Valliere. Your conscience will never

reproach you on account of your love affairs, and you will never enter

a convent."

"But then I will probably never have the happiness of being loved by a

king," said the little maid of honor, with a sigh.

This naive observation was greeted with a merry peal of laughter.

The princess continued her prophecies; she painted for each one a

pleasant and flattering future. She now turned to Madame Morien, still

smiling, still playing with the glass.

"Well, and your name, my dear Madame Morien?" said she, looking into

the glass which she held clasped in her fingers.

"She is called 'Le Tourbillon,'" exclaimed the prince royal, laughing.

"Antoinette, Louise, Albertine, are my names," said Madame Morien,

hesitatingly.

The princess royal breathed free, and raised her eyes from the glass to

the beautiful Morien.

"These are too many names to prophesy by," said she. "By what name are

you called?"

Madame Morien hesitated; the other ladies, better acquainted with the

little mysteries of Tourbillon than the princess, divined that this

question of the princess and the embarrassment of Madame Morien

betokened something extraordinary, and awaited attentively the reply of

this beautiful woman. A momentary pause ensued. Suddenly Mademoiselle

Schwerin broke out in laughter.

"Well," said she, "have you forgotten your name, Madame Morien? Do you

not know that you are called Leontine?"

"Leontine?" exclaimed the princess, and her fingers closed so tightly

on the glass which she held in her hand, that it crushed, and drew from

her a sharp cry of pain.

The prince royal saw the astonished and inquiring glances of all

directed to his wife, and felt that he must turn their attention in

some other direction--that he must make a jest of this accident.

"Elizabeth, you are right!" said he, laughing. "The candles have burnt

down; the illumination has begun; the festival is at an end. We have

already sacrificed a poem to the gods, we must now do the same with the

glasses, out of which we have quaffed a few hours of happiness, of

merriment, and of forgetfulness. I sacrifice this glass to the gods;

all of you follow my example."

He raised his glass and threw it over his shoulder to the floor, where

it broke with a crash. The others followed the example of the prince

and his wife with shouts of laughter, and in a few minutes nothing was

left of these beautiful glasses but the glittering fragments which

covered the floor. But the company, now intoxicated with wine and

delight, was not contented with this one offering to the gods, but

thirsted for a continuation of their sport; and not satisfied with

having broken the glasses, subjected the vases and the bowls of crystal

to the same treatment. In the midst of this general confusion the door

was suddenly opened, and Fredersdorf appeared at the threshold, holding

a letter in his hand.

His uncalled-for appearance in this saloon was something so

extraordinary, so unprecedented, that it could be only justified on the

ground of some great emergency, something of paramount importance. They

all felt this, notwithstanding their excitement and hilarity. A

profound silence ensued. Every eye was fixed anxiously upon the prince,

who had received the letter from Fredersdorf's hands and broken the

seal. The prince turned pale, and the paper trembled in his hands He

hastily arose from his seat.

"My friends," said he, solemnly, "the feast is at an end. I must leave

for Potsdam immediately. The king is dangerously ill. Farewell!"

And offering his arm to his wife, he hastily left the saloon. The

guests, who but now were so merry, silently arose and betook themselves

to their chambers, and nothing could be heard save now and then a

stolen whisper or a low and anxious inquiry. Soon a deep and ominous

silence reigned in the castle of Rheinsberg. All slept, or at least

seemed to sleep.

CHAPTER XIV.

LE ROI EST MORT. VIVE LE ROI!

King Frederick William's end was approaching. Past was his power and

greatness, past all his dreams of glory. Long did the spirit fight

against the body; but now, after months of secret pain and torture, he

had to acknowledge himself overpowered by death. The stiff uniform is

no longer adapted to his fallen figure. Etiquette and ceremony had been

banished by the all-powerful ruler--by death. He is no longer a king,

but a dying man--nothing more. A father taking leave of his children, a

husband embracing his wife for the last time; pressing his last kisses

upon her tearful face, and pleading for forgiveness for his harshness

and cruelty. Frederick William has made his peace with God and the

world; his proud spirit is broken; his hard heart softened. Long he had

striven in the haughtiness of his heart before acknowledging his sins,

but the brave and pious Roloff approached his couch, and with

accusations and reproaches awakened his slumbering conscience. At first

he had but one answer to the priest's accusations, and that was proudly

given: "I have ever been true to my wife." Roloff continued to speak of

his extortions, oppressions, and inhumanity. Frederick William was at

last convinced that he must lay down his crown and approach God with

deep repentance, humbly imploring pardon and mercy.

Now that he had made his peace with God, there remained nothing for him

to do but to arrange his earthly affairs, and take leave of his wife,

and children, and friends. They were all called to his room that he

might bid them farewell. By the side of the arm-chair, in which the

king was reclining, wrapped in his wide silk mantle, stood his wife and

the prince royal. His hands rested in theirs, and when he raised his

weary eyes, he always met their tear-stained faces, their looks of

unutterable love. Death, that would so soon separate them forever, had

at last united in love father and son. Weeping loudly, Frederick

William, folded the prince royal in his arms, and with a voice full of

tears, exclaimed: "Has not God in his great mercy given me a noble

son?" Prince Frederick bowed his head upon his father's breast, and

prayed deeply and earnestly that his life might be spared.

But the end was approaching; the king knew and felt it. He had the long

coffin, the same in which he had laid himself for trial a few months

before, brought into his room, and looking at it sadly, said, with a

peaceful smile: "In this bed I shall sleep well!" He then called his

secretary, Eichel, and ordered him to read the programme of his

funeral, which he had himself dictated.

It was a strange picture to see this king, lying by the side of the

coffin, surrounded by his children and servants, his weary head

reclining on the shoulder of his wife, listening attentively to this

programme, that spoke of him a still living and thinking being, as of a

cold, dead, senseless mass. Not as for a sad festival, but for a grand

parade, had the king arranged it, and it made a fearful, half-comic

impression upon the auditors, when was added, at the especial request

of the king, that, after his laying out, a splendid table should be set

in the great hall for all who had been present at the ceremony, and

that none but the best wines from his cellar should be served.

After having provided for his corpse, Frederick William still wished to

leave to each of his favorites, the Prince of Dessau and Baron Hacke, a

horse. He ordered the horses to be led from their stalls to the court.

He then desired his chair to be rolled to an open window, where he

could see the entire court, and give a farewell look to each of these

animals which had so often borne him to feasts and parades. Oh! what

costly, glorious days those were, when he could lightly swing himself

upon these proud steeds, and ride out into God's fresh, free air, to be

humbly welcomed by his subjects, to be received with the roll of drums

and the sound of trumpets, and every moment of his life be made aware

of his greatness and power by the devotion and humility of those who

surrounded him! And that was all set aside and at an end. Never again

could he mount his horse, never again could he ride through the streets

of Berlin, and rejoice over the beautiful houses and stately palaces

called into life by his royal will. Never again will he receive the

humble welcome of his subjects; and when on the morrow drums are

beating and cannon thundering, they will not salute the king, but his

corpse.

Oh! and life is so beautiful; the air is so fresh and balmy; the

heavens of so clear and transparent a blue; and he must leave it all,

and descend into the dark and lonely grave.

The king brushed a tear from his eye, and turning his gaze from heaven

and God's beautiful earth, looked upon the horses which a servant was

leading to and fro in the court. As he did this, his countenance

brightened, he forgot for the moment that death was near at hand, and

looked with eager attention to see which of the horses the gentlemen

would choose. When he saw the selection the Prince of Dessau had made,

he smiled, with the pitying look of a connoisseur.

"That is a bad horse, my dear prince," he exclaimed; "take the other

one, I will vouch for him."

After the prince had chosen the horse shown him by the king, and Baron

Hacke the other, he ordered the most magnificent and costly saddles to

be placed on them; and while this was being done, he looked on with

eager interest. Behind him stood the minister Rodewills, and the

secretary of state, whom the king had summoned to his presence to

receive his resignation, by which he transferred the kingly authority

to his son the prince royal. Behind him stood Frederick and the queen,

the generals and the priests. The king was unconscious of their

presence; he had forgotten that he was dying; he thought only of his

horses, and a dark cloud settled on his face as the groom buckled a

saddle covered with blue velvet over the yellow silk housing of Prince

Anhalt's horse.

"Oh, if I were only well, how I would beat that stupid boy!" exclaimed

the king, in a loud, menacing voice. "Hacke, have the kindness to beat

him for me."

The horses pointed their ears and neighed loudly, and the servants

trembled at the voice of their master, who was speaking to them as

angrily as ever, but in a deep, sepulchral voice.

But his anger was of short duration, and he sank back into his chair,

breathing heavily and brokenly. He had not the strength to sign his

resignation, and demanded to be taken from his chair and placed upon

the bed.

There he lay motionless, with half-closed eyes, groaning and sighing. A

fearful stillness reigned in the chamber of death. All held their

breath; all wished to hear the last death-sigh of the king; all wished

to witness the mysterious and inscrutable moment when the soul, freeing

itself from its earthly tenement, should ascend to the spring of light

and life as an invisible but indestructible atom of divinity. Pale and

trembling the prince leaned over his father; the kneeling queen prayed

in a low voice. With earnest and sorrowful faces the generals and

cavaliers, physicians and priests, looked at this pale and ghost-like

being, who but a few moments before was a king, and was now a clod of

the valley. But no, Frederick William was not yet dead; the breath that

had ceased returned to his breast. He opened his eyes once more, and

they were again full of intelligence. He ordered a glass to be given

him, and looked at himself long and attentively.

"I don't look as badly as I thought," said he, with the last fluttering

emotion of human vanity. "Feel my pulse, doctor, and tell me how long I

have still to live."

"Your majesty insists on knowing?"

"I command you to tell me."

"Well, then, your majesty is about to die," said Ellert, solemnly.

"How do you know it?" he asked, composedly.

"By your wavering pulse, sire."

The king held his arm aloft, and moved his hand to and fro.

"Oh, no," said he, "if my pulse were failing I could not move my hand;

if--"

Suddenly he ceased speaking, and uttered a loud cry, his uplifted arm

sinking heavily to his side.

"Jesus, Jesus!" murmured the king, "I live and die in Thee. Thou art my

trust."

The last fearful prayer died on his lips, the spirit had flown, and

Frederick was no longer a living, thinking being, but senseless,

powerless clay.

The prince royal conducted the weeping queen from the apartment. The

courtiers remained, but their features were no longer sad and

sympathetic, but grave and thoughtful. The tragedy here was at an end,

and all were anxious to see the drama from which the curtain was now to

be drawn in the apartments of the prince royal. Frederick William had

breathed his last, and was becoming cold and stiff; he was only a

corpse, with which one had nothing more to do.

In unseemly haste they all crowded through the widely-opened folding

doors of the death-chamber, and hastened into the ante-room that led to

the young king's apartments.

Who will be favored, who receive the first rays of the rising sun? They

all see a sunny future before them. A new period begins, a period of

splendor, abundance, and joy; the king is young, and fond of display

and gay festivities; he is no soldier king, but a cavalier, a writer,

and a learned man. Art and science will bloom, gallantry and fashion

reign; the corporal's baton is broken, the flute begins her soft,

melodious reign.

Thus thought all these waiting courtiers who were assembled in the

young king's ante-chamber. Thus thought the grand chamberlain Pollnitz,

who stood next to the door that led to the chamber within. Yes, a new

period must commence for him; his would be a brilliant future, for the

prince royal had always been loving and gracious to him, and the young

king must remember that it was Pollnitz who induced Frederick William

to pay the prince's debts. The king must remember this, and, for the

services he had rendered, raise him to honor and dignity; he must be

the favorite, the envied, feared, and powerful favorite, before whom

all should bend the knee as to the king himself. The king was young,

inexperienced, and easily led; he had a warm heart, a rich imagination,

and an ardent love of pleasure and splendor. These qualities must be

cultivated in the young king; by these reins he would control him; and

while intoxicated with pleasure and delight, he lay on his

sweet-scented couch, strengthening himself for new follies, Pollnitz

would reign in his stead, and be the real king.

These were no chimeras, no vain dreams, but a well-considered plan, in

which Pollnitz had a powerful abettor in the person of Fredersdorf,

chamberlain of the young king, who had promised that he should be the

first that the king should call for.

For this reason Pollnitz stood nearest the door; for this reason he so

proudly regarded the courtiers who were breathlessly awaiting the

opening of that door.

There, the door opens, and Fredersdorf appears.

"Baron Pollnitz!"

"Here I am," exclaimed Pollnitz, casting a triumphant look at his

companions, and following Fredersdorf into the royal presence.

"Well, have I not kept my promise?" said Fredersdorf, as they passed

through the first room.

"You have kept yours, and I will keep mine; we will reign together."

"Step in, the king is there," said Fredersdorf.

The young king stood at the window, his forehead resting on the sash,

sighing and breathing heavily, as if oppressed. As he turned, Pollnitz

noticed that his eyes were red with weeping, and the courtier's heart

misgave him.

A young king, just come into power, and not intoxicated by his

brilliant fortune, but weeping for his father's death! It augured ill

for the courtier's plans.

"All hail and blessing to your majesty!" exclaimed Pollnitz, bowing

with apparent enthusiasm to kiss the king's robe.

The king stepped aside, motioned him off, and said, with a slight

smile, "Leave these ceremonies until the coronation. I need you now for

other things. You shall be master of etiquette and ceremonies at my

court, and you will commence your duties by making the necessary

arrangements for my father's funeral. Unhappily, I must begin my reign

by disobeying my father's commands. I cannot allow this simple and

modest funeral to take place. The world would not understand it, and

would accuse me of irreverence. No, he must be interred with all the

honors due to a king. That is my desire; see that it is accomplished."

The grand chamberlain was dismissed, and passed out of the royal

chambers lost in contemplation of his coming greatness, when, suddenly

hearing his name, he turned and perceived the king at the door.

"One thing more, Pollnitz," said the king, his eye resting with a

piercing expression on the smiling countenance of the courtier; "one

thing more--above all things, no cheating, no bad jokes, no overrating,

no accounts written with double chalk. I will never forgive any thing

of this kind, remember that."

Without awaiting an answer, the king turned and re-entered his room.

Baron Pollnitz stared after him with widely-distended eyes; he felt as

if a thunderbolt had destroyed his future.

This was not the extravagant, voluptuous, and confiding monarch that

Pollnitz had thought him, but a sober, earnest, and frugal king, that

even mistrusted and saw through him, the wily old courtier.

CHAPTER XV.

WE ARE KING.

Two days and nights had passed, and still no news from the prince

royal. King Frederick William still lived, and the little court of

Rheinsberg was consumed with impatience and expectation. All means of

dissipation were exhausted. Time had laid aside its wing, and put on

shoes of lead. She flew no longer, but walked like an aged woman. How

long an hour seems, when you count the seconds! How terribly a day

stretches out when, with wakeful but wearied eyes, you long for its

close!

Kaiserling's wit and Chazot's merry humor, where are they? Why is

Bielfeld's ringing laugh and the flute of Quantz silenced? All is

quiet, all are silent and waiting, dreaming of the happiness in store

for them, of the day of splendor, power, and magnificence that will

dawn for the favorites and friends of the prince royal when he ascends

the throne.

Is it not a proud and delightful thing to be the confidant and

companion of a king--to spend with him his treasures and riches, to

share with him the devotion and applause of the people?

Until now they had been forced to disguise their friendship and

devotion for the prince royal. They trembled for fear of exciting the

king's anger, and were in daily terror of being banished by him from

the presence of their prince.

When the prince royal ascends the throne they will be his powerful and

influential favorites, and their favor will be courted by all. They

will be his co-regents, and through and with him will rule the nation.

It is, therefore, not astonishing that they look forward to his

accession to the throne with longing and impatience; not astonishing

that they curse these sluggish, slowly-passing hours, and would fain

have slept, slept on until the great and blessed moment when they

should be awakened with the news that their friend Prince Frederick had

ascended the throne of his fathers, and was King of Prussia.

In the midst of this excitement the princess royal alone seemed quiet

and unconstrained. She was calm and composed; she knew that the events

of the next few days would determine her whole life; she feared that

her happiness hung on the slender thread which bound the dying king to

life.

But Elizabeth Christine had a brave heart and a noble soul; she had

passed the night on her knees weeping and praying, and her heart was

full of misery. She had at last become quiet and composed, and was

prepared for any thing, even for a separation from her husband. If

Frederick expressed such a wish, she was determined to go. Where?

Anywhere. Far, far away. Whichever route she took, she was certain to

reach her destination, and this destination was the grave. If she could

not live with him, she would die! She knew this, and knowing it, she

was tranquil, even happy.

"I invite all the ladies and gentlemen of the court to spend the

evening in my room," she said, on the second day of this painful

expectation; "we will endeavor to imagine that the prince royal is in

our midst, and pass the hours in the usual manner; we will first go

yachting; afterwards we will all take tea together, and Baron Bielfeld

will read us a few chapters from the 'Henriade.' We will then play

cards, and finish the evening with a dance. Does this programme meet

with your approbation?" All murmured some words of assent and thanks,

but their faces were nevertheless slightly clouded. Perceiving this,

the princess royal said: "It seems that you are not pleased, that my

suggestion does not meet with your approbation. Even the face of my

little Louise von Schwerin is clouded, and the countenance of my good

Countess Katsch no longer wears its pleasant smile. Well, what is it? I

must know. Baron Bielfeld, I appoint you speaker of this discontented

community. Speak, sir."

The baron smiled and sighed: "Your highness spoke a few days since of

your gift of prophecy, and in fact you are a prophetess, and have seen

through us. It is certainly a great happiness and a great honor to

spend the evening in the apartments of the princess royal. But if your

highness would allow us to ask a favor, it would be that our exalted

mistress would condescend to receive us either in the garden saloon or

music room, and not in your private apartments; for these apartments,

beautiful and magnificent as they are, have one great, one terrible

defect."

"Well," said the princess, as Bielfeld concluded, "I am curious to know

what this defect is. I believed my rooms to be beautiful and charming;

the prince royal himself regulated their arrangement, and Pesne and

Buisson ornamented them with their most beautiful paintings. Quick

then, tell me of this great defect!"

"Your highness, your apartments are in the right wing of the castle."

The princess looked at him inquiringly, astonishment depicted in her

countenance, and then laughed.

"Ah, now I see, my apartments are in the right wing of the castle; that

is, from there you cannot watch the great bridge, over which all that

come from Berlin or Potsdam must pass. You are right, this is a great

defect. But the music room is in the left wing, and from there you can

see both the bridge and the road. Let us, then, adjourn to the music

room for our reading, and when it becomes too dark to see, we will play

cards in my apartments."

They all followed the princess to the music room, where by chance or

out of mischief the princess chose the seat farthest from the window,

and thus compelled the company to assemble around her. As they followed

her, they all looked longingly through the window and toward the

bridge, over which the messenger of happiness might at any moment pass.

Bielfeld took the book selected by the princess, and commenced reading.

But how torturing it was to road, to listen to these pathetic and

measured Alexandrines from the "Henriade," while perchance in this same

hour a new Alexander was placing the crown upon his young and noble

head! In fact, but little was heard of these harmonious verses. All

looked stealthily toward the window, and listened breathlessly to every

sound that came from the road. Bielfeld suddenly ceased reading, and

looked toward the window.

"Why do you not read on?" said the princess.

"Excuse me, I thought I saw a horse's head on the bridge!"

Forthwith, as if upon a given signal, they all flew to the windows; the

princess herself, in the general commotion, hastened to one.

Yes! Between the trees something was seen moving. There it is coming on

the bridge now! A peal of laughter resounded through the rooms. An ox!

Count Bielfeld's courier had transformed himself into an ox!

They all stole back to their seats in confusion, and the reading was

recommenced. But it did not last long; again Bielfeld came to a stop.

"Pardon me, your highness, but now there is positively a horse on the

bridge."

Again they all rushed anxiously to the window. It certainly was a

horse, but its rider was not a royal messenger, but a common peasant.

"I see," said the princess, laughing, "that we must discontinue our

reading. Let us walk in the left wing of the garden, and as near the

gate as possible."

"Will the sun never set?" whispered Bielfeld to Count Wartensleben, as

they walked up and down. "I fear another Joshua has arrested its

course."

But it set at last; it was now evening, and still no courier had passed

the bridge. They accepted the princess' invitation, and hastened to her

apartments and to the card-tables. And on this occasion, as heretofore,

the cards exercised a magic influence over the inhabitants of

Rheinsberg, for they were striving to win that, from the want of which,

not only the prince but all his courtiers had so often suffered--gold!

Count Wartensleben had lately arrived and brought with him a

well-filled purse, which Bielfeld, Kaiserling, and Chazot were anxious

to lighten.

The princess played with her maids of honor a game called Trisset, in

her boudoir, while the rest of the company, seated at several tables in

the adjoining room, played their beloved game of quadrille. The door

suddenly opened, and a valet appeared. In passing the table at which

Count Wartensleben, Bielfeld, and several ladies were playing, he

stealthily showed them a letter with a black seal, which he was about

to deliver to the princess.

"The king is then dead!" murmured they, hastily throwing their cards on

the table; the counters fell together, but they looked at them in

disdain. What cared they for a few lost pennies, now that their prince

had become king?

Count Wartensleben arose and said in a solemn voice: "I will be the

first to greet the princess as queen, and I will exert every effort to

utter the word 'majesty' in a full, resounding tone."

"I will follow you," said Bielfeld, solemnly.

And both advanced to the open door, through which the princess could be

seen still occupied in reading her letter. She seemed unusually gay,

and a bright, smile played upon her lips. Accidentally looking up, she

perceived the two cavaliers advancing slowly and solemnly toward her.

"Ah, you know, then, that a courier has at last crossed that fatal

bridge, and you come for news of the prince royal?"

"Prince royal?" repeated Wartensleben, in amazement. "Is he still the

prince royal?"

"You then thought he was king!" exclaimed the princess, "and came to

greet me as your queen?"

"Yes, your highness, and the word 'majesty' was already on my lips."

They all laughed heartily, and jested over this mistake, but were

nevertheless thankful when they were at last dismissed and were allowed

to retire to their rooms. When entirely alone, the princess drew from

her bosom the letter she had received, to read it once more; she cast a

loving and tender glance at the characters his hand had traced, and as

her eyes rested on his signature, she raised the paper to her lips and

kissed it.

"Frederick," whispered she, "my Frederick, I love you so deeply that I

envy this paper which has been touched by your hand, and upon which

your glorious eyes have rested. No, no," said she, "he will not cast me

off. Is it not written here--'In a few days I and the people will greet

you as Queen.' No, he could not be so cruel as to set the crown on my

head, and then cover it with ashes. If he acknowledges me as his wife

and queen before his people, and before Germany, it must be his

intention never to disown me, but to let me live on by his side. Oh, he

must surely know how truly I love him, although I have never had the

courage to tell him so. My tears and my sighs must have whispered to

him the secret of my love, and he will have compassion with a poor wife

who asks but to be permitted to adore and worship him. And who knows

but that he may one day be touched by this great love, that he will one

day raise up the poor woman who now lies trembling at his feet, and

press her to his bosom. Oh, that this may be so, my God; let it be, and

then let me die!"

She sank back on her couch, and, pressing the letter to her lips,

whispered softly: "Good-night, Frederick, my Frederick!" She smiled

sweetly as she slept. Perhaps she was dreaming of him.

A deep silence soon reigned throughout the castle. All the lights were

extinguished. Sleep spread its wings over all these impatient and

expectant hearts, and fanned them into forgetfulness and peaceful rest.

All slept, and now the long-expected courier is at last passing over

the bridge, which trembled beneath his horse's feet, but none hear him,

all are sleeping so soundly. His knocks resound through the entire

castle. It is the herald of the new era, which sheds its first bright

morning rays over the evening of the dark and gloomy past.

Now all are awake, and running to and fro through the halls, each one

burning with eagerness to proclaim the joyful news: "Frederick is no

longer prince royal. Frederick is king and the ruler of Prussia!"

Bielfeld is awakened by a loud knocking; he springs hastily out of bed

and opens the door to his friend Knobelsdorf. "Up, up, my friend,"

exclaims the latter. "Dress quickly. We must go down and congratulate

the queen; we must be ready to accompany her immediately to Berlin.

Frederick William is dead, and we will now reign in Prussia."

"Ah, another fairy tale," said Bielfeld dressing hastily; "a fairy

tale, by which we have been too often deceived to believe in its truth."

"No, no, this time it is true. The king is dead, quite dead! Jordan has

received orders to embalm the corpse, and once in his hands, it will

never come to life again."

Bielfeld being now ready, the two friends hurried to the ante-chamber

that led to the princess royal's apartments. The entire court of the

new queen had assembled in this chamber, and they were endeavoring to

suppress their joy and delight, and to look grave and earnest in

consideration of the solemnity of the occasion. They conversed in

whispers, for the bed-chamber of the princess was next to this room,

and she still slept.

"Yes, the princess royal sleeps, but when she awakes she will be a

queen! She must be awakened, to receive her husband's letter."

The Countess Katsch, with two of Elizabeth's maids of honor, entered

her bed-chamber, well armed with smelling-bottles and salts. Elizabeth

Christine still slept. But on so important an occasion the sleep even

of a princess was not considered sacred. The countess drew back the

curtains, and Elizabeth was awakened by the bright glaring light. She

looked inquiringly at the countess, who approached her with a low and

solemn courtesy.

"Pardon me for waking your majesty--"

"Majesty, why 'your majesty?'" said the princess, quickly. "Has another

ox or horse crossed the fatal bridge?"

"Yes, your majesty, but it was Baron Villich's horse, and he brought

the news that King Frederick William expired yesterday at Potsdam. I

have a smelling-bottle here, your majesty; allow me to hold--"

The young queen pushed back the smelling-bottle; she did not feel in

the least like fainting, and her heart beat higher.

"And has the baron brought no letter for me?" said she, breathlessly.

"Here is a letter, your majesty."

The queen hastily broke the seal. It contained but a few lines, but

they were in her husband's handwriting, and were full of significance.

To her these few lines indicated a future full of splendor, happiness,

and love. The king called her to share with him the homage of his

subjects. It is true there was not a word of tenderness or love in the

letter, but the king called her to his side; he called her his wife.

Away, then, away to Berlin, where her husband was awaiting her; where

the people would greet her as their queen; where a new world, a new

life would unfold itself before her; a life of proud enjoyment! For

Elizabeth will be the queen, the wife of Frederick. Away, then, to

Berlin!

The queen received the congratulations of her court in the music-room.

And now to Berlin, where a new sun has risen, a King Frederick the

Second!

CHAPTER XVI.

ROYAL GRACE AND ROYAL DISPLEASURE.

The cannon thundered, the bells rang loudly and merrily; the garrison

in Berlin took the oath, as the garrison in Potsdam had done the day

before.

The young king held his first great court to-day in the White Saloon.

From every province, from every State, from every corporation,

deputations had arrived to look upon the long-hoped-for king, the

liberator from oppression, servitude, and famine. Delight and pure

unqualified joy reigned in every heart, and those who looked upon the

features of Frederick, illuminated with kindliness and intellect, felt

that for Prussia it was the dawning of a new era.

But who was called to assist in organizing this new movement? Whom had

the king chosen from amongst his friends and servants? whom had he set

aside? upon whom would he revenge himself? Truth to tell, there were

many now standing in the White Saloon who had often, perhaps, in

obedience to the king's command, brought suffering and bitter sorrow

upon the prince royal; many were there who had humbled him, misused his

confidence, and often brought down his father's rage and scorn upon him.

Will the king remember these things, now that he has the power to

punish and revenge his wrongs? Many had entered the White Saloon

trembling with anxiety; timidly keeping in the distance; glad that the

eye of the king did not rest upon them; glad to slip unseen into a

corner.

But nothing escaped the eye of Frederick; he had remarked the group

standing in the far-off window; he understood full well their restless,

disturbed, and anxious glances. A pitiful and sweet smile spread over

his noble features, an expression of infinite gentleness illumined his

face; with head erect he drew near to this group, who, with the

instinct of a common danger, pressed more closely together, and awaited

their fate silently.

Who had so often and so heavily oppressed the prince as Colonel

Derchau? who had mocked at him and persecuted him so bitterly? who had

carried out the harsh commands of the king against him so

unrelentingly? It was Derchau and Grumbkow who presided at the first

cruel trial of "Captain Fritz," and had repeated to him the hard and

threatening words of the king. "Captain Fritz" had wept with rage, and

sworn to revenge himself upon these cruel men. Will the king remember

the oath of the captain? The king stood now near the colonel; his clear

eye was fixed upon him. This man, who had prepared for him so many

woes, now stood with bowed head and loudly-beating heart, completely in

his power. Suddenly, with a rash movement, the king extended his hand,

and said, mildly:

"Good-day, Derchau." It was the first time in seven years that

Frederick had spoken to him, and this simple greeting touched his

heart; he bowed low, and as he kissed the outstretched hand, a hot tear

fell upon it. "Colonel Derchau," said the king, "you were a faithful

and obedient servant to my royal father; you have punctually followed

his wishes and given him unconditional obedience. It becomes me to

reward my father's faithful subject. From to-day you are a

major-general."

As the king turned, his eye fell upon the privy councillor Von Eckert,

and the mild and conciliating expression vanished from his features; he

looked hard and stern.

"Has the coat-of-arms been placed upon the house in Jager Street?" said

the king.

"No, your majesty."

"Then I counsel you not to have it done; this house is the property of

the crown, and it shall not be sacrificed by such folly. Go home, and

there you will receive my commands."

Pale and heart-broken, Eckert glided from the group; mocking laughter

followed his steps through the saloons; no one had a word of regret or

pity for him; no one remembered their former friendship and

oft-repeated assurances of service and gratitude. He passed tremblingly

through the palace; as he reached the outer door, Pollnitz stepped

before him; a mocking smile played upon his lips, and his glance

betrayed all the hatred which he had been compelled to veil or conceal

during the life of Frederick William.

"Now," said he, slowly, "will you send me the wine which you promised

from your cellar? You UNDERSTAND, the wine from your house in Jager

Street, for which I arranged the coat-of-arms! Ah, those were charming

days, my dear privy councillor! You have often broken your word of

honor to me, often slandered me, and brought upon me the reproaches of

the king. I have, however, reason to be thankful to you; this house

which you have built in Jager Street is stately and handsome, and large

enough for a cavalier of my pretensions. You have, also, at the cost of

the king, furnished it with such princely elegance that it is in all

things an appropriate residence for a cavalier. Do you not remember my

description of such a house? The king called it then a Spanish

air-castle. You, great-hearted man, have made my castle in the air a

splendid reality, and now that it is finished and furnished, you will,

in your magnanimity, leave that house to me. I shall be your heir! You

know, my dear Eckert, that the privy councillor is dead, and only the

chimney-builder lives; and even the adroit chimney-builder is banished

from Berlin, and must remain twenty miles away from his splendid home.

But tell me, Eckert, when one of my chimneys smokes, may I not send a

messenger to you, will you not promise me to come and put things in

order for me?"

Eckert muttered some confused words, and tried to force Pollnitz from

the door, before which the hard-hearted, spiteful courtier had placed

himself, like the angel with the avenging sword.

"You wish to go," said he, with assumed kindliness. "Oh, without doubt

you wish to see the royal commands now awaiting you at your house. I

can tell you literally the sentence of the king: you have lost your

office, your income, your rank, and you are banished from Berlin! that

is all. The king, as you see, has been gracious; he could have had you

executed, or sent to Spandau for life, but he would not desecrate his

new reign with your blood. For this reason was he gracious."

"Let me pass," said Eckert, trembling, and pale as death. "I am

choking! let me out!"

Pollnitz still held him back. "Do you not know, good man, that a

thousand men stand below in the courtyard? do you not hear their shouts

and rejoicings? Well, these hurrahs will be changed into growls of rage

when the people see you, my dear Eckert; in their wild wrath they might

mistake you for a good roast, with which to quiet their hunger. You

know that the people are hungry; you, who filled the barns of the king

with grain, and placed great locks and bars upon the doors, lest the

people, in their despairing hunger, might seize upon the corn! You even

swore to the king that the people had enough, and did not need his corn

or his help! Listen, the people shout again; I will not detain you. Go

and look upon this happy people. The king has opened the granaries and

scattered bread far and wide, and the tax upon meal is removed for a

month.[8] Go, dear Eckert, go and see how happy the people are!"

[8] See King's "History of Berlin," vol. v. The king's own words.

With a wild curse Eckert sprang from the door; Pollnitz followed him

with a mocking glance. "Revenge is sweet," he said, drawing a long

breath; "he has often done me wrong, and now I have paid him back with

usury. Eckert is lost. Would that I had his house! I must have it! I

will have it! Oh, I will make myself absolutely necessary to the king;

I will flatter, I will praise, I will find out and fulfil his most

secret, his unspoken wishes. I will force him to give me his

confidence--to make me his maitre de plaisir. Yes, yes, the house in

Jager Street shall be mine! I have sworn it, and Fredersdorf has

promised me his influence. And now to the king; I must see for myself

if this young royal child can, like Hercules in his cradle, destroy

serpents on the day of his birth; or, if he is a king, like all other

kings, overcome by flattery, idle and vain, knowing or acknowledging no

laws over himself, but those of his own conscience and his bon plaisir.

But hark! that is the king's voice; to whom is he speaking?"

Pollnitz hastened into the adjoining room; the king was standing in the

midst of his ministers, and a deputation of magistrates of Berlin, and

was in the act of dismissing them.

"I command you," said the king, in conclusion, turning to his

ministers, "as often as you think it necessary to make any changes in

my orders and regulations, to make known your opinions to me freely,

and not to be weary in so doing; I may, unhappily, sometimes lose sight

of the true interests of my subjects; I am resolved that whenever in

future my personal interest shall seem to be contrary to the welfare of

my people, their happiness shall receive the first consideration."

"Alas, it will be very difficult to tame this youthful Hercules!"

murmured Pollnitz, glancing toward the king, who was just leaving the

apartment; "the serpents that we will twine about him must be strong

and alluring; now happily Fredersdorf and myself are acquainted with

some such serpents, and we will take care that he finds them in his

path."

In the mean time the king had left the reception-room, and retired to

his private apartments, where the friends and confidants from

Rheinsberg awaited him with hopeful hearts. They were all ready to

receive the showers of gold, which, without doubt, would rain down upon

them. They were all convinced that the young king would lay upon them,

at least, a corner of the mantle of ermine and purple with which his

shoulders should be adorned. They alone would be chosen to aid in

bearing the burden of his kingly crown and royal sceptre. They were all

dreaming of ambassadorships, presidencies, and major-generals'

epaulettes.

As the king entered, they received him with loud cries of joy. The

Margrave Henry, who had often borne a part in the gay fetes at

Rheinsberg, hastened to greet the king with gay, witty words, and both

hands extended. Frederick did not respond to this greeting; he did not

smile; looking steadily at the Margrave, he stepped back and said:

"Monsieur, now I am the king; no longer the gardener at Rheinsberg."

The king read the pained astonishment in the faces of his friends who,

one moment before, had been so HOPEFUL, so assured; he advanced and

said, in a kindly tone, "We are no longer in Rheinsberg. The beautiful

proverb of Horace belongs to our past. 'Folly is sweet in its season.'

There I was the gardener and the friend--here I am the king; here all

must work, and each one must use his talents and his strength in the

service of the State, and thus prove to the people that the prince had

reason to choose him for a friend."

"And may I also be a partaker of that grace and be counted amongst the

friends of the king?" said the old Prince of Anhalt Dessau, who, with

his two sons, had just entered and heard the last words of Frederick;

"will your majesty continue to me and my sons the favor which your

ever-blessed father granted to us during so many long and happy years?

Oh, your majesty, I beseech you to be gracious to us, and grant us the

position and influence which we have so long enjoyed." So saying, the

old prince bent his knee to his youthful monarch. The king bowed his

head thoughtfully, and a smile played upon his lips; he gave his hand

to the prince, and commanded him to rise.

"I will gladly leave you your place and income, for I am sure you will

serve me as faithfully and zealously as you did my father. As regards

the position and influence which you desire, I say to you all, no man

under my reign will have position but I myself, and not even my best

friend will exercise the slightest influence over me."

The friends from Rheinsberg turned pale, and exchanged stolen glances

with each other. There was no more jesting; the hand of ice had been

laid upon their beating hearts, and the wings of hope were broken. The

king did not seem to remark the change; he drew near to his friend

Jordan, and taking his arm, walked to the window, and spoke with him

long and earnestly.

The courtiers and favorites looked after their happy friend with

envious glances, and observed every shade in the countenances of the

king and Jordan. The king was calm, but an expression of painful

surprise settled like a cloud upon Jordan. Now the king left the

window, and called Bielfeld to him; spoke with him also long and

gravely, and then dismissed him, and nodded to Chazot to join him;

lastly he took the arm of the Duke of Wartensleben, and walked backward

and forward, chatting with him. The duke was radiant with joy, but the

other courtiers looked suspicious and lowering; with none of them had

he spoken so long; no other arm had he so familiarly taken. It was

clear that Wartensleben was the declared favorite of the king; he had

driven them from the field.

The king observed all this; he had read the envy, malice, rage, and

melancholy in the faces of his friends; he knew them all too well; had

too long observed them, not to be able to read their thoughts. It had

pleased him to sport awhile with these small souls, so filled with

selfishness, envy, and every evil passion; he wished to give them a

lesson, and bring them down from their dizzy and imaginary heights to

the stern realities of life. The king had used Wartensleben as his

instrument for this purpose, and now must the poor duke's wings be

clipped. The mounting waves of his ambition must be quieted by the oil

of truth.

"Yes," said the king, "I am the ruler of a kingdom; I have a great army

and a well-filled treasury, you cannot doubt that it is my highest aim

to make my country blossom as the rose; to uphold the reputation of my

army, and to make the best use of my riches. The gold is there to

circulate; it is there to reward those who faithfully serve their

fatherland; but above all other things it is there for those who are

truly my friends."

The features of the young duke were radiant with expectation; as the

king saw this, a mocking smile flashed from his eye.

"I will, however, naturally know how to distinguish between my friends,

and those who do not need gold will not receive it. You, for example,

my dear duke, are enormously rich; you will content yourself,

therefore, with my love, as you will naturally never receive a dollar

from me." So speaking, he nodded kindly to the duke, passed into the

next room, and closed the door behind him. Grave and dumb, the friends

from Rheinsberg gazed upon each other; each one regarded the other as

his successful rival, and thought to see in him what he had not

become--a powerful favorite, a minister, or general. All felt their

love growing cold, and almost hated the friends who stood in their way.

Jordan was the first who broke silence. Reaching his hand to Bielfeld,

he said:

"It must not be thought that disappointed hopes have hardened our

hearts, and that envy blinds us to the advantages of our friends. I

love you, Bielfeld, because of your advantages and talents; and I

understand full well why the king advances you before me. Receive also

my good wishes, and be assured that from the heart I rejoice in your

success."

Bielfeld looked amazed. "My success!" said he. "Dear friend, you need

not be envious; and as to my advancement, it is so small an affair that

I can scarcely find it. The king said he intended me for a diplomatist,

but that I needed years of instruction. With this view he had selected

me to accompany Duke Truckfess to Hanover. When I returned from there,

I would receive further orders. This is my promotion, and you must

confess I make a small beginning. But you, dear Jordan, what important

position have you received? You are the king's dearest friend, and he

has without doubt advanced you above us all. I acknowledge that you

merit this. Tell us also what are you?"

"Yes," cried they all eagerly, "what are you? Are you minister of State

or minister of Church affairs?"

"What am I?" cried Jordan, laughing. "I will tell you, my friends. I am

not minister of Church affairs; I am not minister of State. I am--ah,

you will never guess what I am--I belong to the police! I must remove

the beggars from the streets of Berlin, and found a workhouse for them.

Now, dear friends, am I not enviable?" For a moment all were silent;

then every eye was fixed upon Wartensleben.

"And you, dear duke, are you made happy? You have cut open the golden

apple; you have the longed-for portfolio."

"I!" cried the duke, half angry, half merry. "I have nothing, and will

receive nothing. I will tell you what the king said to me. He assured

me earnestly and solemnly that I was rich enough, and would never

receive a dollar from him."

At this announcement they all broke out in uproarious laughter. "Let us

confess," said Bielfeld, "that we have played to-day a rare comedy--a

farce which Moliere might have written, and which must bear the title

of La Journee des Dupes. Now, as we have none of us become

distinguished, let us all be joyful and love each other dearly. But

listen! the king plays the flute; how soft, how melting is the sound!"

Yes, the king played the flute; he cast out with those melodious

strains the evil spirit of ennui which the tiresome etiquette of the

day had brought upon him. He played the flute to recover himself--to

regain his cheerful spirit and a clear brow. Soon he laid it aside, and

his eye rested upon the unopened letters and papers with which the

table was covered. Yes, he must open all these letters, and answer them

himself, he alone. Nobody should do his work; all should work only

through him; no one should decree or command in Prussia but the king.

Every thing should flow from him. He would be the heart and soul of his

country.

Frederick opened and read the letters, and wrote the answer on the

margin of the paper, leaving it to the secretary to copy. And now the

work was almost done; the paper with the great seal, which he now

opened, was the last.

This was a declaration from the Church department, which announced

that, through the influence of the Catholic schools in Berlin, many

Protestants had become Catholics. Did not his majesty think it best to

close these schools? A pitiful smile played upon the lips of Frederick

as he read. "And they say they believe in one God, and their priests

and ministers preach Christian forbearance and Christian love, while

they know nothing of either. They have not God, but the Church, always

before their eyes; they are intolerant in their hearts, imperious, and

full of cunning. I will bend them, and break down their assumed power.

My whole life will be a battle with priests; they will mock at me, and

call me a heretic. Let the Church be ever against me, if my own

conscience absolves me. Now I will begin the war, and what I now write

will be a signal of alarm in the tents of all the pious priests."

He took up the paper again and wrote on the margin, "All religions

shall be tolerated. The magistrates must have their eyes open, and see

that no sect imposes on another. In Prussia each man shall be saved in

his own way."[9]

[9] Busching. The king's words.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

THE GARDEN OF MONBIJOU.

The excitement of the first days was quieted. The young king had

withdrawn for a short time to the palace in Charlottenburg, while his

wife remained in Berlin, anxiously expecting an invitation to follow

her husband.

But the young monarch appeared to have no care or thought but for his

kingdom. He worked and studied without interruption; even his beloved

flute was untouched.

Berlin was, according to etiquette, draped with mourning for a few

days; it served in this instance as a veil to the joy with which all

looked forward to the coronation of the new king. All appeared earnest

and solemn, but every heart was joyful and every eye beaming. The

palace of the king was silent and deserted; the king was, as we have

said, at Charlottenburg; the young queen was in the palace formerly

occupied by the prince royal, and the dowager queen Sophia Dorothea had

retired with the two princesses, Ulrica and Amelia, to the palace of

Monbijou. All were anxious and expectant; all hoped for influence and

honor, power and greatness. The scullion and the maids, as well as the

counts and princes, and even the queen herself, dreamed of happy and

glorious days in the future.

Sophia Dorothea had been too long a trembling, subjugated woman; she

was rejoicing in the thought that she might at length be a queen. Her

son would doubtless grant to her all the power which had been denied

her by her husband; he would remember the days of tears and bitterness

which she had endured for his sake; and now that the power was in his

hands she would be repaid a thousandfold. The young king would hold the

sceptre in his hands, but he must allow his mother to aid in keeping it

upright; and if he found it too weighty, the queen was ready to bear it

for him, and reign in his stead, while her dreamy son wrote poems, or

played on the flute, or philosophized with his friends. Frederick was

certainly not formed to rule; he was a poet and a philosopher; he

dreamed of a Utopia; he imagined an ideal which it was impossible to

realize. The act of ruling would be a weary trial to him, and the

sounds of the trumpet but ill accord with his harmonious dreams.

But happily his mother was there, and was willing to reign for him, to

bear upon her shoulders the heavy burdens and cares of the kingdom, to

work with the ministers, while the king wrote poetical epistles to

Voltaire.

Why should not Sophia Dorothea reign? Were there not examples in all

lands of noble women who governed their people well and honorably? Was

not England proud of her Elizabeth, Sweden of her Christina, Spain of

Isabella, Russia of Catharine? and even in Prussia the queen Sophia

Charlotte had occupied a great and glorious position. Why could not

Sophia Dorothea accomplish as much or even more than her predecessor?

These were the thoughts of the queen as she walked up and down the

shady paths of the garden of Monbijou, and listened with a proud smile

to the flattering words of Count Manteuffel, who had just handed her a

letter of condolence from the Empress of Austria.

"Her majesty the empress has sent me a most loving and tender letter

to-day," said the dowager queen, with an ironical smile.

"She has then only given expression to-day, to those sentiments which

she has always entertained for your majesty," said the count,

respectfully.

The queen bowed her head smilingly, but said, "The houses of

Hohenzollern and Hapsburg have never been friendly; it is not in their

nature to love one another."

"The great families of Capulet and Montague said the same," remarked

Count Manteuffel, "but the anger of the parents dissolved before the

love of the children."

"But we have not arrived at the children," said the queen proudly, as

she thought how her husband had been deceived by the house of Austria,

and recalled that, on his death-bed he had commanded his son Frederick

to revenge those treacheries.

"Pardon me, your majesty, if I dare to contradict you; we have most

surely arrived at the children, and the difficulties of the parents are

forgotten in their love. Is not the wife of the young king the

deeply-loved niece of the Austrian empress?"

"She was already his wife, count, as my husband visited the emperor in

Bohemia, and it was not considered according to etiquette for the

emperor to offer his hand to the King of Prussia."[10]

[10] Seckendorf's Leben.

"She was, however, not his wife when Austria, by her repeated and

energetic representations, saved the life of the prince royal. For your

majesty knows that at one time that precious life was threatened."

"It was threatened, but it would have been preserved without the

assistance of Austria; for the mother of Frederick was at hand, and

that mother was sister to the King of England." And the queen cast on

the count so proud and scornful a glance that his eyes fell

involuntarily to the ground. Sophia Dorothea saw this, and smiled. This

was her triumph; she would now show herself mild and forgiving. "We

will speak no more of the past," she said, in a friendly manner. "The

death of my husband has cast a dark cloud over it, and I must think

only of the future, that my son, the young king, may not always behold

me with tears in my eyes. No, I will look forward, for I have a great

presentiment that Prussia's future will be great and glorious."

"Would that it might be thus for the whole of Germany!" cried the

count. "It must be so, if the houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg will

forget their ancient quarrels, and live together in love and peace."

"Let Hapsburg extend to us the hand of love and peace; show us her

sympathy, her justice, and her gratitude, in deeds, not words."

"Austria is prepared to do so, your majesty! the question is, whether

Prussia will grasp her hand and place upon it the ring of love."

The queen glanced up so quickly that she perceived the dark and

threatening look of the count. "Austria is again making matrimonial

plans," she said, with a bitter smile. "She is not satisfied with one

marriage, such as that of her imperial niece, she longs for a

repetition of this master-work. But this time, count, there is no dear

one to be saved at any cost from a prison, this time the decision can

be deferred until the arrival of all the couriers." And the queen,

dismissing the count with a slight bow, recalled her ladies of honor,

who were lingering at a short distance, and passed into one of the

other walks.

Count Manteuffel remained where the queen had left him, looking after

her with an earnest and thoughtful countenance. "She is prouder and

more determined than formerly," he murmured; "that is a proof that she

will be influential, and knows her power. What she said of the courier

was without doubt an allusion to the one who arrived an hour too late,

with the consent of England, on the betrothal day of the prince royal.

Ah! there must be other couriers en route, and one of them was most

probably sent to England. We must see that he arrives an hour too late,

as the former one did." At this instant, and in his immediate vicinity,

Manteuffel heard a soft and melodious voice saying, "No, count, you can

never make me believe in your love. You are much too blond to love

deeply."

"Blond!" cried a manly voice, with a tone of horror. "You do not like

fair hair, and until now I have been so proud of mine. But I will have

it dyed black, if you will promise to believe in my love." The lady

replied with a light laugh, which brought an answering smile to the

countenance of Count Manteuffel. "It is my ally, Madame von Brandt," he

said to himself. "I was most anxious to see her, and must interrupt her

tender tete-a-tete with Count Voss for one moment." So speaking, the

count hurried to the spot from which he had heard the voices of Madame

von Brandt and her languishing lover. The count approached the lady

with the most delighted countenance, and expressed his astonishment at

finding his beautiful friend in the garden of the dowager queen.

"Her majesty did me the honor to invite me to spend a few weeks here,"

said Madame von Brandt. "She knew that my physician had ordered me to

the country, as the only means to restore my health; and as she knows

of my great intimacy with Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, one of her ladies

of honor, she was so kind as to offer me a few rooms at Monbijou. Now I

have explained to you the reason of my presence here as minutely as if

you were my father confessor, and nothing remains to be done but to

present you to my escort. This is Count Voss, a noble cavalier, a sans

peur et sans reproche, ready to sacrifice for his lady love, if not his

life, at least his fair hair."

"Beware, my dear count," said Manteuffel, laughing, "beware that the

color of your hair is not changed by this lovely scoffer--that it does

not become a venerable gray. She is sufficiently accomplished in the

art of enchantment to do that; I assure you that Madame von Brandt

plays a most important role in the history of my gray hairs."

"Ah! it would be delightful to become gray in the service of Madame von

Brandt," said the young count, in so pathetic a tone that his

companions both laughed. "As often as I look at my gray hair I would

think of her." And the young count gazed into the distance, like one

entranced, and his smiling lips whispered low, unintelligible words.

"This is one of his ecstatic moments," whispered Madame von Brandt. "He

has the whim to consider himself an original; he imagines himself a

Petrarch enamored of his Laura. We will allow him to dream awhile, and

speak of our own affairs. But be brief, I beg of you, for we must not

be found together, as you are a suspicious character, my dear count,

and my innocence might be doubted if we were seen holding a

confidential conversation."

"Ah, it is edifying to hear Madame von Brandt speak like a young girl

of sixteen, of her threatened innocence. But we will tranquillize this

timidity, and be brief. In the first place, what of the young queen?"

"State of barometer: cold and damp, falling weather, stormy, with

unfulfilled hopes, very little sunshine, and very heavy clouds."

"That means that the queen is still fearful of being slighted by her

husband."

"She is no longer fearful--he neglects her already. The king is at

Charlottenburg, and has not invited the queen to join him. As a

husband, he slights his wife; whether as king he will neglect his

queen, only time will reveal."

"And what of Madame von Morien?"

"The king seems to have forgotten her entirely since that unhappy quid

pro quo with the poem at Rheinsberg; his love seems to have cooled, and

he converses with her as harmlessly and as indifferently as with any

other lady. No more stolen words, secret embraces, or amorous sighs.

The miserable Morien is consumed with sorrow, for since she has been

neglected she loves passionately."

"And that is unhappily not the means to regain that proud heart," said

Count Mantcuffel, shrugging his shoulders. "With tears and languishing

she will lose her influence, and only gain contempt. You who are the

mistress of love and coquetry should understand that, and instruct your

beautiful pupil. Now, however, comes the most important question. What

of the marriage of the Prince Augustus William?"

Madame von Brandt sighed. "You are really inexorable. Have you no

compassion for the noble, heartfelt love of two children, who are as

pure and innocent as the stars in heaven?"

"And have you no compassion for the diamonds which long to repose upon

your lovely bosom?" said Count Manteuffel; "no compassion for the

charming villa which you could purchase? You positively refuse to

excite the envy of all the ladies at court by possessing the most

costly cashmere? You will--"

"Enough, Count Devil! you are in reality more a devil than a man, for

you lead my soul into temptation. I must submit. I will become a

serpent, reposing on the bosom of my poor Laura, poisoning her love and

lacerating her heart. Ah, count, if you knew how my conscience

reproaches me when I listen to the pure and holy confession of her

love, when trembling and blushing she whispers to me the secrets of her

youthful heart, and flies to me seeking protection against her own

weakness! Remember that these two children love each other, without

ever having had the courage to acknowledge it. Laura pretends not to

understand the deep sighs and the whispered words of the prince, and

then passes the long nights in weeping."

"If that is the case, it is most important to prevent an understanding

between these singular lovers. You must exert all your influence with

the young lady to induce her to close this romance with an heroic act,

which will make her appear a holy martyr in the eyes of the prince."

"But, for example, what heroic act?"

"Her marriage."

"But how can we find a man so suddenly to whom this poor lamb can be

sacrificed?"

"There is one," said the count, pointing to Count Voss, who appeared to

have forgotten the whole world, and was occupied writing verses in his

portfolio.

Madame von Brandt laughed aloud. "He marry the beautiful Laura!"

"Yes," said the count, earnestly, "he seeks a Laura."

"Yes, but you forget that he considers me his Laura."

"You can, therefore, easily induce him to make this sacrifice for you;

he will be magnified in his own eyes, if, in resigning you, he gives

himself to the lady you have selected."

"You are terrible," said Madame von Brandt. "I shudder before you, for

I believe you have no human emotions in your heart of iron."

"There are higher and nobler considerations, to which such feelings

must yield. But see, the count has finished his poem. To work now, my

beautiful ally; today you must perfect your masterpiece; and now,

farewell," said the count, kissing her hand, as he left her side.

Madame von Brandt approached the young count, who seemed to be again

lost in thought. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, and

whispered, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "Dreamer, where are your

thoughts?"

"With you," said the count, who trembled and grew pale at her touch.

"Yes, with you, noblest and dearest of women; and as that tiresome

gossip prevented me from speaking to you, I passed the time he was here

in writing."

"But you did not remember," said she, tenderly, "that you were

compromising me before Count Manteuffel, who will not hesitate to

declare in what intimate relationship we stand to one another. Only

think of writing without apology, while a lady and a strange gentleman

were at your side!"

"The world will only exclaim 'What an original!'" said Count Voss, with

a foolish, but well-pleased smile.

"But it will also say that this original shows little consideration for

Madame von Brandt; that he must, therefore, be very intimate with her.

The reputation of a woman is so easily injured; it is like the wing of

the butterfly, so soon as the finger touches it or points at it, it

loses its lustre; and we poor women have nothing but our good name and

unspotted virtue. It is the only shield--the only weapon--that we

possess against the cruelty of man, and you seek to tear that from us,

and, then dishonored and humiliated, you tread us under foot!"

"You are weeping!" cried the count, looking at his beloved, in whose

eyes the tears really stood--"you are weeping! I am truly a great

criminal to cause you to shed tears."

"No, you are a noble but most thoughtless man," said Madame von Brandt,

smiling through her tears. "You betray to the world what only God and

we ourselves should know."

"Heavens! what have I betrayed?" cried the poor frightened count.

"You have betrayed our love," whispered Madame von Brandt, as she

glanced tenderly at the count.

"What! our love?" he cried, beside himself with delight; "you admit

that it is not I alone who love?"

"I admit it, but at the same time declare that we must part."

"Never! no, never! No power on earth shall part us," said he, seizing

her hand, and covering it with kisses.

"But there is a power which has the right to separate us--the power of

my husband. He already suspects my feelings for you, and he will be

inexorable if he discovers that his suspicions are correct."

"Then I will call him out, and he will fall by my hand, and I shall

bear you in triumph as my wife to my castle."

"But if you should fall?"

"Ah! I had not thought of that," murmured the count, turning pale.

"That would be certainly a most unhappy accident. We will not tempt

fate with this trial, but seek another way out of our difficulty. Ah, I

know one already. You must elope with me."

She said, with a sad smile, "The arm of the king extends far and wide,

and my husband would follow us with his vengeance to the end of the

world."

"But what shall we do?" cried the count, despairingly; "we love each

other; separated, we must be consumed with grief and sorrow. Ah! ah!

shall I really suffer the fate of Petrarch, and pass my life in an

eternal dirge? Is there no way to prevent this?"

Madame von Brandt placed her hand with a slight but tender pressure on

his. "There is one way," she whispered, "a way to reassure, not only my

husband, but the whole world, which will cast a veil over our love, and

protect us from the wickedness and calumny of man."

"Show me this way," he exclaimed, "and if it should cost half of my

fortune I would walk in it, if I could hope to gain your love."

She bent her head nearer to him, and, with a most fascinating and

tender glance, whispered, "You must marry, count."

He withdrew a step, and uttered a cry of horror. "I must marry! You

desire it--you who profess to love me?"

"Because I love you, dearest, and because your marriage will break the

bands of etiquette which divide us. You must marry a lady of my

acquaintance, perhaps one of my friends, and then no one, not even my

husband, will consider our friendship remarkable."

"Oh! I see it; there is no other way," sighed the count. "If I were

only married now!"

"Oh! you ungrateful, faithless man," cried Madame von Brandt,

indignantly. "You long already for your marriage with the beautiful

young woman, in whose love I shall be forgotten."

"Oh! you are well aware that I only wish to be married because you

desire it."

"Prove this by answering that you will not refuse to marry the lady I

shall point out to you."

"I swear it."

"You swear that you will marry no other than the one I name? You swear

that you will overcome all obstacles, and be withheld by no prayers or

reproaches?"

"I swear it."

"On the word of a count?"

"On the word of a count. Show me the lady, and I will marry her against

the will of the whole world."

"But if the lady should not love you?"

"Why should I care? Do I love her? Do I not marry her for your sake

alone?"

"Ah! my friend," cried Madame von Brandt, "I see that we understand one

another. Come, and I will show you your bride."

She placed her arm in his, and drew him away. Her eye gleamed with a

wild, menacing light, and she said sneeringly to herself, "I have

selected a rich husband for my beautiful Laura, and have bartered my

soul for diamonds and cashmeres, and the gratitude of an empress."