"Well, and who says that Blanche will not be the wife of a celebrated

man, and that you will not be proud of me?"

"Will you be a man or a woman dressmaker?"

"Neither one nor the other! I shall be an actor; but silence, this is

my secret and I must keep it!"

CHAPTER VI.

IN RHEINSBERG.

The quiet castle of Rheinsberg was again alive with noise. Its halls

resounded with music and laughter; gay and happy faces were everywhere

to be seen; bright jests to be heard on every side. The charming days

of the past, when Frederick was prince royal, seemed to have returned;

the same company now filled the castle; the same sports and amusements

were enjoyed. All was the same, yet still, every thing was changed,

transformed. Almost all of those who had left Rheinsberg with such

proud hopes, such great desires, were again there, but with annihilated

hopes. They had all expected to reign; they had claimed for themselves

honor and power, but the young king had allowed to none the privilege

of mounting the throne by his side. They were all welcome companions,

loved friends. But none dared overstep the boundary of dependence and

submission which he had drawn around them, and in the centre of which

he stood alone, trusting to his own strength and will. They had gained

nothing from the crown which rested upon Frederick's noble head; but

they had lost nothing. They returned to Rheinsberg not exalted, though

not humbled.

But one heart was broken, one heart was bleeding from unseen pain. It

was the heart of Elizabeth, the heart of that poor rejected woman who

was called the reigning queen, the wife of Frederick.

The king, on returning from his excursion to Strasburg, had reminded

her of her promise to follow him with her court to Rheinsberg. And the

poor sufferer, though she knew that the presence of the king would be

for her a continual torment, an hourly renunciation, could not find

strength to resist the desire of her own heart. She had followed her

husband, saying to herself with a painful smile: "I will at least see

him, and if he does not speak to me I will still hear his voice. My

sufferings will be greater, but I shall be near him. The joy will help

me to bear the pain. Soffri e taci!" Elizabeth Christine was right; the

king never spoke to her, never fixed those brilliant blue eyes, which

possessed for her the depth and immensity of the skies, upon her pale

countenance. With a silent bow he welcomed her daily at their meals,

but he did not now lead her to the table and sit beside her. The

presence of the Margrave and Margravine of Baireuth seemed to impose

upon him the duty of honoring his favorite sister, who was his guest

more than his wife the queen. He sat, therefore, between his sister and

her husband the count, at whose side the queen was placed. He did not

speak to her but she saw him, and strengthened her heart by the sight

of his proud and noble countenance.

She suffered and was silent. She veiled her pain by a soft smile, she

concealed the paleness of her cheek with artificial bloom, she covered

the furrows that care already showed in her lovely and youthful face,

with black, beauty-spots which were then the fashion. No one should

think that she suffered. No one should pity her, not even the king.

Elizabeth Christine joined in all the pleasures and amusements at

Rheinsberg. She laughed at Bielfeld's jests, at Pollnitz's bright

anecdotes; she listened with beaming eyes to Knobelsdorf's plans for

beautifying the king's residence; she took part in the preparations for

a drama that was to be performed. Voltaire's "Death of Caesar," and

"The Frenchman in London," by Boissy, had been chosen by the king to be

played at Rheinsberg, and in each piece she played a prominent role.

The young queen, as it seemed, had become an enthusiastic admirer of

the theatre; she was never missing at any of the rehearsals, and aided

her beautiful maids of honor in the arrangements of their costumes.

The king was now seldom to be seen in the circle of his friends and

companions, and the tones of his flute were rarely to be heard. He

passed the day in his library, no one dared disturb him, not even

Guentz. Madame von Brandt, who had accompanied the court to Rheinsberg,

said, in one of her secret meetings with Count Manteuffel: "The king is

unfaithful to his last sweetheart, he has abandoned and rejected his

flute."

"But with what does the king occupy himself the entire day?" asked the

count. "What is it that takes him from his friends and fills up all his

time?"

"Nothing but scientific studies," said Madame von Brandt, shrugging her

shoulders. "Fredersdorf told me that he busies himself with maps and

plans, is surrounded by his military books, and is occupied like an

engineer with astrolabes and land surveyors. You now see that these are

very innocent occupations, and that they can have no influence upon our

affairs. The king, I promise you, will never be more divorced from his

wife than he now is; and concerning the marriage of Prince Augustus

William, my plans are so skilfully laid that there is no danger of

failure, and poor Laura von Pannewitz will surely be sacrificed. All is

well, and we have nothing to fear from the king's innocent studies."

"Ah, you call these innocent studies?" said the count; "I assure you

that these studies will greatly disturb the Austrian court, and I must

at once notify my friend Seckendorf of them."

"You are making a mountain of a mole hill," said Madame von Brandt,

laughing. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear. It is true the king

passes the day in his study, but he passes his evenings with us, and he

is then as gay, as unconstrained, as full of wit and humor as ever.

Perhaps he makes use of the solitude of his study to learn his role,

for to-morrow, you know, we act the 'Death of Caesar,' and the king is

'Brutus.'"

"Yes, yes," said Count Manteuffel, thoughtfully, "it strikes me the

king is playing the part of Brutus; to the eye he seems harmless and

gay, but who knows what dark thoughts pregnant with mischief are hid in

his soul?"

"You are always seeing ghosts," said Madame von Brandt, impatiently.

"But hear! the court clock is striking six; it is high time for me to

return to the castle, for at seven the last rehearsal commences, and I

have still to dress." And Madame von Brandt hastily took leave of her

ally, and ran gayly to the castle.

But she had no need to dress for the rehearsal. The king was not able

to act; the strong will was to-day conquered by an enemy who stands in

awe of no one, not even of a king--an enemy who can vanquish the most

victorious commander. Frederick was ill of a fever, which had tormented

him the whole summer, which had kept him from visiting Amsterdam, and

which confined him to his bed in the castle of Moyland, while Orttaire

was paying his long expected visit, had again taken a powerful hold

upon him and made of the king a pale, trembling man, who lay shivering

and groaning upon his bed, scoffing at Ellart, his physician, because

he could not cure him.

"There is a remedy," said Ellart, "but I dare not give it to your

majesty."

"And why not?" said the king.

"Because its strength must first be tested, to see if it can be used

without danger; it must first be tried by a patient upon whose life the

happiness of millions does not depend."

"A human life is always sacred, and if not certain of your remedy, it

is as vicious to give it to a beggar as to a king."

"I believe," said Ellart, "as entirely in this remedy as Louis the

Fourteenth, who bought it secretly from Talbot, the Englishman, and

paid him a hundred Napoleons for a pound. The wife of the King of Spain

was cured by it."

"Give me this remedy," said the king, with chattering teeth.

"Pardon me, your majesty, but I dare not, though I have a small

quantity with me which was sent by a friend from Paris, and which I

brought to show you as a great curiosity. This tiny brown powder is a

medicine which was not distilled by the apothecary, but by Nature."

"Then I have confidence in it," said the king; "Nature is the best

physician, the best apothecary, and what she brews is full of divine

healing power. How is this remedy called?"

"It is the Peruvian bark, or quinine, the bark above all barks which,

by a divine Providence, grows in Peru, the land of fevers."

But the king had not the strength to listen to him. He now lay burning

with fever; a dark purple covered his cheek, and his eyes, which, but a

few moments before, were dull and lustreless, now sparkled with fire.

The king, overpowered by the disease, closed his eyes, and occasionally

unconnected, senseless words escaped his dry, burning lips.

Fredersdorf now entered, and through the open door the anxious,

inquiring faces of Pollnitz, Bielfeld, Jordan, and Kaiserling could be

seen.

On tip-toe Ellart approached the private chamberlain.

"How is the king?" said he, hastily. "Is he in a condition to hear some

important news?"

"Not now. Wait an hour; he will then be free from fever."

"We will wait," said Fredersdorf to the four courtiers who had entered

the room, and were now standing around the royal bed.

"Is it bad news? If so, I advise you to wait until tomorrow."

"Well, I do not believe the king will think it bad," said Kaiserling,

laughing.

"And I am convinced the king will be well pleased with our news," said

Bielfeld. "I think so, because the king is a sleeping hero waiting to

be roused."

"If you speak so loud," whispered Pollnitz, "it will be you who will

wake this hero, and the thunder of his anger will fall upon you."

"Pollnitz is right," said Jordan; "be quiet, and let us await his

majesty's waking." And the group stood in silence around the couch,

with eyes fixed upon the king. He at last awoke, and a smile played

upon his lip as he perceived the six cavaliers.

"You stand there like mourners," said he; "and to look at you one would

think you were undertakers!"

"Ah, sire, fever does not kill like apoplexy," said Jordan, approaching

his friend and pressing his hand tenderly.

"Your majesty called us undertakers," said Pollnitz, laughing. "As

usual, the divine prophetic mind of our king is in the right. There is

certainly a funeral odor about us."

"But God forbid that we should mourn," said Bielfeld, "we are much

better prepared to sound the battlesong."

All this passed while the physician was feeling the king's pulse, and

Fredersdorf was tenderly arranging his pillows. The king looked at him

inquiringly. "Listen, Fredersdorf," said he, "what meaning have all

these mysterious words and looks; why are you all so grave? Is one of

my dogs dead? or are you only peevish because this abominable fever has

cheated you of the rehearsal?"

"No, your majesty. The dogs are in excellent health."

"The king's pulse is perfectly quiet," said Ellart, "you can

communicate your news to him." Baron Pollnitz approached the king's

couch.

"Sire, one hour ago a courier arrived who was the bearer of important

information."

"Whence came he?" said the king, calmly.

"From your majesty's ambassador in Vienna, Count Borche."

"Ah!" said the king, "is the empress, our noble aunt, suffering?"

"The empress is perfectly well, but her husband, the emperor--"

"Well, why do you not continue?" said the king, impatiently.

"Would your majesty not wish some restorative first?" said Fredersdorf;

but the king pushed him angrily away.

"I wish your phrase, Pollnitz. What of the Emperor of Austria?"

"Sire, Emperor Charles the Sixth is no more, he died the twentieth of

October."

"Truly," said Frederick, leaning back, "it was worth the trouble to

make so much to do about such insignificant news. If the emperor is

dead, Maria Theresa will be Empress of Germany, that is all. It does

not concern us." He stopped and closed his eyes.

The physician again felt his pulse. "It is perfectly quiet," said he;

"this prodigious news has not occasioned the slightest commotion or

irregularity."

"You are right," said the king, looking up. "Neither is the death of

the Emperor Charles to make the slightest change in our plans, but to

execute them I must be perfectly well. It must not be said that a

miserable fever changed my intentions and condemned me to idleness; I

must have no fever on the day the news of the emperor's death arrives,

or the good people of Vienna will believe that I was made ill with

fright. Give me that powder, Ellart, I will take it."

"But I told your majesty that I cannot, dare not give it to you, for I

have not tried its effect yet."

"Then try it on me," said the king, positively. "Give me the powder."

It was in vain that Ellart called upon the cavaliers to support his

opinion; in vain that they begged and implored the king not to take the

powder, not to put his life in danger.

"My life is in God's hands," said the king, earnestly; "and God, who

created me, created also this bark. I trust more in God's medicine than

in that of man. Quick, give me the powder!" And as Ellart still

hesitated, he continued in a stern voice: "I command you, as your king

and master, to give it to me. On my head rests the responsibility."

"If your majesty commands I must obey, but I take these gentlemen to

witness that I but do it on compulsion."

And amid the breathless silence of the room, the king took the medicine.

"Now your majesty must rest," said Ellart; "you must, by no means,

return to Berlin; by my holy right of physician, I forbid it."

"And why should I return to Berlin?" said the king, laughingly. "Why

should our harmless pleasure and amusements be given up? Are we not to

act Voltaire's 'Death of Caesar?' No, I will not return to Berlin. A

trifle such as the emperor's death should not create such great

disturbances. We will remain here and renew our former happy days, and

forget that we have any duty but our enjoyment. Now, gentlemen, leave

me, I am well. You see, Ellart, I did well to take that medicine; I

will dress. Fredersdorf, remain here. Jordan, send me Secretary Eichel.

I must dictate a few necessary letters, and then, gentlemen, we will

meet in the music room, where I am to play a duet with Quantz. I invite

you as audience."

The king dismissed his friends with a gracious smile, jested gayly with

Fredersdorf, and then dictated three letters to his secretary. One was

to Marshal von Schwerin, the other to the Prince of Anhalt Dessau, and

the third to Ambassador Podrilse. The three held the same words, the

same command, telling them to come immediately to Rheinsberg. He then

entered the music room, and never was Frederick so gay, so witty, and

unconstrained; never did he play on his flute more beautifully than on

the day he heard of the death of the Emperor of Germany. The following

morning the three gentlemen arrived from Berlin and were at once

admitted into the king's library. Frederick met them with a proud,

happy smile; his eye beamed with an unusual light; his forehead was

smooth and free from care; he seemed inspired.

"The Emperor of Germany is dead," said he, after the gentlemen were

seated. "The emperor is dead, and I have sent for you to see what

benefit we can derive from his death!"

"Oh, your majesty would not think of benefiting by a death which throws

a royal house, nearly connected with you, into deep sorrow, and robs

the reigning queen of Prussia of an uncle!" cried the old Prince of

Dessau, solemnly.

"Oh, it is well known that you are an imperialist," said the king,

laughing.

"No, your majesty, but a difficulty with Austria would be a great

misfortune for us."

Frederick shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the other two.

"I also wish for your opinion, gentlemen," said he; "you are all men of

experience, soldiers, and statesmen, and you must not refuse to advise

one of my youth and inexperience."

With a quiet smile he listened to their wise, peaceful propositions.

"You then doubt my right to Silesia?" said he, after a pause. "You do

not think I am justified in demanding this Silesia, which was

dishonestly torn from my ancestors by the Hapsburger?"

"But your ancestors still kept the peace," said the Prince of Dessau;

"they left Silesia in the undisturbed possession of the Austrians."

"Yes," said the king, in a firm voice,--"and when my ancestors,

outwitted by the cunning intrigues of the Austrian court, accommodated

themselves to this necessity,--when for rendered services they were

rewarded with base ingratitude, with idle, unmeaning promises, then

they called upon their descendants to revenge such injustice, such

insults to their honor and rights. Frederick William, the great

Elector, cried prophetically when the Austrian house deserted him and

denied her sworn promises--'A revenger will rise from my ashes;' and my

father, when he had witnessed to the full the ingratitude of the

Austrian court, felt that there could be no peace between the houses of

Austria and Brandenburg, and he intrusted to me the holy mission of

punishing and humiliating this proud, conceited court; he pointed me

out to his ministers, and said: 'There stands one who will revenge me!'

You see that my ancestors call me, my grandfather and father chose me

for their champion and revenger; they call upon me to perform that

which they, prevented by circumstances, could not accomplish; the hour

which my ancestors designated has arrived--the hour of retribution! The

time has come when the old political system must undergo an entire

change. The stone has broken loose which is to roll upon

Nebuchadnezzar's image and crush it. It is time to open the eyes of the

Austrians, and to show them that the little Marquis of Brandenburg,

whose duty they said it was to hand the emperor after meals the napkin

and finger-bowl, has become a king, who will not be humbled by the

Austrians, and who acknowledges none but God as his master. Will you

help me; will you stand by me in this work with your experience and

your advice?"

"We will!" cried the three, with animation, borne away by the king's

noble ardor. "Our life, our blood, belong to our king, our country."

Frederick laughingly shook hands with them. "I counted upon you," said

he, "nor will Zithen and Vinterfeldt fail us; we will not go to battle

hastily and unprepared. All was foreseen, all prepared, and we have now

but to put in execution the plans that have for some time been

agitating my brain. Here is the map for our campaign; here are the

routes and the plan of attack. We shall at last stand before these

Austrians in battle array; and as they dared say of my father, that his

gun was ever cocked but the trigger never pulled, we will show them

that we are ready to discharge, and thrust down the double eagle from

its proud pinnacle. The combat is determined and unalterable; let us be

silent and prudent, no one must discover our plans; we will surprise

the Austrians. And now, gentlemen, examine these plans, and tell me if

there are any changes to be made in them."

CHAPTER VII.

THE KING AND HIS FRIEND.

For several hours the king remained in earnest council with his

advisers. As they left him he called Jordan, and advanced to meet him

with both hands extended.

"Well, Jordan, rejoice with me; my days of illness are over, and there

will be life and movement in this rusty and creaking machine of state.

You have often called me a bold eagle, now we shall see if my wings

have strength to bear me to great deeds, and if my claws are sharp

enough to pluck out the feathers of the double eagle." "So my

suspicions are correct, and it is against Austria that my king will

make his first warlike movement?"

"Yes, against Austria; against this proud adversary, who, with envious

and jealous eyes, watches my every step; who is pleased to look upon

Prussia as her vassal; whose emperor considered it beneath his dignity

to extend his hand to my father, or offer him a seat; and now I will

refuse the hand to Austria, and force her from her comfortable rest."

"For you, also, my king, will the days of quiet be over; your holy and

happy hours with poetry, philosophy, and the arts, must be given up.

The favorite of Apollo will become the son of Mars; we who are left

behind can only look after you, we can do nothing for you, not even

offer our breasts as a shield against danger and death."

"Away with such thoughts," said Frederick, smiling; "death awaits us

all, and if he finds me on the field of battle, my friends, my

subjects, and history will not forget me. That is a comfort and a hope;

and you, Jordan, you know that I believe in a great, exalted, and

almighty Being, who governs the world. I believe in God, and I leave my

fate confidently in His hands. The ball which strikes me comes from

Him; and if I escape the battle-field, a murderous hand can reach me,

even in my bed-chamber; and surely that would be a less honorable, less

famous death. I must do something great, decisive, and worthy of

renown, that my people may love me, and look up to me with confidence

and trust. It is not enough to be a king by inheritance and birth, I

must prove by my deeds that I merit it. Silesia offers me a splendid

opportunity, and truly I think the circumstances afford me a solid and

sure basis for fame."

"Alas! I see," sighed Jordan, "that the love of your subjects, and the

enthusiastic tenderness of your friends, is not sufficient for you; you

would seek renown."

"Yes, you are right; this glittering phantom, Fame, is ever before my

eyes. I know this is folly, but when once you have listened to her

intoxicating whispers, you cannot cast her off. Speak not, then, of

exposure, or care, or danger; these are as dust of the balance; I am

amazed that this wild passion does not turn every man's head."

"Alas! your majesty, the thirst for fame has cost thousands of men

their reasons and their lives. The field of battle is truly the golden

book of heroes, but their names must be written therein in blood."

"It is true," said the king, thoughtfully, "a field of battle is a sad

picture for a poet and a philosopher; but every man in this world must

pursue his calling, and I will not do my work half way. I love war for

the sake of fame. Pity me not, Jordan, because these days of illness

and peace and gayety are over; because I must go into the rough field,

while you amuse yourself with Horace, study Pausanias, and laugh and

make merry with Anacreon. I envy you not. Fame beckons me with her

alluring glance. My youth, the fire of passion, the thirst for renown,

and a mysterious and unconquerable power, tears me from this life of

indolence. The glowing desire to see my name connected with great deeds

in the journals and histories of the times drives me out into the

battle-field.[16] There will I earn the laurel-wreaths which kings do

not find in their cradles, or upon their throne, but which as men, and

as heroes, they must conquer for themselves."

[16] The king's own words.

"The laurel will deck the brow of my hero, my Frederick, in all time,"

said Jordan, with tears in his eyes. "Oh! I see before you a glorious

future; it may be I shall have passed away--but where will my spirit

be? When I stand near you and look upon you, I know that the spirit is

immortal. The soul, noble and god-like, will be ever near you; so

whether living or dead I am thine, to love you as my friend, to honor

you as my sovereign, to admire you as a gifted genius, glowing with

godly fire."

"Oh, speak not of death," said the king, "speak not of death; I have

need of you, and it seems to me that true friendship must be strong

enough even to conquer death! Yes, Jordan, we have need of each other,

we belong to each other; and it would be cruel, indeed, to rob me of a

treasure which we, poor kings, so rarely possess, a faithful and

sincere friend. No, Jordan, you will be my Cicero to defend the justice

of my cause, and I will be your Caesar to carry out the cause happily

and triumphantly."

Jordan was speechless; he shook his head sadly. The king observed him

anxiously, and saw the deep, feverish purple spots, those roses of the

grave, upon the hollow cheeks of his friend; he saw that he grew daily

weaker; he heard the hot, quick breathing which came panting from his

breast. A sad presentiment took possession of his heart, the smile

vanished from his lips, he could not conceal his emotion, and walking

to the window he leaned his hot brow upon the glass and shed tears

which none but God should see. "My God! my God! how poor is a prince! I

have so few friends, and these will soon pass away. Suhm lies ill in

Marschau; perhaps I shall never see him again. Jordan is near me, but I

see death in his face and he will soon be torn from my side."

Jordan stood immovable and looked toward the king, who still leaned his

head upon the window; he did not dare to disturb him, and yet he had

important and sad news to announce. At last Jordan laid his hand upon

his shoulder.

"Pardon, my king," said he, in trembling tones, "pardon that I dare to

interrupt you; but a hero dare not give himself up to sad thoughts

before the battle, and when he thinks of death he must greet him with

laughter, for death is his ally and his adjutant; and even if his ally

grasps his nearest and best beloved friend, the hero and the conqueror

must yield him up as an offering to victory."

The king turned quickly toward the speaker. "You have death news to

give me," said he curtly, leaning against the back of his chair. "You

have death news for me, Jordan."

"Yes, news of death, my prince," said he, deeply moved; "fate will

accustom your majesty to such trials, that your heart may not falter

when your friends fall around you in the day of battle."

"It is, then, a friend who is dead," said Frederick, turning pale.

"Yes, sire, your best beloved."

The king said nothing; sinking in the chair, and grasping the arms

convulsively, he leaned his head back, and in a low voice asked, "Is it

Suhm?"

"Yes, it is Suhm; he died in Marschau. Here is his last letter to your

highness; his brother sent it to me, that I might hand it to your

majesty."

The king uttered a cry of anguish, and clasped his hands before his

pallid face. Great tears ran down his cheeks; with a hasty movement he

shook them from his eyes, opened and read the letter. As he read it he

sighed and sobbed aloud: "Suhm is dead! Suhm is dead! the friend who

loved me so sincerely, even as I loved him. That noble man, who

combined intellect, sincerity, and sensibility. My heart is in mourning

for him; so long as a drop of blood flows in my veins I will remember

him, and his family shall be mine. Ah, my heart bleeds, and the wound

is deep."

The king, mastered by his grief, laid his head in his hand and wept

aloud. Then, after a long pause, he raised himself; he was calm and

stern. "Jordan," said he, firmly, "death hath no more power over me,

never again can he wring my heart; he has laid an iron shield upon me,

and when I go to battle I must be triumphant; my friend has been

offered up as a victim. Jordan, Jordan, my wound bleeds, but I will

bind it up, and no man shall see even the blood-stained cloth with

which I cover it. I have overcome death, and now will I offer battle

and conquer as become a hero, and a king. What cares the world that I

suffer? The world shall know nothing of it; a mask before my face, and

silence as to my agony. We will laugh and jest while we sorrow for our

friend, and while we prepare to meet the enemy. We will PLAY Caesar and

Antonius now; hereafter we may really imitate them. Come, Jordan, come,

we will try 'The Death of Caesar.'"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FAREWELL AUDIENCE OF MARQUIS VON BOTTER, THE AUSTRIAN AMBASSADOR.

This was to be a fete day in the royal palace of Berlin. The king

intended giving a splendid dinner, after which the court would take

coffee in the newly furnished rooms of the dowager queen, and a mask

ball was prepared for the evening, to which the court, the nobility,

and higher officials were invited.

The court mourning for the emperor was at an end, and every one was

determined to enjoy the pleasures of the carnival. Never had the court

led so gay, so luxurious a life. Even the good old citizens of Berlin

seemed to appreciate this new administration, which brought so much

money to the poorer classes, such heavy profits to tradesmen. They

believed that this extravagant court brought them greater gains than an

economical one, and were therefore contented with this new order of

things.

The king had refurnished the palace with an unheard of splendor. In the

apartment of the queen-mother there was a room in which all the

ornaments and decorations were of massive gold. Even the French and

English ambassadors were astonished at this "Golden Cabinet," and

declared that such splendor and magnificence could not be found in the

palaces of Paris or London. The people of Berlin, as we have said, were

becoming proud of their court and their king, and they thought it quite

natural that this young ruler, who was only twenty-eight years old,

should interest himself very little in the affairs of State, and should

give his time to pleasure and amusement.

The king had accomplished his desire. No one suspected the deep

seriousness that he concealed under this idle play. No one dreamed that

this gay, smiling prince, on whose lips there was always a witty jest

or bon mot; who proposed a concert every evening, in which he himself

took part; who surrounded himself with artists, poets, and gay

cavaliers, with whom he passed many nights of wild mirth and gayety--no

one dreamed that this harmless, ingenuous young prince, was on the

point of overthrowing the existing politics of the European states, and

of giving an entirely new form to the whole of Germany.

The king had not raised his mask for a moment; he had matured his plans

under the veil of inviolate secrecy. The moment of their accomplishment

had now arrived; this evening, during the mask ball which had been

prepared with such pomp and splendor, the king with his regiments would

leave Berlin and proceed to Silesia. But even the troops did not know

their destination. The journals had announced that the army would leave

Berlin to go into new winter quarters, and this account was generally

believed. Only a few confidants, and the generals who were to accompany

the king, were acquainted with this secret. The king, after a final

conference, in which he gave the last instructions and orders, said:

"Now, gentlemen, that we have arranged our business, we will think of

our pleasure. I will see you this evening at the ball; we will dance

once more with the ladies before we begin our war-dance."

As the generals left him, his servant entered to assist at his toilet.

Pelissier, the French tailor, had prepared a new and magnificent

costume for this evening, made in the latest Parisian style. The king

desired to appear once more in great splendor before exchanging the

saloon for the camp. Never had he bestowed such care upon his toilet;

never had he remained so patiently under the hands of the barber; he

even went to the large mirror when his toilet was completed, and

carefully examined his appearance and costly dress.

"Well," he said, smiling, "if the Marquis von Botter is not deceived by

this dandy that I see before me, it is not my fault. The good Austrian

ambassador must be very cunning indeed if he discovers a warrior in

this perfumed fop. I think he will be able to tell my cousin, Maria

Theresa, nothing more than that the King of Prussia knows how to dress

himself, and is the model of fashion."

The king passed into the rooms of the queen-mother, where the court was

assembled, and where he had granted a farewell audience to the Marquis

von Botter, the ambassador of the youthful Empress of Austria.

Frederick was right: the marquis had been deceived by the mask of

harmless gayety and thoughtless happiness assumed by the king and

court. He had been sent by the empress with private instructions to

sound the intentions of the Prussian king, while his apparent business

was to return her acknowledgments for the congratulations of the King

of Prussia on her ascension to the throne.

The Marquis von Botter, as we have said, had been deceived by the gay

and thoughtless manner of the king, and Manteuffel's warnings and

advice had been thrown away.

The marquis had withdrawn with Manteuffel to one of the windows, to

await the entrance of the king; the ladies and gentlemen of the court

were scattered through the rooms of the queen-mother, who was playing

cards with Queen Christine in the golden cabinet.

"I leave Berlin," said the marquis, "with the firm conviction that the

king has the most peaceful intentions."

"As early as to-morrow your convictions will be somewhat shaken,"

replied Manteuffel, "for this night the king and his army depart for

Silesia."

At this moment the king appeared at the door of the golden cabinet.

There was a sudden silence, and all bent low, bowing before the

brilliant young monarch.

Frederick bowed graciously, but remained in the doorway, glancing over

the saloon; it appeared to afford him a certain pleasure to exhibit

himself to the admiring gaze of those present. He stood a living

picture of youth, beauty, and manliness.

"Only look at this richly-dressed, elegant young man," whispered

Marquis von Botter; "look at his youthful countenance, beaming with

pleasure and delight; at his hands, adorned with costly rings, so white

and soft, that they would do honor to the most high-bred lady; at that

slender foot, in its glittering shoe. Do you wish to convince me that

this small foot will march to battle; that this delicate hand, which is

only fitted to hold a smelling-bottle or a pen, will wield a sword? Oh!

my dear count, you make me merry with your gloomy prophecies."

"Still I entreat you to believe me. As soon as your audience is over,

hasten to your hotel, and return to Vienna with all possible speed;

allow yourself no hour of sleep, no moment for refreshment, until you

have induced your empress to send her army to Silesia. If you do not,

if you despise my advice, the King of Prussia will reach Silesia before

you are in Vienna, and the empress will receive this intelligence which

you do not credit from the fleeing inhabitants of her province, which

will have been conquered without a blow."

The deep earnestness of the count had in it something so impressive, so

convincing, that the marquis felt his confidence somewhat shaken, and

looked doubtfully at the young monarch, who was now smiling and

conversing with some of the ladies.

But even in speaking the king had not lost sight of these two gentlemen

who were leaning against the window, and whose thoughts he read in

their countenances. He now met the eye of the marquis, and motioned to

him to come forward. The marquis immediately approached the king, who

stood in the centre of the saloon, surrounded by his generals.

Every eye was turned toward the glittering group, in which the young

king was prominent: for those to whom the intentions of the king were

known, this was an interesting piece of acting; while for the

uninitiated, who had only an uncertain suspicion of what was about to

happen, this was a favorable moment for observation.

The Austrian ambassador now stood before the king, making a deep and

ceremonious bow. The king returned this salutation, and said:

"You have really come to take leave, marquis?"

"Sire, her majesty, my honored empress, recalls me, and I must obey her

commands, happy as I should be, if I were privileged, to sun myself

still longer in your noble presence."

"It is true, a little sunshine would be most beneficial to you,

marquis. You will have a cold journey."

"Ah! your majesty, the cold is an evil that could easily be endured."

"There are, then, other evils which will harass you on your journey?"

"Yes, sire, there is the fearful road through Silesia, that lamentable

Austrian province. Ah! your majesty, this is a road of which in your

blessed land you have no idea, and which is happily unknown in the

other Austrian provinces. This poor Silesia has given only care and

sorrow to the empress; but, perhaps, for that reason, she loves it so

well, and would so gladly assist it. But even Nature seems to prevent

the accomplishment of her noble intentions. Heavy rains have destroyed

the roads which had, with great expense, been rendered passable, and I

learn, to my horror, that it is scarcely possible for a traveller to

pass them without running the greatest danger."

"Well," said the king, quietly, "I imagine that nothing could happen to

the traveller that could not be remedied by a bath and a change of

dress."

"Excuse me, sire," cried the marquis, eagerly, "he would risk his

health, yes, even his life, in crossing the deep marshes, covered with

standing water, which are common in that country. Oh! those are to be

envied who need not expose themselves to this danger."

The king was wearied with this crafty diplomatic play; he was tired of

the piercing glances with which the ambassador examined his

countenance. In the firm conviction of his success, and the noble pride

of his open and truth-loving nature, it pleased him to allow the mask

to fall, which had concealed his heroic and warlike intentions from the

marquis. The moment of action had arrived; it was, therefore no longer

necessary to wear the veil of secrecy.

"Well, sir," said the king, in a loud, firm voice, "if you feel so

great a dread of this journey, I advise you to remain in Berlin. I will

go in your place into Silesia, and inform my honored cousin, Maria

Theresa, with the voice of my cannon, that the Silesian roads are too

dangerous for an Austrian, but are most convenient for the King of

Prussia to traverse on his way to Breslau."

"Your majesty intends marching to Breslau?" asked the horrified marquis.

"Yes, sir, to Breslau; and as you remarked, the roads are too dangerous

for a single traveller, and I intend taking my army with me to protect

my carriage."

"Oh!" exclaimed the marquis, "your majesty intends making a descent on

the lands of my exalted sovereign?"

The king glanced proudly and scornfully at this daring man. An

involuntary murmur arose among the courtiers; the hands of the generals

sought their swords, as if they would challenge this presumptuous

Austrian, who dared to reproach the King of Prussia.

The king quieted his generals with a slight motion of his hand, and

turning again to the marquis, he said, composedly, "You express

yourself falsely, marquis. I will make no descent upon the lands of the

Empress of Austria; I will only reclaim what is mine--mine by

acknowledged right, by inheritance, and by solemn contract. The records

of this claim are in the state department of Austria, and the empress

need only read these documents to convince herself of my right to the

province of Silesia."

"Your majesty, by this undertaking, may, perhaps, ruin the house of

Austria, but you will most certainly destroy your own."

"It depends upon the empress to accept or reject the propositions which

I have made to her through my ambassador in Vienna."

The marquis glanced ironically at the king, and said, "Sire, your

troops are fair to see; the Austrian army has not that glittering

exterior, but they are veterans who have already stood fire."

"You think my troops are showy," he said, impetuously; "eh bien, I will

convince you that they are equally brave."

Thus speaking, the king gave the Austrian ambassador a bow of

dismissal. The audience was at an end. The ambassador made a

ceremonious bow, and left the room, amid profound silence.

Scarcely had the door closed behind him before the noble countenance of

the king had recovered its usual calm and lofty expression.

He said gayly: "Mesdames et messieurs, it is time to prepare for the

mask ball; I have thrown aside my mask for a moment, but you,

doubtless, think it time to assume yours. Farewell until then."

CHAPTER IX.

THE MASQUERADE.

The saloons were brilliantly illuminated, and a train of gayly

intermingled, fantastically attired figures were moving to and fro in

the royal palace. It seemed as if the representatives of all nations

had come together to greet the heroic young king. Greeks and Turks were

there in gold-embroidered, bejewelled apparel. Odalisks, Spanish,

Russian, and German peasant women in every variety of costume;

glittering fairies, sorceresses, and fortune-telling gypsies; grave

monks, ancient knights in silver armor, castle dames, and veiled nuns.

It was a magnificent spectacle to behold, these splendidly decorated

saloons, filled with so great a variety of elegant costumes; and had it

not been for the lifeless, grinning, and distorted faces, one might

have imagined himself transported to Elysium, where all nations and all

races are united in unclouded bliss. But the cold, glittering masks

which concealed the bright faces, sparkling with animation and

pleasure, somewhat marred the effect of this spectacle, and recalled

the enraptured spectator to the present, and to the stern reality.

Only in the last of these saloons was there an unmasked group. In this

room sat the two queens, glittering with gems, for it was no longer

necessary for Sophia Dorothea to conceal her jewels; without fear she

could now appear before her court in her magnificent diamonds; and

Elizabeth Christine, who knew well that her husband loved to see his

queen appear in a magnificence befitting her dignity on festive

occasions, had adorned herself with the exquisite jewelry which excited

the admiration of the entire court, and which Baron Bielfeld declared

to be a perfect miracle of beauty. Next to the two queens and the

princesses Ulrica and Amelia, stood the king in his magnificent ball

costume. Behind the royal family stood their suite, holding their masks

in their hands, for all were required to uncover their faces on

entering the room in which the royal family were seated.

The king and the queen were about to fulfil the promises they had made

each other; Sophia Dorothea was about to receive Count Neal, while the

king was to welcome the recently married Countess Rhedern to court.

The loud and ironical voice of the master of ceremonies, Baron

Pollnitz, had just announced to the royal family the arrival of Count

and Countess Rhedern and Count Neal, and they were now entering the

saloon, the sanctuary which was only open to the favored and

privileged, only to those of high birth, or those whose offices

required them to be near the king's person. No one else could enter

this saloon without special invitation.

The newly-made Countess Rhedern made her entrance on the arm of her

husband. Her face was perfectly tranquil and grave; an expression of

determination rested on her features, which, although no longer

possessing the charm of youth and beauty, were still interesting. Her

countenance was indicative of energy and decision. An expression of

benevolence played around her large but well-formed mouth; and her dark

eyes, which were not cast down, but rested quietly on the royal family,

expressed so much spirit and intelligence that it was evident she was

no ordinary woman, but a firm and resolute one, who had courage to

challenge fate, and, if necessary, to shape her own destiny.

But the proud and imperious Queen Sophia Dorothea felt disagreeably

impressed by the earnest glances with which the countess regarded her.

If she had approached her tremblingly, and with downcast eyes, crushed,

as it were, by the weight of this unheard-of condescension on the part

of royalty, the queen would have been inclined to pardon her want of

birth, and to forget her nameless descent: but the quiet and

unconstrained bearing of the newly created countess enraged her.

Moreover, she felt offended by the elegant and costly toilet of the

countess. The long silver-embroidered train, fastened to her shoulders

with jewelled clasps, was of a rarer and more costly material than even

the robe of the queen; the diadem, necklace, and jewelled bracelets

could rival the parure of the queen, and the latter experienced almost

a sensation of envy at the sight of the large fan which the countess

held half open in her hand, and with which the queen had nothing that

could compare. The fan was of real Chinese workmanship, and ornamented

with incomparable carvings in ivory, and beautiful paintings.

The queen acknowledged the thrice-repeated courtesy of Countess

Rhedern, with a slight inclination of the head only, while Queen

Elizabeth Christine greeted her with a gracious smile.

The king, who noticed the cloud gathering on his mother's brow, and

very well knew its cause, was amused to see the queen-mother, who had

so warmly advocated the reception of Countess Rhedern at court, now

receive her so coldly; and wishing to jest with his mother on the

subject of this short-lived fancy, he greeted the countess very

graciously, and turning to his mother, said:

"You have done well, madame, to invite this beautiful countess to

court; she will be a great acquisition, a great ornament."

"A great ornament," repeated Sophia Dorothea, who now considered the

quiet and unconstrained bearing of the countess as disrespectful to

herself; and fixing her proud and scornful glances upon her as she

contemptuously repeated the king's words, she said: "What a singular

train you wear!"

"It is of Indian manufacture," said the countess, quietly; "my father

is connected with several mercantile houses in Holland, and from one of

these I obtained the curious cloth which has attracted your majesty's

attention."

Sophia Dorothea reddened with shame and indignation. This woman had the

audacity not only not to be ashamed of her past life, over which she

should have drawn a veil, but she dared in this brilliant company, in

the presence of two queens, to speak of her father's business

relations--even while the queen magnanimously wished to forget, and

veil the obscurity of her birth.

"Ah!" said the queen-mother, "you wear an article from your father's

shop! Truly, a convenient and ingenious mode of advertising your

father's goods; and hereafter when we regard Countess Rhedern, we will

know what is her father's latest article of trade."

The smile which the queen perceived upon the lips of her suite was a

sufficient reward for her cruel jest. The eyes of all were scornfully

fixed upon the countess, whose husband stood at her side, pale and

trembling, and with downcast eyes. But the young countess remained

perfectly composed.

"Pardon me, your majesty," said she, in a full, clear voice, "for

daring to contradict you, but my father's business is too well known to

need any such advertisement."

"Well, then, in what does he deal?" said the queen, angrily.

"Your majesty," said the countess, bowing respectfully, "my father's

dealings are characterized by wisdom, honor, generosity, and

discretion."

The queen's eyes flashed; a shopkeeper's daughter had dared to justify

herself before the queen, and to defy and scoff at her anger.

She arose proudly. She wished to annihilate this newly-created countess

with her withering contempt. But the king, who perceived the signs of a

coming storm upon his mother's brow, determined to prevent this

outbreak. It wounded his noble and generous soul to see a poor,

defenceless woman tormented in this manner. He was too noble-minded to

take offence at the quiet and composed bearing of the countess, which

had excited his mother's anger. In her display of spirit and

intelligence, he forgot her lowly birth, and laying his hand gently

upon his mother's shoulder he said, with a smile:

"Does not your majesty think that Countess Rhedern does honor to her

birth? Her father deals in wisdom, honor, and generosity. Well, it

seems to me that Countess Rhedern has inherited these noble qualities.

My dear countess, I promise you my patronage, and will ever be a

devoted customer of your house if you prove worthy of your father."

"That I can promise your majesty," said the countess, an expression of

proud delight flitting over her countenance, and almost rendering it

beautiful; "and will your majesty have the kindness, at some future

time," said she, taking her husband's arm, "to convince yourself that

the house of Rhedern and Company, to which your majesty has so

graciously promised his patronage, is in a condition to satisfy his

requirements?"

The queen-mother could hardly suppress a cry of anger and indignation.

The countess had dared to give the king an invitation. She had

committed a breach of etiquette which could only be accounted for by

the most absolute ignorance, or the greatest impertinence, and one

which the king would assuredly punish.

But Sophia Dorothea was mistaken. Bowing low, the king said, with that

kindliness of manner which was peculiar to himself: "I will take the

very first opportunity of paying your establishment a visit."

Sophia Dorothea was very near fainting; she could stand this scene no

longer; and giving herself up entirely to her anger, she was guilty of

the same fault which the countess had committed through ignorance.

Forgetful of etiquette, she assumed a right which belonged to the

reigning king and queen alone. Arising hastily from her seat, she said,

impatiently:

"I think it is time we should join the dancers. Do you not find the

music very beautiful and enticing? Let us go."

The king smilingly laid his hand on her arm. "You forget, madame, that

there is another happy man who longs to bask in the sunshine of your

countenance. You forget, madame, that Count Neal is to have the honor

of an introduction."

The queen gave her son one of those proud, resigned, and reproachful

looks which she had been in the habit of directing toward Frederick

William during her wedded life. She felt conquered, humbled, and

powerless.

The imperious expression fled from her brow, and found refuge in her

eyes only. "And this, too!" murmured she, sinking back on her seat. She

barely heard Count Neal's introduction. She acknowledged his respectful

greeting with a slight inclination of the head, and remained silent.

The king, who to-day seemed to be in a conciliatory mood, again came to

the rescue.

"Madame," said he, "Count Neal is indeed an enviable man; he has seen

what we will probably never see. He has been in the lovely, luxurious,

and dreamy South; he has seen the sun of India; he was governor of

Surinam."

"Pardon me, your majesty," said the count, proudly; "I was not only

governor, but vice-regent."

"Ah," said the king, "and what are the prerogatives of a vice-regent?"

"I was there esteemed as your majesty is here. The governor of Surinam

is approached with the same submission, humility, and devotion, he

enjoys the same homage as the King of Prussia."

"Ah, you are then an equal of the King of Prussia? Baron Pollnitz, you

have been guilty of a great oversight; you have forgotten to provide a

seat for my brother, the King of Surinam. You must be indulgent this

time, my dear brother, but at the next ball we will not forget that you

are a vice-regent of Surinam, and woe to the baron if he does not then

provide a chair!"

He then took his mother's arm, and signing to Prince Augustus William

to follow him with the reigning queen, proceeded to the ball-room.

On arriving there he released his mother's arm and said: "If agreeable

to you, we will lay aside etiquette for a short time and mingle with

the dancers." And without awaiting an answer, the king bowed and

hurried off into the adjoining room, followed by Pollnitz. He there

assumed a domino and mask.

The entire court followed the king's example. The prince, and even the

reigning queen, took advantage of his permission.

The queen was deserted by her suite, and left almost entirely alone in

the large saloon. Her marshal, Count Rhedern, his wife, and the page

who held her train, were the only persons who remained. Sophia Dorothea

heaved a deep sigh; she felt that she was no longer a queen, but a poor

widow who had vacated the throne. Happily, Countess Rhedern, the wife

of her marshal, was still there; upon her she could at least vent her

rage.

"Madame," said she, looking angrily at the countess "your train is too

long; you should have brought some of the lads from your father's store

to carry this train for you, in order that it might be more minutely

examined."

The countess bowed. "Your majesty must pardon me for not having done

so, but my father's assistants are not at my disposal. But perhaps we

can find a remedy if your majesty really thinks I need a train-bearer.

I suggest that some of my father's principal debtors should fill this

place. I believe these gentlemen would willingly carry my train if my

father would grant them a respite. If your majesty agrees to this

proposition, I shall at once select two of your noblest cavaliers for

my train-bearers, and will then no longer put your brilliant court to

shame."

The queen did not reply; she cast an angry glance at the quiet and

composed countess, and then walked quietly toward the throne, around

which the royal family had now assembled.

CHAPTER X.

THE MASKERS.

The king, with the assistance of Pollnitz, had now completed his

toilet; he did not wish to be recognized, and his dress was similar to

hundreds of others who were wandering through the rooms.

"Do you think I will be known?"

"No, sire, it is not possible. Now have the goodness to push your mask

slightly over your eyes; they might perhaps betray you."

"Well, these eyes will soon see some curious things. Did you ever stand

upon a battle-field as a conqueror, surrounded by corpses, all your

living enemies having fled before you?"

"Heaven in its mercy preserve me from such a sight! My enemies, sire,

have never fled from me; they chase me and threaten me, and it is of

God's great mercy that I have always escaped them."

"Who are these pursuing enemies of yours?"

"They are my creditors, your majesty, and you may well believe that

they are more terrible to me than a battle-field of corpses. Unhappily,

they still live, and the fiends torment me."

"Well, Pollnitz, after I have seen my first battle-field, in the

condition I have just described to you, and returned home victorious, I

will assist you to kill off your rapacious enemies. Until then keep

bravely on the defensive. Come, let us go, I have only half an hour

left for pleasure."

The king opened the door of the cabinet, and, jesting merrily, he

mingled with the crowd, while Pollnitz remained near the door, and cast

a searching glance around the room. Presently a mocking smile flitted

over his face, and he said to himself: "There, there are all three of

them. There is the modestly dressed nun who would not be recognized as

Madame von Morien. There is the king of cards, Manteuffel, who is not

yet aware that a quick eye has seen his hand, and his trumps are all in

vain. There at last is Madame von Brandt, 'The Gypsy,' telling

fortunes, and having no presentiment of the fate awaiting herself. A

little scrap of paper carelessly lost and judiciously used by the lucky

finder is quite sufficient to unmask three of the worldly wise."

"Well, baron," whispered the nun, "will you fulfil your promise?"

"Dear Madame von Morien," replied Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders,

"the king expressly commanded me not to betray him."

"Pollnitz," said the nun, with a tearful voice, "have pity upon me;

tell me the disguise of the king; you shall not only have my eternal

gratitude--but look, I know you love diamonds; see this costly pin,

which I will give for the news I crave."

"It is impossible for poor, weak human nature to resist you," said

Pollnitz, stretching out his hand eagerly for the pin; "diamonds have a

convincing eloquence, and I must submit; the king has a blue domino

embroidered with silver cord, a white feather is fastened in his hat

with a ruby pin, and his shoe-buckles are of rubies and diamonds."

"Thank you," said the nun, handing the pin and mingling hastily with

the crowd.

While Pollnitz was fastening the pin in his bosom, the king of cards

approached, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Well, baron, you see I am punctual; answer the questions of yesterday,

and I will give you all the information necessary to secure you a rich

and lovely wife."

"I accept the terms. You wish to know what route the king will take and

the number of his troops: this paper contains the information you

desire; I obtained it from a powerful friend, one of the confidential

servants of the king. I had to pay a thousand crowns for it; you see I

did not forget you."

"Well, here is a draft for four thousand crowns," said Manteuffel; "you

see I did not forget your price."

"And now for the rich and lovely wife."

"Listen. In Nuremberg I am acquainted with a rich family, who have but

one fair daughter; she will inherit a million. The family is not noble,

but they wish to marry their daughter to a Prussian cavalier. I have

proposed you, and you are accepted; you have only to go to Nuremberg

and deliver these letters; you will be received as a son, and

immediately after the wedding you will come into possession of a

million."

"A million is not such a large sum after all," said Pollnitz. "If I

must marry a citizen in order to obtain a fortune I know a girl here

who is young, lovely, and much in love with me, and I think she has not

less than a million."

"Well, take the letters; you can consider the subject. Au revoir, my

dear baron. Oh, I forgot one other small stipulation connected with

your marriage with the Nuremberger; the family is Protestant, and will

not accept a Catholic for their rich daughter; so you will have to

become a Protestant."

"Well, that is a small affair. I was once a Protestant, and I think I

was just as good as I am now."

Manteuffel laughed heartily, and withdrew.

Pollnitz looked thoughtfully at the letters, and considered the

question of the Nuremberg bride. "I believe Anna Pricker has at least a

million, and old Pricker lies very ill from the shock of his wife's

sudden death. If our plan succeeds, and Anna becomes a great singer,

she will have powerful influence with the king; and it will be

forgotten that she is a tailor's daughter. I believe I would rather

have Anna than the Nuremberger, but I will keep the latter in reserve."

Pollnitz had reached this point in his meditations, when the gypsy

stood before him; she greeted him with roguish words, and he was again

the thoughtless and giddy cavalier. Madame von Brandt, however, had but

little time for jesting.

"You promised to give me information of the letter I lost at the last

court festival," she said, anxiously.

"Yes, that very important letter, ruinously compromising two ladies and

a nobleman. I suppose you would obtain the letter at any sacrifice?"

"Yes, at any sacrifice," said Madame von Brandt. "You asked a hundred

Louis d'ors for the letter; I have brought them with me; take them--now

give me the letter."

The baron took the money and put it in his pocket.

"Well, the letter, let me have it quickly," said Madame von Brandt.

Pollnitz hunted through his pockets anxiously. "My God!" he cried,

"this letter has wings. I know I put it in my pocket, and it has

disappeared; perhaps like yourself I lost it in the saloon; I must

hasten to seek it." He wished to go immediately, but Madame von Brandt

held him back.

"Have the goodness to give me my money until you have found the

letter," she cried, trembling with rage.

"Your money?" cried Pollnitz; "you gave me no money. Why do you keep

me? allow me to go and seek this important letter." He tore himself

from her and mingled with the crowd.

Madame von Brandt looked after him in speechless rage; she leaned

against the wall, to prevent herself from falling.

Pollnitz laughed triumphantly. "This evening has brought me a thousand

crowns, two hundred Louis d'ors, a splendid diamond pin, and the

promise of a rich wife. I think I may be content. Through these

intrigues I have enough to live on for months. I stand now high in the

king's favor, and who knows, perhaps he may now give me a house, not

the house in the Jager Street--that is, alas, no longer vacant. I see

the king--I must hasten to him." Suddenly he heard his name called, and

turning he saw a lady in a black domino, the hood drawn over her head,

and her face covered with an impenetrable veil.

"Baron Pollnitz, a word with you, if you please," and slightly

motioning with her hand, she passed before him. Pollnitz followed her,

curious to know his last petitioner, but the dark domino covered her

completely. They had now reached a quiet window; the lady turned and

said:

"Baron Pollnitz, you are said to be a noble and gallant cavalier, and I

am sure you will not refuse a lady a favor."

"Command me, madame," said Pollnitz, with his eternal smile. "I will do

all in my power."

"Make known to me the costume of the king."

The baron stepped back in angry astonishment. "So, my beautiful mask,

you call that a favor; I must betray his majesty to you. He has

forbidden me positively to make known his costume to any one; you

cannot desire me to be guilty of such a crime!"

"I implore you to tell me," cried the mask; "it is not from idle

curiosity that I desire to know: I have an ardent but innocent desire

to say a few words to the king before he leaves for the wars, from

which he may never return."

In the excitement of deep feeling, the mask spoke in her natural voice,

and there were certain tones which Pollnitz thought he recognized; he

must be certain, however, before speaking; he drew nearer, and gazing

piercingly at the lady, he said. "You say, madame, that it is not in

idle curiosity that you desire to know the costume of the king. How do

I know that you do not entertain dangerous designs? how do I know but

you are an enemy, corrupted by Austria, and wish to lead the king to

his destruction?"

"The only security I can offer is the word of a noble lady who never

told an untruth. God omnipotent, God omnipresent knows that my heart

beats with admiration, reverence, and love for the king. I would rather

die than bring him into danger."

"Will you swear that?"

"I swear!" cried the lady, raising her arm solemnly toward heaven.

Pollnitz followed all her movements watchfully, and as the long sleeve

of the domino fell back, he saw a bracelet of emeralds and diamonds,

which he recognized; there was but one lady at the Prussian court who

possessed such a bracelet, and that was the reigning queen. Pollnitz

was too old a courtier to betray the discovery he had made; he bowed

quietly to the lady, who, discovering her imprudence, lowered her arm,

and drew her sleeve tightly over it.

"Madame," said the baron, "you have taken a solemn oath and I am

satisfied; I will grant your request, but, as I gave my word of honor

to tell no one the costume of his majesty, I must show it to you. I am

now going to seek the king; I shall speak with no one but him;

therefore the domino before whom I bow and whom I address will be the

king; follow me."

"I thank you," said the lady, drawing her domino closely over her; "I

shall remember this hour gratefully, and if it is ever in my power to

serve you, I shall do so."

"This is indeed a most fortunate evening! I have earned money and

diamonds and the favor of the queen, who up to this time has looked

upon me with cold dislike."

Pollnitz approached the king and bowed low; the lady stood behind,

marking well the costume of his majesty.

"I have waited a long time for Pollnitz," said the king.

"Sire, I had to wait for three masks; I have seen them all--Madame von

Morien, Madame von Brandt, and Baron von Manteuffel. The baron remains

true to his character; he is in the costume of the king of cards."

"And Madame von Morien?" asked the king.

"She is here as a nun, and burns with desire to speak with your

majesty; and if you will step into the dark saloon, I do not doubt the

repentant nun will quickly follow you."

"Well, what is the costume of Madame von Brandt?"

"A gypsy, sire; a yellow skirt, with a red bodice embroidered in gold;

a little hat studded with diamonds and a beauty spot on the left

temple. She wished me to give her the letter I found, and I sold it to

her for two hundred Louis d'ors."

"You had not the letter, however, and could not receive the money?"

"Pardon, your majesty, I took the Louis d'ors, and then discovered that

I had lost the letter, I came to seek it."

The king laughed heartily, and said: "Pollnitz, Pollnitz, it is a

blessed thing for the world that you are not married; your boys would

be consummate rascals! Did you give Manteuffel the plan of the campaign

and the number of the troops?"

"Yes, sire, I did; and the baron was so charmed that he made me a

present of four thousand crowns! I took them, for appearance' sake;

your majesty must decide what I must do with them."

"Keep the reward of your iniquity, baron. You hare a superb talent for

thieving, and I would prefer you should practise it on the Austrians to

practising it on myself. Go now, and see that I find my uniform in the

cabinet."

The king mingled again with the crowd, and was not recognized, but

laughed and jested with them merrily as man to man.

CHAPTER XI.

REWARD AND PUNISHMENT.

Suddenly the king ceased his cheerful laughter and merry jests: he had

for the moment forgotten that he had any thing to do but amuse himself;

he had forgotten that he was here to judge and to punish. Frederick was

standing by the once dearly loved Count Manteuffel, and as his eye fell

upon him he was recalled to himself.

"Ah! I was looking for you," said the king, laying his hand upon the

count's shoulder; "you were missing from my game, dear king of cards,

but now that I have you, I shall win."

The count had too good an ear not to recognize the king's voice in

spite of its disguise; but he was too nice a diplomatist to betray his

discovery by word or look.

"What game do you wish to play with me, mask?" Said he, following the

king into an adjoining and unoccupied room.

"A new game, the game of war!" said the king, harshly.

"The game of war," repeated the count; "I have never heard of that

game."

The king did not answer at once; he was walking hastily up and down the

room.

"Count," said he, stopping before Manteuffel, "I am your friend. I wish

to give you some good advice. Leave Berlin to-night, and never return

to it!"

"Why do you advise this?" said the count, coolly.

"Because otherwise you are in danger of being imprisoned as a traitor

and hung as a spy! Make no answer; attempt no defence. I am your

friend, but I am also the friend of the king. I would guard you from a

punishment, though a just one; and I would also guard him from

embarrassment and vexation. The king does not know that you are an

Austrian spy, in the pay of the imperial court. May he never know it!

He once loved you; and his anger would be terrible if informed of your

perfidy. Yes, Count Manteuffel, this prince was young, inexperienced

and trusting; he believed in your love and gave you his heart. Let us

spare his youth; let us spare him the humiliation of despising and

punishing the man he once loved. Oh, my God! it is hard to trample a

being contemptuously under foot whom you once pressed lovingly to your

heart. The king is gentle and affectionate: he is not yet sufficiently

hardened to bear without pain the blows inflicted by a faithless

friend. A day may come when the work of such friends, when your work,

may be accomplished, when King Frederick will wear about his heart a

coat-of-mail woven of distrust; but, as I said, that time has not come.

Do not await it, count, for then the king would be inexorable toward

you; he would look upon you only as a spy and a traitor! Hasten, then,

with flying steps from Berlin."

"But how, if I remain and attempt to defend myself?" said the count,

timidly.

"Do not attempt it; it would be in vain. For in the same moment that

you attempted to excuse yourself, the king would hear of your cunning,

your intrigues, your bribery, and your treachery; he would know that

you corresponded with his cook; that Madame von Brandt kept a journal

for you, which you sent to the Austrian court, and for which you paid

her a settled sum; he would know that you watched his every word and

step, and sold your information for Austrian gold! No, no, dare not

approach the king. A justification is impossible. Leave here to-night,

and never dare to tread again on Prussian soil! Remember I am your

friend; as such I address you."

"You then advise me to go at once, without taking leave of the king?"

said the count, who could not now conceal his embarrassment.

"I do! I command you," said the king; "I command you to leave this

castle on the spot! silently, without a word or sign, as beseems a

convicted criminal! I command you to leave Berlin to-night. It matters

not to me where yon go--to hell, if it suits your fancy."

The count obeyed silently, without a word; to the king he bowed and

left the room.

The king gazed after him till he was lost in the crowd. "And through

such men as that we lose our trust and confidence in our race; such men

harden our hearts," said he to himself. "Is that then true which has

been said by sages of all times, that princes are condemned to live

solitary and joyless lives; that they can never possess a friend

disinterested and magnanimous enough to love them for themselves, and

not for their power and glory? If so, why give our hearts to men? Let

us love and cherish our dogs, who are true and honest, and love their

masters whether they are princes or beggars. Ah, there is Manteuffel's

noble friend, that coquettish little gypsy; we will for once change the

usual order of things: I will prophesy to her, instead of receiving her

prophecies." The king approached and whispered: "Pollnitz has found the

precious letter, and is anxious to return it to you."

"Where is he?" said the gypsy, joyously.

"Follow me," said Frederick, leading her to the same room where he had

dismissed Manteuffel. "Here we are, alone and unnoticed," said the

king, "and we can gossip to our heart's content."

Madame von Brandt laughed: "Two are needed for a gossip," said she;

"and how do you know that I am in the humor for that? You led me here

by speaking of a letter which Baron Pollnitz was to give me, but I see

neither Pollnitz nor the letter!"

"Pollnitz gave it to me to hand to you; but before I give it up I will

see if I have not already learned something of your art, and if I

cannot prophesy as well as yourself. Give me your hand: I will tell

your fortune."

Madame von Brandt silently held out her trembling hand; she had

recognized the voice; she knew it was the king who stood by her side.

The king studied her hand without touching it. "I see wonderful things

in this small hand. In this line it is written that you are a dangerous

friend, a treacherous subject, and a cruel flirt."

"Can you believe this?" said she, with a forced laugh.

"I do not only believe it, I know it. It is written in bold,

imperishable characters upon your hand and brow. Look! I see here, that

from a foreign land, for treacherous service, you receive large sums of

gold; here I see splendid diamonds, and there I read that twenty

thousand crowns are promised you if you prevent a certain divorce. You

tremble, and your hand shakes so I can scarcely read. Keep your hand

steady, madame; I wish to read not only your past but your future life."

"I shall obey," whispered Madame von Brandt.

"Here I read of a dangerous letter, which fell, through your own

carelessness, into the wrong hands. If the king should read that

letter, your ruin would be unavoidable; he would punish you as a

traitor; you would not only be banished from court, but confined in

some strong fortress. When a subject conspires with the enemy during

time of war, this is the universal punishment. Be cautious, be prudent,

and the king will learn nothing of this, and you may be saved."

"What must I do to avert my ruin?" she said, breathlessly.

"Banish yourself, madame; make some excuse to withdraw immediately from

Berlin; retire to your husband's estate, and there, in quiet and

solitude, think over and repent your crimes. When like Mary Magdalene

you have loved, and deceived, and betrayed, like her you must repent,

and see if God is as trusting as man; if you can deceive Him with your

tears as you once deceived us with your well-acted friendship. Go try

repentance with God; here it is of no avail. This reformation, madame,

must commence at once. You will leave Berlin to-morrow, and will not

return till the king himself sends for you."

"I go!" said Madame von Brandt, weeping bitterly; "I go! but I carry

death in my heart, not because I am banished, but because I deserve my

punishment; because I have wounded the heart of my king, and my soul

withers under his contempt."

"Mary Magdalene," said Frederick, "truly you have a wondrous talent for

acting; a hint is enough for you, and you master your part at once.

But, madame, it is useless to act before the king; he will neither

credit your tears nor your repentance; he would remember your crimes

and pronounce your sentence. Hasten, then, to your place of atonement.

There you may turn saint, and curse the vain and giddy world. Here is

your letter--farewell!"

The king hastened away, and Madame von Brandt, weeping from shame and

humiliation, remained alone. The king passed rapidly through the

crowded saloon and stepped on the balcony; he had seen the nun

following him, and she came upon the balcony; he tore off his mask, and

confronting the trembling woman, he said, in a harsh voice.

"What do you want with me?"

"Your love," cried the nun, sinking upon her knees and raising her

hands imploringly to the king; "I want the love you once promised

me--the love which is my earthly happiness and my salvation--your love,

without which I must die; wanting which, I suffer the tortures of

purgatory!"

"Then suffer," said the king, harshly; retreating a few steps--"go and

suffer; endure the torments of purgatory, you deserve them; God will

not deliver you, nor will I."

"Alas! alas! I hear this, and I live," cried Madame von Morien,

despairingly. "Oh, my king, take pity on me; think of the heavenly

past; think of the intoxicating poison your words and looks poured into

my veins, and do not scorn and punish me because I am brought almost to

madness and death by your neglect. See what you have made of me! see

how poor Leontine has changed!" She threw back her veil, and showed her

pale and sorrowful countenance to the king.

He gazed at her sternly: "You have become old, madame," he said,

coldly--"old enough to tread in the new path you have so wisely

prepared for yourself. You who have so long been the votary of love,

are now old enough and plain enough to become a model of virtue. Accept

this order of virtue and modesty, promised you by the Empress of

Austria. The king will not divorce his wife, and as this is supposed to

be solely your work, the empress will not withhold the promised order."

"My God! he knows all, and he despises me!" cried Madame von Morien,

passionately.

"Yes, he despises you," repeated the king; "he despises and he has no

pity on you! Farewell!"

Without again looking toward the broken-hearted woman, he turned toward

the dancing-saloon. Suddenly he felt a hand laid softly upon his

shoulder; he turned and saw at his side a woman in black, and thickly

veiled.

"One word, King Frederick," whispered the lady.

"Speak, what do you wish?" said the king, kindly.

"What do I wish?" said she, with a trembling voice; "I wish to see you;

to hear your voice once more before you go to the battle-field, to

danger, perhaps to death. I come to entreat you to be careful of your

life! remember it is a precious jewel, for which you are not only

answerable to God, but to millions of your subjects. Oh, my king, do

not plunge wantonly into danger; preserve yourself for your country,

your people, and your family; to all of whom you are indispensable."

The king shook his head, smilingly. "No one is indispensable. A man

lost is like a stone thrown into the water; for a moment there is a

slight eddy, the waters whirl, then all trace disappears, and the

stream flows quietly and smoothly on. But not thus will I disappear. If

I am destined to fall in this combat to which I am now hastening, my

death shall be glorious, and my grave shall be known; it must, at

least, be crowned with laurels, as no one will consecrate it with the

tribute of love and tears. A king, you know, is never loved, and no one

weeps for his death; the whole world is too busily engaged in welcoming

his successor."

"Not so; not so with you, my king! you are deeply, fondly loved. I know

a woman who lives but in your presence--a woman who would die of joy if

she were loved by you; she would die of despair if death should claim

you; you, her youthful hero, her ideal, her god! For this woman's sake

who worships you; whose only joy you are; who humbly lays her love at

your feet, and only asks to die there; for her sake I implore you to be

careful of yourself; do not plunge wantonly into danger, and thus rob

Prussia of her king; your queen of the husband whom she adores, and for

whom she is ready at any hour to give her heart's blood."

The king clasped gently the folded hands of the veiled lady within his

own; he knew her but too well.

"Are you so well acquainted with the queen that you know all the

secrets of her heart?"

"Yes, I know the queen," whispered she; "I am the only confidant of her

sorrows. I only know how much she loves, how much she suffers."

"I pray you, then, go to the queen and bid her farewell for me. Tell

her that the king honors no other woman as he honors her; that he

thinks she is exalted enough to be placed among the noble women of the

olden times. He is convinced she would say to her warrior husband, as

the Roman wives said to their fathers, husbands, and sons, when handing

their shields, 'Return with them or upon them!' Tell Elizabeth

Christine that the King of Prussia will return from this combat with

his hereditary foe as a conqueror, or as a corpse. He cares little for

life, but much for honor; he must make his name glorious, perchance by

the shedding of his blood. Tell Elizabeth Christine this, and tell her

also that on the day of battle her friend and brother will think of

her; not to spare himself, but to remember gratefully that, in that

hour, a noble and pure woman is praying to God for him. And now adieu:

I go to my soldiers--you to the queen."

He bowed respectfully, and hurried to the music-room. The queen

followed him with tearful eyes, and then drawing her hood tightly over

her face, she hurried through a secret door into her apartments. While

the queen was weeping and praying in her room, the king was putting on

his uniform, and commanding the officers to assemble in the court-yard.

Prince Augustus William was still tarrying in the dancing-saloon: he

did not dance; no one knew he was there. He had shown himself for a few

hours in a magnificent fancy suit, but unmasked; he then left the

ballroom, saying he still had some few preparations to make for his

journey. Soon, however, he returned in a common domino and closely

masked; no one but Laura von Pannewitz was aware of his presence; they

were now standing together in a window, whose heavy curtains hid them

from view. It was a sad pleasure to look once more into each other's

eyes, to feel the warm pressure of loving hands, to repeat those pure

and holy vows which their trembling lips had so often spoken; every

fond word fell like glorious music upon their young hearts. The moment

of separation had come; the officers were assembled, and the solemn

beating of drums was heard.

"I must leave you, my beloved, my darling," whispered the prince,

pressing the weeping girl to his heart. Laura sobbed convulsively.

"Leave me, alas, perhaps never to return!"

"I shall return, my Laura," said he, with a forced smile. "I am no

hero; I shall not fall upon the battlefield. I know this; I feel it. I

feel also that if this was to be my fate, I should be spared many

sorrowful and agonizing hours; how much better a quick, glorious death,

than this slow torture, this daily death of wretchedness! Oh, Laura, I

have presentiments, in which my whole future is covered with clouds and

thick darkness, through which even your lovely form is not to be seen;

I am alone, all alone!"

"You picture my own sufferings, my own fears," whispered Laura. "Alas!

I forget the rapture of the present in the dim and gloomy future. Oh,

my beloved, my heart does not beat with joy when I look at you; it

overflows with despair. I am never to see you again, my prince; our

fond farewell is to be our last! Oh, believe me, this sad presentiment

is the voice of Fate, warning us to escape from this enchanting vision,

with which we have, lulled our souls to sleep. We have forgotten our

duty, and we are warned that a cruel necessity will one day separate

us!"

"Nothing shall separate us!" said the prince; "no earthly power shall

come between us. The separation of to-day, which honor demands of me,

shall be the last. When I return, I will remind you of your oath; I

will claim your promise, which God heard and accepted. Our love is from

God, and no stain rests upon it; God, therefore, will watch over it,

and will not withhold His blessing; with His help, we will conquer all

difficulties, and we can dispense with the approbation of the world."

Laura shook her head sadly: "I have not this happy confidence; and I

have not the strength to bear this painful separation. At times when I

have been praying fervently for help, it seems to me that God is

standing by and strengthening me to obey the command of the

dowager-queen and give my hand to Count Voss. But when I wish to speak

the decisive word my lips are closed as with a band of iron; it seems

to me that, could I open them, the only sound I should utter would be a

cry so despairing as to drive me to madness."

The prince pressed her fondly to his heart: "Swear to me, Laura, that

you will never be so faithless, so cowardly, as to yield to the threats

of my mother," said he, passionately; "swear that you will be true to

your oath; that oath by which you are mine--mine to all eternity; my

wedded wife!"

"I swear it," said she, solemnly, fixing her eyes steadily upon his

agitated countenance.

"They will take advantage of my absence to torture you. My mother will

overwhelm you with reproaches, threats, and entreaties; but, if you

love me, Laura, you will find strength to resist all this. As yet my

mother does not know that it is I whom you love; I who worship you; she

suspects that the king or the young Prince of Brunswick possesses your

heart. But chance may betray our love, and then her anger would be

terrible. She would lose no time in separating us; would stop at

nothing. Then, Laura, be firm and faithful; believe no reports, no

message, no letter; trust only in me and in my word. I will not write

to you, for my letters might be intercepted. I will send no messenger

to you; he might be bribed. If I fall in battle, and God grants me

strength in dying, I will send you a last embrace and a last loving

word, by some pitying friend. In that last hour our love will have

nothing to fear from the world, the king, or my mother. You will always

be in my thoughts, darling, and my spirit will be with you."

"And if you fall, God will have mercy on me and take me from this cruel

world; it will be but a grave for me when no longer gladdened by your

presence."

The prince kissed her fondly, and slipped a ring on her finger. "That

is our engagement ring," said he. "Now you are mine; you wear my ring;

this is the first link of that chain with which I will bind your whole

life to mine! You are my prisoner; nothing can release you. But listen!

what is that noise? The king has descended to the court; he will be

looking for me. Farewell, my precious one; God and His holy angels

guard you!"

He stepped slowly from behind the curtains and closed them carefully

after him, so as to conceal Laura; he passed hastily through the rooms

to his apartment, threw off the domino which concealed his uniform, and

seizing his sword he hastened to the court. The king was surrounded by

his generals and officers; all eyes were fixed upon him; he had

silenced every objection. There was amongst them but one opinion and

one will, the will and opinion of the king, whom all felt to be their

master, not only by divine right, but by his mighty intellect and great

soul. Frederick stood amongst them, his countenance beaming with

inspiration, his eagle eye sparkling and glowing with the fire of

thought, and a smile was on his lips which won all hearts. Behind him

stood the Prince of Anhault Dessau, old Zeithen, General Vinterfeldt,

and the adjutant-generals. Above them floated a magnificent banner,

whose motto, "Pro gloria et patria," was woven in gold. Frederick

raised his naked sword and greeted the waving colors; he spoke, and his

full, rich voice filled the immense square:

"Gentlemen, I undertake this war with no other ally than your stout

hearts; my cause is just; I dare ask God's help! Remember the renown

our great ancestors gained on the battle-field of Ferbellin! Your

future is in your own hands; distinction must be won by gallant and

daring deeds. We are to attack soldiers who gained imperishable names

under Prince Eugene. How great will be our glory if we vanquish such

warriors! Farewell! Go! I follow without delay!"

CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN.

The first campaign of the young King of Prussia had been a bloodless

one. Not one drop of blood had been shed. A sentinel at the gate of

Breslau had refused to allow the Prussian general to enter, and

received for his daring a sounding box on the ear, which sent him

reeling backward. The general with his staff entered the conquered

capital of Silesia, without further opposition. Breslau was the capital

of a province which for more than a hundred years had not been visited

by any member of the royal house of Austria. The heavy taxes imposed

upon her were the only evidence that she belonged to the Austrian

dominions. Breslau did not hesitate to receive this young and handsome

king, who as he marched into the city gave a kindly, gracious greeting

to all; who had a winning smile for all those richly-dressed ladies at

the windows; who had written with his own hand a proclamation in which

he assured the Silesians that he came not as an enemy, and that every

inhabitant would be secured in their rights, privileges, and freedom in

their religion, worth, and service. The ties which bound the beautiful

province of Silesia to Austria had long ago been shattered, and the

prophecy of the king had already been fulfilled--that prophecy made in

Krossen. As the king entered Krossen with his army, the clock of the

great church tower fell with a thundering noise, and carried with it a

portion of the old church. A superstitious fear fell upon the whole

Prussian army; even the old battle-stained warriors looked grim and

thoughtful. The king alone smiled, and said:

"The fall of this clock signifies that the pride of the house of

Austria will be humbled. Caesar fell when landing in Africa, and

exclaimed: 'I hold thee, Africa!'"

Those great men would not allow themselves to be influenced by evil

omens. Quickly, indeed, was Frederick's prophecy fulfilled. The house

of Austria was suddenly humbled, and the Prussian army was quietly in

possession of one of her capitals. Frederick had been joyfully

received, not only by the Protestants, who had so long suffered from

the bitterest religious persecution, and to whom the king now promised

absolute freedom of conscience and unconditional exercise of their

religious worship, but by the Catholics, even the priests and Jesuits,

who were completely fascinated by the intellect and amiability of

Frederick. No man mourned for the Austrian yoke, and the Prussians

became great favorites with the Silesians, particularly with the women,

who, heart in hand, advanced to meet them; received the handsome and

well-made soldiers as lovers, and hastened to have these tender ties

made irrevocable by the blessing of the priest. Hundreds of marriages

between the Prussians and the maidens of the land were solemnized

during the six weeks Frederick remained in Silesia. These men, who, but

a few weeks before, came as enemies and conquerors, were now adopted

citizens, thus giving their king a double right to the possession of

these provinces.

It soon became the mode for the Silesian girl to claim a Prussian

lover, and the taller and larger the lover, the prouder and more happy

was the lucky possessor. Baron Bielfeld, who accompanied the king to

Breslau, met in the street one day a beautiful bourgeoise, who was

weeping bitterly and wringing her hands; Bielfeld inquired the cause of

her tears, and she replied naively: