"Alas! I am indeed an object of pity; eight days ago I was betrothed to

a Prussian grenadier, who measured five feet and nine inches; I was

very happy and very proud of him. To-day one of the guard, who measured

six feet and two inches, proposed to me; and I weep now because so

majestic and handsome a giant is offered me, and I cannot accept him."

The king won the women through his gallant soldiers, the ladies of the

aristocracy, through his own beauty, grace, and eminent intellect.

Frederick gave a ball to the aristocracy of Breslau, and all the most

distinguished and noble families, who had been before closely bound to

the house of Austria, eagerly accepted the invitation; they wished to

behold the man who was a hero and a poet, a cavalier and a warrior, a

youth and a philosopher; who was young and handsome, and full of life;

who did not wrap himself in stiff, ceremonious forms, and appeared in

the presence of ladies to forget that he was a king. He worshipped the

ladies as a cavalier, and when they accepted the invitation to dance,

considered it a flattering favor. While winning the hearts of the women

through his gallantry and beauty, he gained the voices of men by the

orders and titles which he scattered broadcast through the province.

"I dreamed last night," said he to Pollnitz, laughing, "that I created

princes, dukes, and barons in Breslau; help me to make my dream a

reality by naming to me some of the most prominent families."

Pollnitz selected the names, and Prince von Pless, Duke Hockburg, and

many others rose up proudly from this creative process of the king.

Silesia belonged, at this moment, unconditionally to Prussia. The king

could now return to Berlin and devote himself to study, to friendship,

and his family. The first act of that great drama called the Seven

Years' War was now finished. The king should now, between the acts,

give himself up to the arts and sciences, and strengthen himself for

that deep tragedy of which he was resolved to be the hero. Berlin

received her king with shouts of joy, and greeted him as a demigod. He

was no longer, in the eyes of the imperious Austrians, the little

Margrave of Brandenburg, who must hold the wash-basin for the emperor;

he was a proud, self-sustaining king, no longer receiving commands from

Austria, but giving laws to the proud daughter of the Caesars.

The queen-mother and the young princesses met the king at the outer

gates. The queen Elizabeth Christine, her eyes veiled with rapturous

tears, received her husband tremblingly. Alas! he had for her only a

silent greeting, a cold, ceremonious bow. But she saw him once more;

she could lose her whole soul in those melting eyes, in which she was

ever reading the most enchanting magical fairy tales. In these days of

ceremony he could not refuse her a place by his side; to sit near him

at table, and at the concerts with which the royal chapel and the

newly-arrived Italian singers would celebrate the return of the king.

Graun had composed a piece of music in honor of this occasion, and not

only the Italian singer, Laura Farinelli, but a scholar of Graun and

Quantz, a German singer, Anna Prickerin, would then be heard for the

first time. This would be for Anna an eventful and decisive day; she

stood on the brink of a new existence--an existence made glorious by

renown, honor, and distinction.

It was nothing to her that her father lay agonizing upon his death-bed;

it was nothing to her that her brother William had left his home three

days before, and no one knew what had become of him. She asked no

questions about father or brother; she sorrowed not for the mother

lately dead and buried. She had but one thought, one desire, one

aim--to be a celebrated singer, to obtain the hand of a man whom she

neither loved nor esteemed, but who was a baron and an influential lord

of the court. The object of Anna's life was to become the wife of the

baron, not for love. She wished to hide her ignoble birth under the

glitter of his proud name; it was better to be the wife of a poor baron

than the daughter of a tailor, even though he should be the court

tailor, and a millionnaire.

The king had been in Berlin but two days, and Pollnitz had already made

a visit to his beautiful Anna. Never had he been so demonstrative and

so tender; never before had he been seriously occupied with the thought

of making her his wife; never had he looked upon it as possible. The

example of Count Rhedern gave him courage; what the king had granted to

the daughter of the merchant, he could not refuse to the daughter of

the court tailor, more particularly when the latter, by her own gifts

and talents, had opened the doors of the palace for herself; when by

the power of her siren voice she had made the barriers tremble and fall

which separated the tailor's daughter from the court circle. If the

lovely Anna became a celebrated singer, if she succeeded in winning the

applause of the king, she would be ennobled; and no one could reproach

the baron for making the beautiful prima donna his wife. If, therefore,

she pleased the king, Pollnitz was resolved to confess himself her

knight, and to marry her as soon as possible--yes, as soon as possible,

for his creditors followed him, persecuted him at every step, even

threatened him with judgment and a prison. Pollnitz reminded the king

that he had promised, after his return from Silesia, to assist him.

Frederick replied that he had not yet seen a battle-field, and was at

the beginning and not the end of a war, for which he would require more

gold than his treasuries contained; "wait patiently, also," he said,

"for the promised day, for only then can I fulfil my promise." It was,

therefore, a necessity with Pollnitz to find some way of escape from

this terrible labyrinth; and with an anxiously-beating heart he stood

on the evening of the concert behind the king's chair, to watch every

movement and every word, and above all to notice the effect produced by

the voice of his Anna.

The king was uncommonly gay and gracious; these two days in his beloved

Berlin, after weeks of fatigue and weariness in Silesia, had filled his

heart with gladness. He had given almost a lover's greeting to his

books and his flute, and his library seemed to him a sanctified home;

with joy he exchanged his sword for a pen, and instead of drawing plans

of battle, he wrote verses or witty letters to Voltaire, whom he still

honored, and in a certain sense admired, although the six days which

Voltaire had spent in Rheinsberg, just before the Silesian campaign,

had somewhat diminished his admiration for the French author. After

Frederick's first meeting with Voltaire at the castle of Moyland, he

said of him, "He is as eloquent as Cicero, as charming as Plinius, and

as wise as Agrippa; he combines in himself all the virtues and all the

talents of the three greatest men of the ancients." He now called the

author of the "Henriade" a FOOL; it excited and troubled his spirit to

see that this great author was mean and contemptible in character, cold

and cunning in heart. He had loved Voltaire as a friend, and now he

confessed with pain that Voltaire's friendship was a possession which

must be cemented with gold, if you did not wish to lose it. The king

who, a few months before, had compared him to Cicero, Plinius, and

Agrippa, now said to Jordan, "The miser, Voltaire, has still an

unsatisfied longing for gold, and asks still thirteen hundred dollars!

Every one of the six days which he spent with me cost me five hundred

and fifty dollars! I call that paying dear for a fool! Never before was

a court fool so generously rewarded."

To-day Frederick was expecting a new enjoyment; to-day, for the first

time, he was to hear the new Italian singer. This court concert

promised him, therefore, a special enjoyment, and he awaited it with

youthful impatience.

At last Graun gave the signal for the introduction; Frederick had no

ear for this simple, beautiful, and touching music; and the masterly

solo of Quantz upon the flute drew from him a single bravo; he thought

only of the singers, and at last the chorus began.

The heart of Pollnitz beat loud and quick as he glanced at Anna, who

stood proud and grave, in costly French toilet, far removed from the

Farinelli. Anna examined the court circles quietly, and looked as

unembarrassed as if she had been long accustomed to such society.

The chorus was at an end, and Laura Farinelli had the first aria to

sing. Anna Prickerin could have murdered her for this. The Italian, in

the full consciousness of her power, returned Anna's scorn with a

half-mocking, half-contemptuous smile; she then fixed her great,

piercing eyes upon the music, and began to sing.

Anna could have cried aloud in her rage, for she saw that the king was

well pleased: he nodded his head, and a gay smile overspread his

features; she saw that the whole court circle made up enchanted faces

immediately, and that even Pollnitz assumed an entirely happy and

enthusiastic mien. The Farinelli saw all this, and the royal applause

stimulated her; her full, glorious voice floated and warbled in the

artistic "Fioritures" and "Roulades," then dreamed itself away in soft,

melodious tones; again it rose into the loftiest regions of sound, and

was again almost lost in the simple, touching melodies of love.

"Delicious! superb!" said the king, aloud, as Farinelli concluded.

"Exalted! godlike!" cried Pollnitz; and now, as the royal sign had been

given, the whole court dared to follow the example, and to utter light

and repressed murmurs of wonder and applause.

Anna felt that she turned pale; her feet trembled; she could have

murdered the Italian with her own hands! this proud Farinelli, who at

this moment looked toward her with a questioning and derisive glance;

and her eyes seemed to say, "Will you yet dare to sing?"

But Anna had the proud courage to dare. She said to herself, "I shall

triumph over her; her voice is as thin as a thread, and as sharp as a

fine needle, while mine is full and powerful, and rolls like an organ;

and as for her 'Fioritures,' I understand them as well as she."

With this conviction she took the notes in her hand, and waited for the

moment when the "Ritornelle" should be ended; she returned with a quiet

smile the anxious look which her teacher, Quantz, fixed upon her.

The "Ritornelle" was ended. Anna began her song; her voice swelled

loudly and powerfully, far above the orchestra, but the king was dull

and immovable; he gave not the slightest token of applause. Anna saw

this, and her voice, which had not trembled with fear, now trembled

with rage; she was resolved to awake the astonishment of the king by

the strength and power of her voice; she would compel him to applaud!

She gathered together the whole strength of her voice and made so

powerful an effort that her poor chest seemed about to burst asunder; a

wild, discordant strain rose stunningly upon the air, and now she had

indeed the triumph to see that the king laughed! Yes, the king laughed!

but not with the same smile with which he greeted Farinelli, but in

mockery and contempt. He turned to Pollnitz, and said:

"What is the name of this woman who roars so horribly?"

Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders; he had a kind of feeling as if that

moment his creditors had seized him by the throat.

"Sire," whispered he, "I believe it is Anna Prickerin." The king

laughed; yes, in spite of the "Fioritures" of the raging singer, who

had seen Pollnitz's shrug of the shoulders, and had vowed in the spirit

to take a bloody vengeance.

Louder and louder the fair Anna shrieked, but the king did not applaud.

She had now finished the last note of her aria, and breathlessly with

loudly-beating heart she waited for the applause of the king. It came

not! perfect stillness reigned; even Pollnitz was speechless.

"Do you know, certainly, that this roaring woman is the daughter of our

tailor?" said the king.

Pollnitz answered, "Yes," with a bleeding heart.

"I have often heard that a tailor was called a goat, but his children

are nevertheless not nightingales, and poor Pricker can sooner force a

camel through the eye of his needle than make a songstress of his

daughter. The Germans cannot sing, and it is an incomprehensible

mistake of Graun to bring such a singer before us."

"She is a pupil of Quantz," said Pollnitz, "and he has often assured me

she would make a great singer."

"Ah, she is a pupil of Quantz," repeated the king, and his eye glanced

around in search of him. Quantz, with an angry face, and his eyebrows

drawn together, was seated at his desk. "Alas!" said Frederick, "when

he makes such a face as that, he grumbles with me for two days, and is

never pleased with my flute. I must seek to mollify him, therefore, and

when this Mademoiselle Prickerin sings again I will give a slight sign

of applause."

But Anna Prickerin sang no more; angry scorn shot like a stream of fire

through her veins, she felt suffocated; tears rushed to her eyes; every

thing about her seemed to be wavering and unsteady; and as her

listless, half-unconscious glances wandered around, she met the gay,

triumphant eyes of the Farinelli fixed derisively upon her. Anna felt

as if a sword had pierced her heart; she uttered a fearful cry, and

sank unconscious to the floor.

"What cry was that?" said the king, "and what signifies this strange

movement among the singers?"

"Sire, it appears that the Prickerin has fallen into a fainting-fit,"

said Pollnitz.

The king thought this a good opportunity to pacify Quantz by showing an

interest in his pupil. "That is indeed a most unhappy circumstance,"

said the king, aloud. "Hasten, Pollnitz, to inquire in my name after

the health of this gifted young singer. If she is still suffering, take

one of my carriages and conduct her yourself to her home, and do not

leave her till you can bring me satisfactory intelligence as to her

recovery." So saying, the king cast a stolen glance toward the

much-dreaded Quantz, whose brow had become somewhat clearer, and his

expression less threatening. "We will, perhaps," whispered the king,

"escape this time with one day's growling; I think I have softened

him." Frederick seated himself, and gave the signal for the concert to

proceed; he saw that, with the assistance of the baron, the unconscious

songstress had been removed.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD TIME.

The music continued, while Pollnitz, filled with secret dread, ordered

a court carriage, according to the command of the king, and entered it

with the still insensible songstress.

"The king does not know what a fearful commission he has given me,"

thought Pollnitz, as he drove through the streets with Anna Prickerin,

and examined her countenance with terror. "Should she now awake, she

would overwhelm me with her rage. She is capable of scratching out my

eyes, or even of strangling me."

But his fear was groundless. Anna did not stir; she was still

unconscious, as the carriage stopped before the house of her father. No

one came to meet them, although Pollnitz ordered the servant to open

the door, and the loud ringing of the bell sounded throughout the

house. No one appeared as Pollnitz, with the assistance of the

servants, lifted the insensible Anna from the carriage and bore her

into the house to her own room. As the baron placed her carefully upon

the sofa, she made a slight movement and heaved a deep sigh.

"Now the storm will break forth," thought Pollnitz, anxiously, and he

ordered the servants to return to the carriage and await his return. He

desired no witnesses of the scene which he expected, and in which he

had good reason to believe that he would play but a pitiful role.

Anna Prickerin now opened her eyes; her first glance fell upon

Pollnitz, who was bending over her with a tender smile.

"What happiness, dearest," he whispered, "that you at last open your

eyes! I was dying with anxiety."

Anna did not answer at once; her eyes were directed with a dreamy

expression to the smiling countenance of Pollnitz, and while he

recounted his own tender care, and the gracious sympathy of the king,

Anna appeared to be slowly waking out of her dream. Now a ray of

consciousness and recollection overspread her features, and throwing up

her arm with a rapid movement she administered a powerful blow on the

cheek of her tender, smiling lover, who fell back with his hand to his

face, whimpering with pain.

"Why did you shrug your shoulders?" she said, her lips trembling with

anger, and, springing up from the sofa, she approached Pollnitz with a

threatening expression, who, expecting a second explosion, drew back,

"Why did you shrug your shoulders?" repeated Anna.

"I am not aware that I did so, my Anna," stammered Pollnitz.

She stamped impatiently on the floor. "I am not your Anna. You are a

faithless, treacherous man, and I despise you; you are a coward, you

have not the courage to defend the woman you have sworn to love and

protect. When I ceased singing, why did you not applaud?"

"Dearest Anna," said Pollnitz, "you are not acquainted with court

etiquette; you do not know that at court it is only the king who

expresses approval."

"You all broke out into a storm of applause as Farinelli finished

singing."

"Because the king gave the sign."

Anna shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and paced the floor with

rapid steps. "You think that all my hopes, all my proud dreams for the

future are destroyed," she murmured, with trembling lips, while the

tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. "To think that the king and the

whole court laughed while I sang, and that presumptuous Italian heard

and saw it all--I shall die of this shame and disgrace. My future is

annihilated, my hopes trodden under foot." She covered her face with

her hands, and wept and sobbed aloud.

Pollnitz had no pity for her sufferings, but he remembered his

creditors, and this thought rekindled his extinguished tenderness. He

approached her, and gently placed his arm around her neck. "Dearest,"

he murmured, "why do you weep, how can this little mischance make you

so wretched? Do we not love each other? are you not still my best

beloved, my beautiful, my adored Anna? Have you not sworn that you love

me, and that you ask no greater happiness than to be united to me?"

Anna raised her head that she might see this tender lover.

"It is true," proceeded Pollnitz, "that you did not receive the

applause this evening which your glorious talent deserves; Farinelli

was in your way. The king has a prejudice against German singers; he

says, 'The Germans can compose music, but they cannot sing.' That

prejudice is a great advantage for the Italian. If you had borne an

Italian name, the king would have been charmed with your wonderful

voice; but you are a German, and he refuses you his approval. But what

has been denied you here, you will easily obtain elsewhere. We will

leave this cold, ungrateful Berlin, my beloved. You shall take an

Italian name, and through my various connections I can make

arrangements for you to sing at many courts. You will win fame and

gold, and we will live a blessed and happy life."

"I care nothing for the gold; I am rich, richer than I even dreamed. My

father told me to-day that he possessed nearly seven hundred thousand

dollars, and that he would disinherit my brother, who is now absent

from Berlin. I will be his heiress, and very soon, for the physicians

say he can only live a few days."

The eyes of the baron gleamed. "Has your father made his will? has he

declared you his heiress?"

"He intended doing so to-day. He ordered the lawyers to come to him,

and I believe they were here when I started to this miserable concert.

It was not on account of the money, but for fame, that I desired to

become a prima donna. But I renounce my intention; this evening has

shown me many thorns where I thought to find only roses. I renounce

honor and renown, and desire only to be happy, happy in your love and

companionship."

"You are right; we will fly from this cold, faithless Berlin to happier

regions. The world will know no happier couple than the Baron and

Baroness von Pollnitz."

Pollnitz now felt no repugnance at the thought that the tailor's

daughter had the presumptuous idea of becoming his wife. He forgave her

low origin for the sake of her immense fortune, and thought it not a

despicable lot to be the husband of the beautiful Anna Prickerin. He

assured her of his love in impassioned words, and Anna listened with

beaming eyes and a happy smile. Suddenly a loud weeping and crying,

proceeding from the next room, interrupted this charming scene.

"My father, it is my father!" cried Anna, as she hastened to the door

of the adjoining room, which, as we know, contained the ancestral

portraits of the Prickers. Pollnitz followed her. In this room,

surrounded by his ancestors, the worthy tailor lay upon his death-bed.

Pale and colorless as the portraits was the face of the poor man; but

his eyes were gleaming with a wild, feverish glitter. As he perceived

Anna in her splendid French costume, so wild and fearful a laugh burst

from his lips, that even Pollnitz trembled.

"Come to me," said the old man, with a stammering voice, as he motioned

to his daughter to approach his couch. "You and your brother have

broken my heart; you have given me daily a drop of poison, of which I

have been slowly dying. Your brother left my house as the prodigal son,

but he has not returned a penitent; he glories in his crime; he is

proud of his shame. Here is a letter which I received from him to-day,

in which he informs me that he has eloped with the daughter of my

second murderer, this French Pelissier; and that he intends to become

an actor, and thus drag through the dust the old and respectable name

of his fathers. For this noble work he demands his mother's fortune. He

shall have it--yes, he shall have it; it is five thousand dollars, but

from me he receives nothing but my curse, and I pray to God that it may

ring forever in his ears!"

The old man lay back exhausted, and groaned aloud. Anna stood with

tearless eyes by the death-bed of her father, and thought only of the

splendid future which each passing moment brought nearer. Pollnitz had

withdrawn to one of the windows, and was considering whether he should

await the death of the old man or return immediately to the king.

Suddenly Pricker opened his eyes, and turned them with an angry and

malicious expression toward his daughter.

"What a great lady you are!" he said, with a fearful grin; "dressed in

the latest fashion, and a wonderful songstress, who sings before the

king and his court. Such a great lady must be ashamed that her father

is a tailor. I appreciate that, and I am going to my grave, that I may

not trouble my daughter. Yes, I am going, and nothing shall remind the

proud songstress of me, neither my presence nor any of my possessions.

A prima donna would not be the heiress of a tailor."

The old man broke out into a wild laugh, while Anna stared at him, and

Pollnitz came forward to hear and observe.

"I do not understand you, my father," said Anna, trembling and

disturbed.

"You will soon understand me," stammered the old man, with a hoarse

laugh. "When I am dead, and the lawyers come and read my will, which I

gave them to-day, then you will know that I have left my fortune to the

poor of the city, and not to this great songstress, who does not need

it, as she has a million in her throat. My son an actor, my daughter a

prima donna--it is well. I go joyfully to my grave, and thank God for

my release. Ah! you shall remember your old father; you shall curse me,

as I have cursed you; and as you will shed no tears at my death, it

shall, at least, be a heavy blow to you. You are disinherited! both

disinherited! the poor are my heirs, and you and your brother will

receive nothing but the fortune of your mother, of which I,

unfortunately, cannot deprive you."

"Father, father, this is not possible--this cannot be your

determination!" cried Anna. "It is not possible for a father to be so

cruel, so unnatural, as to disinherit his children!"

"Have you not acted cruelly and unnaturally to me?" asked the old man;

"have you not tortured me? have you not murdered me, with a smile upon

your lips, as you did your poor mother, who died of grief? No, no, no

pity for unnatural children. You are disinherited!"

The old man fell back with a loud shriek upon his couch, and his

features assumed that fixed expression which is death's herald.

"He is dying!" cried Anna, throwing herself beside her father; "he is

dying, and he has disinherited me!"

"Yes, disinherited!" stammered the heavy tongue of the dying man.

Pollnitz trembled at the fearful scene; he fled with hasty steps from

this gloomy room, and only recovered his composure when once more

seated in his carriage. After some moments of reflection, he said:

"I will ask the king for my release from his service, and I will become

a Protestant, and hasten to Nuremberg, and marry the rich patrician."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE DISCOVERY.

They sat hand in hand in the quiet and fragrant conservatory; after a

long separation they gazed once more in each other's eyes, doubting the

reality of their happiness, and asking if it were not a dream, a

delightful dream.

This was the first time since his return from Silesia that Prince

Augustus William had seen his Laura alone; the first time he could tell

her of his longing and his suffering; the first time she could whisper

in his ear the sweet and holy confession of her love--a confession that

none should hear but her lover and her God.

But there were four ears which heard every thing; four eyes which saw

all that took place in the myrtle arbor. Louise von Schwerin and her

lover, the handsome Fritz Wendel, sat arm in arm in the grotto, and

listened attentively to the conversation of the prince and his bride.

"How happy they are!" whispered Louise, with a sigh.

"Are we not also happy?" asked Fritz Wendel, tenderly, clasping his arm

more firmly around her. "Is not our love as ardent, as passionate, and

as pure as theirs?"

"And yet the world would shed tears of pity for them, while we would be

mocked and laughed at," said Louise, sighing.

"It is true that the love of the poor gardener for the beautiful

Mademoiselle von Schwerin is only calculated to excite ridicule,"

murmured Fritz Wendel; "but that shall and will be changed; I shall

soon begin the new career which I have planned for myself; my Louise

need then no longer blush for her lover, and my adoration for her shall

no longer be a cause of shame and humiliation. I have a means by which

I can purchase rank and position, and I intend to employ this means."

"Pray tell me how; let me know your plans," said Louise. He pointed

with a cruel smile to the lovers in the myrtle arbor.

"This secret is my purchase money," said he, whispering; "I shall

betray them to the king; and he will give me rank and wealth for this

disclosure; for upon this secret depends the future of Prussia. Let us,

therefore, listen attentively to what they say, that--"

"No," said Louise, interrupting him with vivacity, "we will not listen.

It is cruel and ignoble to desire to purchase our own happiness with

the misery of others; it is--"

"For Heaven's sake be quiet and listen!" said Fritz Wendel, softly,

laying his hand on her angry lips.

The conversation of the lovers in the myrtle arbor had now taken

another direction. Their eyes no longer sparkled with delight, but had

lost their lustre, and an expression of deep sadness rested on their

features.

"Is it then really true?" said Laura, mournfully; "you are affianced to

the Princess of Brunswick?"

"It is true," said the prince, in a low voice. "There was no other

means of securing and preserving our secret than to seem to yield to

the king's command, and to consent to this alliance with a good grace.

This cloak will shield our love until we can acknowledge it before the

whole world; and that depends, my beloved, upon you alone. Think of the

vows of eternal love and fidelity we have made to each other; remember

that you have promised to be mine for all eternity, and to devote your

whole life to me; remember that you wear my engagement-ring on your

finger, and are my bride."

"And yet you are affianced to another, and wear another engagement

ring!"

"But this princess, to whom I have been affianced, knows that I do not

love her. I have opened my heart to her; I told her that I loved you

alone, and could never love another; that no woman but Laura von

Pannewitz should ever be my wife; and she was generous enough to give

her assistance and consent to be considered my bride until our union

should no longer need this protection. And now, my dear Laura, I

conjure you, by our love and the happiness of our lives, yield to my

ardent entreaties and my fervent prayers; have the courage to defy the

world and its prejudices. Follow me, my beloved; flee with me and

consent to be my wife!"

The glances with which he regarded her were so loving, so imploring,

that Laura could not find in her heart to offer decided resistance. Her

own heart pleaded for him; and now when she might altogether lose him

if she refused his request, now that he was affianced to another, she

was filled with a torturing jealousy; she was now conscious that it

would be easier to die than renounce her lover.

But she still had the strength to battle with her own weak heart, to

desire to shut out the alluring voices which resounded in her own

breast. Like Odysseus, she tried to be deaf to the sirens' voices which

tempted her. But she still heard them, and although she had found

strength to refuse her lover's prayers and entreaties to flee with him,

yet she could not repel his passionate appeals to her to be his wife.

It was so sweet to listen to the music of his voice; such bliss to lean

her head on his shoulder, to look up into his handsome countenance and

to drink in the words of ardent and devoted love which fell from his

lips; to know what he suffers is for your sake! It rests with you to

give him happiness or despair. She knew not that the words which she

drank in were coursing like fire through her own veins, destroying her

resolution and turning her strength to ashes.

As he, at last, brought to despair by her silence and resistance, burst

into tears, and accused her of cruelty and indifference, as she saw his

noble countenance shadowed with pain and sorrow, she no longer found

courage to offer resistance, and throwing herself into his arms, with a

happy blush, she whispered:

"Take me; I am yours forever! I accept you as my master and husband.

Your will shall be mine; what you command I will obey; where you call

me there will I go; I will follow you to the ends of the earth, and

nothing but death shall hereafter separate us!"

The prince pressed her closely and fervently to his heart, and kissed

her pure brow.

"God bless you, my darling; God bless you for this resolution." His

voice was now firm and full, and his countenance had assumed an

expression of tranquillity and energy. He was no longer the sighing,

despairing lover, but a determined man, who knew what his wishes were,

and had the courage and energy to carry them into execution.

Fritz Wendel pressed Louise more closely to his side, and whispered:

"You say that Laura is an angel of virtue and modesty, and yet she has

not the cruel courage to resist her lover; she yields to his

entreaties, and is determined to flee with him. Will you be less kind

and humane than this tender, modest Laura? Oh, Louise, you should also

follow your tender, womanly heart; flee with me and become my wife. I

will conceal you, and then go to those who would now reject my suit

scornfully, and dictate terms to them."

"I will do as she does," whispered Louise, with glowing cheeks. "What

Laura can do, I may also do; if she flies with her lover, I will fly

with you; if she becomes his wife, I will be yours. But let us be

quiet, and listen."

"And now, my Laura, listen attentively to every word I utter," said

Prince Augustus William, gravely. "I have made all the necessary

preparations, and in a week you will be my wife. There is a good and

pious divine on one of my estates who is devoted to me. He has promised

to perform the marriage ceremony. On leaving Berlin we will first flee

to him, and our union will receive his blessing in the village church

at night; a carriage will await us at the door, which, with fresh

relays of horses, will rapidly conduct us to the Prussian boundary. I

have already obtained from my friend the English ambassador a passport,

which will carry us safely to England under assumed names; once there,

my uncle, the King of England, will not refuse his protection and

assistance; and by his intercession we will be reconciled to the king

my brother. When he sees that our union has been accomplished, he will

give up all useless attempts to separate us."

"But he can and will punish you for this; you will thereby forfeit your

right of succession to the throne, and for my sake you will be forced

to renounce your proud and brilliant future."

"I shall not regret it," said the prince, smiling. "I do not long for a

crown, and will not purchase this bauble of earthly magnifisence at the

expense of my happiness and my love. And perhaps I have not the

strength, the talent, or the power of intellect to be a ruler. It

suffices me to rule in your heart, and be a monarch in the kingdom of

your love. If I can therefore purchase the uncontested possession of my

beloved by renouncing all claims to the throne, I shall do so with joy

and without the slightest regret."

"But I, poor, humble, weak girl that I am, how can I make good the loss

you will sustain for my sake?" asked Laura.

"Your love will be more than a compensation. You must now lay aside all

doubt and indecision. You know our plans for the future. On my part all

the preliminary measures have been taken; you should also make whatever

preparations are necessary. It is Hartwig, the curate of Oranienburg,

who is to marry us. Send the necessary apparel and whatever you most

need to him, without a word or message. The curate has already been

advised of their arrival, and will retain the trunks unopened. On next

Tuesday, a week from to-day, the king will give a ball. For two days

previous to this ball you will keep your room on the plea of sickness;

this will be a sufficient excuse for your not accompanying the queen. I

shall accept the invitation, but will not appear at the ball, and will

await you at the castle gate of Monbijou. At eight o'clock the ball

commences; at nine you will leave your room and the castle, at the gate

of which I will receive you. At a short distance from the gate a

carriage will be in readiness to convey us to Oranienburg, where we

will stop before the village church. There we will find a preacher

standing before the altar, ready to perform the ceremony, and when this

is accomplished we will enter another carriage which will rapidly

convey us to Hamburg, where we will find a ship, hired by the English

ambassador, ready to take us to England. You see, dear Laura, that

every thing has been well considered, and nothing can interfere with

our plans, now that we understand each other. In a week, therefore,

remember, Laura."

"In a week," she whispered. "I have no will but yours."

"Until then we will neither see nor speak with each other, that no

thoughtless word may excite suspicion in the breasts of the spies who

surround us. We must give each other no word, no message, no letter, or

sign; but I will await you at the castle gate at nine o'clock on next

Tuesday, and you will not let me wait in vain."

"No, you shall not wait in vain," whispered Laura, with a happy smile,

hiding her blushing face on the breast of her lover.

"And you, will you let me wait in vain?" asked Fritz Wendel, raising

Louise's head from his breast, and gazing on her glowing and dreamy

countenance.

"No, I shall not let you wait in vain," said Louise von Schwerin. "We

will also have our carriage, only we will leave a little sooner than

the prince and Laura. We will also drive to Oranienburg, and await the

prince before the door of the church. We will tell him we knew his

secret and did not betray him. We will acknowledge our love, Laura will

intercede for us, and the preacher will have to perform the ceremony

for two couples instead of one. We will then accompany the prince and

his wife in their flight to England; from there the prince will obtain

pardon of the king, and we the forgiveness of my family. Oh, this is a

splendid, a magnificent plan!--a flight, a secret marriage at night,

and a long journey. This will be quite like the charming romances which

I am so fond of, and mine will be a fantastic and adventurous life. But

what is that?" said she. "Did you hear nothing? It seems to me I heard

a noise as of some one opening the outer door of the conservatory."

"Be still," murmured Fritz Wendel, "I heard it also; let us therefore

be on our guard."

The prince and Laura had also heard this noise, and were listening in

breathless terror, their glances fastened on the door. Perhaps it was

only the wind which had moved the outer door; perhaps--but no, the door

opened noiselessly, and a tall female figure cautiously entered the

saloon.

"The queen!" whispered Laura, trembling.

"My mother!" murmured the prince, anxiously looking around for some

means of escape. He now perceived the dark grotto, and pointing rapidly

toward it, he whispered: "Quick, quick, conceal yourself there. I will

remain and await my mother."

The stately figure of the queen could already be seen rapidly advancing

through the flowers and shrubbery, and now her sparkling eye and proud

and angry face were visible.

"Quick," whispered the prince, "conceal yourself, or we are lost!"

Laura slipped hastily behind the myrtle and laurel foliage and attained

the asylum of the grotto, unobserved by the queen; she entered and

leaned tremblingly against the inner wall. Blinded by the sudden

darkness, she could see nothing, and she was almost benumbed with

terror.

Suddenly she heard a low, whispering voice at her side: "Laura, dear

Laura, fear nothing. We are true friends, who know your secret, and

desire to assist you."

"Follow me, mademoiselle," whispered another voice; "confide in us as

we confide in you. We know your secret; you shall learn ours. Give me

your hand; I will conduct you from this place noiselessly and

unobserved, and you can then return to the castle."

Laura hardly knew what she was doing. She was gently drawn forward, and

saw at her side a smiling girlish face, and now she recognized the

little maid of honor, Louise von Schwerin.

"Louise," said she, in a low voice, "what does all this mean?"

"Be still," she whispered: "follow him down the stairway. Farewell! I

will remain and cover the retreat."

Louise now hastily concealed the opening through which Fritz Wendel and

Laura had disappeared, and then slipped noiselessly back to the grotto,

and concealed herself behind the shrubbery at its entrance, so that she

could see and hear every thing that took place.

It was in truth Queen Sophia Dorothea, who had dismissed her attendants

and come alone to the conservatory at this unusual hour.

This was the time at which the queen's maids of honor were not on

service, and were at liberty to do as they pleased. The queen had been

in the habit of reposing at this time, but to-day she could not find

rest; annoyed at her sleeplessness, she had arisen, and in walking up

and down had stepped to the window and looked dreamily down into the

still and desolate garden. Then it was that she thought she saw a

female figure passing hurriedly down the avenue. It must have been one

of her maids of honor; and although the queen had not recognized her,

she was convinced that it was none other than Laura von Pannewitz, and

that she was now going to a rendezvous with her unknown lover, whom the

queen had hitherto vainly endeavored to discover. The queen called her

waiting-maids to her assistance, and putting on her furs and hood, she

told them she felt a desire to take a solitary walk in the garden, and

that none of her attendants should be called, with which she hurried

into the garden, following the same path which the veiled lady had

taken. She followed the foot-tracks in the snow to the conservatory,

and entered without hesitation, determined to discover the secret of

her maid of honor, and to punish her.

It was fortunate for the poor lovers that the increasing corpulence of

the queen and her swollen right foot rendered her advance rather slow,

so that when she at last reached the lower end of the conservatory she

found no one there but her son Augustus William, whose embarrassed and

constrained reception of herself convinced the queen that her

appearance was not only a surprise, but also a disagreeable one. She

therefore demanded of him with severity the cause of his unexpected and

unusual visit to her conservatory; and when Augustus William smilingly

replied--

"That he had awaited here the queen's awakening, in order that he might

pay his visit--"

The queen asked abruptly: "And who, my son, helped to dispel the ennui

of this tedious waiting?"

"No one, my dear mother," said the prince; but he did not dare to meet

his mother's penetrating glance.

"No one?" repeated she; "but I heard you speaking on entering the

conservatory."

"You know, your majesty, that I have inherited the habit of speaking

aloud to myself from my father," replied the prince, with a constrained

smile.

"The king my husband did not cease speaking when I made his

appearance," exclaimed the queen, angrily; "he had no secrets to hide

from me."

"The thoughts of my royal father were grand, and worthy of the sympathy

of Queen Sophia Dorothea," said the prince, bowing low.

"God forbid that the thoughts of his son should be of another and less

worthy character!" exclaimed the queen. "My sons should, at least, be

too proud to soil their lips with an untruth; and if they have the

courage to do wrong, they should also find courage to acknowledge it."

"I do not understand you, my dear mother;" and meeting her penetrating

glance with quiet composure, he continued, "I am conscious of no wrong,

and consequently have none to acknowledge."

"This is an assurance which deserves to be unmasked," exclaimed the

queen, who could no longer suppress her anger. "You must know, prince,

that I am not to be deceived by your seeming candor and youthful

arrogance. I know that you were not alone, for I myself saw the lady

coming here who kept you company while awaiting me, and I followed her

to this house."

"Then it seems that your majesty has followed a fata morgana," said the

prince, with a forced smile; "for, as you see, I am alone, and no one

else is present in the conservatory."

But even while speaking, the prince glanced involuntarily toward the

grotto which concealed his secret.

The Queen Sophia Dorothea caught this glance, and divined its meaning.

"There is no one in the saloon, and it now remains to examine the

grotto," said she, stepping forward hastily.

The prince seized her hand, and endeavored to hold her back.

"I conjure you, mother, do not go too far in your suspicion and your

examinations. Remember that your suspicion wounds me."

The queen gave him a proud, angry glance.

"I am here on my own property," said she, withdrawing her hand, "and no

one shall oppose my will."

"Well, then, madame, follow your inclination," said the prince, with a

resolute air; "I wished to spare you an annoyance. Let discord and

sorrow come over us, if your majesty will have it so; and as you are

inexorable, you will also find me firm and resolute. Examine the

grotto, if you will."

He offered her his arm and conducted her to the grotto. Sophia Dorothea

felt disarmed by her son's resolute bearing, and she was almost

convinced that she had done him injustice, and that no one was

concealed in the grotto. With a benignant smile she had turned to her

son, to say a few soothing words, when she heard a low rustle among the

shrubbery, and saw something white flitting through the foliage.

"And you say, my son, that I was deceived by a fata morgana" exclaimed

the queen, hurrying forward with outstretched arm. "Come, my young

lady, and save us and yourself the shame of drawing you forcibly from

your hiding-place."

The queen had not been mistaken. Something moved among the shrubbery,

and now a female figure stepped forth and threw herself at the feet of

the queen.

"Pardon, your majesty, pardon! I am innocent of any intention to

intrude on your majesty's privacy. I had fallen asleep in this grotto,

and awoke when it was too late to escape, as your majesty was already

at the entrance of the conservatory. In this manner I have been an

involuntary witness of your conversation. This is my whole fault."

The queen listened with astonishment, while the prince regarded with

consternation the kneeling girl who had been found here in the place of

his Laura.

"This is not the voice of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz," said the queen,

as she passed out into the light, and commanded the kneeling figure to

follow her, that she might see her face. The lady arose and stepped

forward. "Louise von Schwerin!" exclaimed the queen and the prince at

the same time, while the little maid of honor folded her hands

imploringly, and said, with an expression of childish innocence:

"O your majesty, have compassion with me! Yesterday's ball made me so

very tired; and as your majesty was sleeping, I thought I would come

here and sleep a little too, although I had not forgotten that your

majesty was not pleased to have us visit this conservatory alone."

Sophia Dorothea did not honor her with a glance; her eyes rested on her

son with an expression of severity and scorn.

"Really, I had a better opinion of you," said she. "It is no great

achievement to mislead a child, and one that is altogether unworthy of

a royal prince."

"My mother," exclaimed the prince, indignantly, "you do not believe--"

"I believe what I see," said the queen, interrupting him. "Have done

with your assurances of innocence, and bow to the truth, which has

judged you in spite of your denial. And you, my young lady, will

accompany me, and submit to my commands in silence, and without

excuses. Come, and assume a cheerful and unconstrained air, if you

please. I do not wish my court to hear of this scandal, and to read

your guilt in your terrified countenance. I shall take care that you do

not betray your guilt in words. Come."

The prince looked after them with an expression of confusion and

astonishment. "Well, no matter how this riddle is solved," murmured he,

after the queen had left the conservatory with her maid of honor,

"Laura is safe at all events, and in a week we will flee."

CHAPTER XV.

THE COUNTERMINE.

Three days had slowly passed by, and Fritz Wendel waited in vain for a

sign or message from his beloved. He groped his way every day through

the subterranean alley to the grotto, and stood every night under her

window, hoping in vain for a signal or soft whisper from her.

The windows were always curtained and motionless, and no one could give

the unhappy gardener any news of the poor Louise von Schwerin, who was

closely confined in her room, and confided to the special guard of a

faithful chambermaid.

The queen told her ladies that Louise was suffering from an infectious

disease; the queen's physician confirmed this opinion, and cautioned

the ladies of the court against any communication with the poor

invalid. No special command was therefore necessary to keep the maids

of honor away from the prisoner; she was utterly neglected, and her old

companions passed her door with flying steps. But the queen, as it

appeared, did not fear this contagion; she was seen to enter the sick

girl's room every day, and to remain a long time. The tender sympathy

of the queen excited the admiration of the whole court, and no one

guessed what torturing anxiety oppressed the heart of the poor prisoner

whenever the queen entered the room; no one heard the stern, hard,

threatening words of Sophia; no one supposed that she came, not to

nurse the sick girl, but to overwhelm her with reproaches.

Louise withstood all the menaces and upbraidings of the queen bravely;

she had the courage to appear unembarrassed, and, except to reiterate

her innocence, to remain perfectly silent. She knew well that she could

not betray Laura without compromising herself; she knew that if the

queen discovered the mysterious flight of Laura, she would, at the same

time, be informed of her love affair with the poor gardener, and of

their secret assignations. Louise feared that she would be made

laughable and ridiculous by this exposure, and this fear made her

resolute and decided, and enabled her to bear her weary imprisonment

patiently. "I cannot be held a prisoner for ever," she said to herself.

"If I confess nothing, the queen must at last be convinced of my

innocence, and set me at liberty."

But Fritz Wendel was less patient than his cunning Louise. He could no

longer support this torture; and as the fourth day brought no

intelligence, and no trace of Louise, he was determined to dare the

worst, and, like Alexander, to cut the gordian knot which he could not

untie. With bold decision he entered the castle and demanded to speak

with the king, stating that he had important discoveries to make known.

The king received him instantly, and at Fritz Wendel's request

dismissed his adjutants.

"Now we are without witnesses, speak," said the king.

"I know a secret, your majesty, which concerns the honour and the

future of the royal family; and you will graciously pardon me when I

say I will not sell this secret except for a great price."

The king's eyes rested upon the impudent face of Fritz Wendel with a

dangerous expression. "Name your price," said he, "but think well. If

your secret is not worth the price you demand, you may perhaps pay for

it with your head, certainly with your liberty."

"My secret is of the greatest value, for it will save the dynasty of

the Hohenzollerns," said Fritz Wendel, boldly; "but I will sell it to

your majesty--I will disclose it only after you have graciously

promised me my price."

"Before I do that I must know your conditions," said the king, with

difficulty subduing his rage.

"I demand for myself a major's commission, and the hand of Mademoiselle

von Schwerin."

In the beginning the king looked at the bold speaker with angry

amazement; soon, however, his glance became kind and pitiful. "I have

to do with a madman," thought he; "I will be patient, and give way to

his humor. I grant you your price," said he; "speak on."

So Fritz Wendel began. He made known the engagement of the prince; he

explained the plan of flight; he was so clear, so exact in all his

statements, that Frederick soon saw he was no maniac; that these were

no pictures of a disordered brain, but a threatening, frightful reality.

When the gardener had closed, the king, his arms folded across his

back, walked several times backward and forward through the room; then

suddenly stopped before Fritz Wendel, and seemed, with his sharp

glance, to probe the bottom of his soul.

"Can you write?" said the king.

"I can write German, French, English, and Latin," said he, proudly.

"Seat yourself there, and write what I shall dictate in German. Does

Mademoiselle von Schwerin know your hand?"

"Sire, she has received at least twenty letters from me."

"Then write now, as I shall dictate, the one-and-twentieth."

It was a short, laconic, but tender and impressive love-letter, which

Frederick dictated. Fritz Wendel implored his beloved to keep her

promise, and on the same day in which the prince would fly with Laura

to escape with him to Oranienburg, to entreat the protection of the

prince, and through his influence to induce the priest to perform the

marriage ceremony; he fixed the time and hour of flight, and besought

her to leave the castle punctually, and follow him, without fear, who

would be found waiting for her at the castle gate.

"Now, sign it," said the king, "and fold it as you are accustomed to

do. Give me the letter; I will see that it is delivered."

"And my price, majesty," said Fritz, for the first time trembling.

The king's clouded brow threatened a fearful storm. "You shall have the

price which your treachery and your madness has earned," said

Frederick, in that tone which made all who heard it tremble. "Yes, you

shall have what you have earned, and what your daring insolence

deserves. Were all these things true which you have related with so

bold a brow, you would deserve to be hung; you would have committed a

twofold crime!--have been the betrayer of a royal prince--have watched

him like a base spy, and listened to his secrets, in order to sell

them, and sought to secure your own happiness by the misery of two

noble souls! You would have committed the shameful and unpardonable

crime of misleading an innocent child, who, by birth, rank, and

education, is eternally separated from you. Happily for you, all this

romance is the birth of your sick fancy. I will not, therefore, punish

you, but I will cure you, as fools and madmen are cured; I will send

you to a madhouse until your senses are restored, and you confess that

this wild story is the picture of your disordered brain--until you

swear that these are bold lies with which you have abused my patience.

The restored invalid will receive my forgiveness--the obstinate

culprit, never!"

The king rang the bell, and said to his adjutants, "Take this man out,

and deliver him to the nearest sentinels; command them to place him at

once in the military hospital; he is to be secured in the wards

prepared for madmen--no man shall speak with him; and if he utters any

wild and senseless tales, I am to be informed of it."

"Oh, sire! pardon, pardon! Send me not into the insane asylum. I will

retract all; I will believe that all this is false; that I have only

dreamed--that--"

The king nodded to his adjutants, and they dragged the sobbing, praying

gardener from the room, and gave him to the watch.

The king looked after him sadly. "And Providence makes use of such

pitiful men to control the fate of nations," said he. "A miserable

garden-boy and a shameless maid of honor are the chosen instruments to

serve the dynasty of the Hohenzollerns, and to rob the prince royal of

Prussia of his earthly happiness! Upon what weak, fine threads hang the

majesty and worth of kings! Alas, how often wretched and powerless man

looks out from under the purple! In spite of all my power and

greatness--in spite of my army, the prince would have flown, and

committed a crime, that perhaps God and his conscience might have

pardoned, but his king never! Poor William, you will pay dearly for

this short, sweet dream of love, and your heart and its illusions will

be trodden under foot, even as mine have been. Yes, alas! it is

scarcely nine years, and it seems to me I am a hundred years

older--that heavy blocks of ice are encamped about my heart, and I know

that, day by day this ice will become harder. The world will do its

part--this poor race of men, whom I would so gladly love, and whom I am

learning daily to despise more and more!"

He walked slowly to and fro; his face was shadowed by melancholy. In a

short time he assumed his wonted expression, and, raising his head, his

eyes beamed with a noble fire.

"I will not be cruel! If I must destroy his happiness, it shall not be

trodden under foot as common dust and ashes. Alas, alas! how did they

deal with me? My friend was led to execution, and a poor innocent child

was stripped and horsewhipped through the streets, because she dared to

love the crown prince! No, no; Laura von Pannewitz shall not share the

fate of Dorris Ritter. I must destroy the happiness of my brother, but

I will not cover his love with shame!"

So saying, the king rang, and ordered his carriage to be brought round.

He placed the letter, which he had dictated to Fritz Wendel, in his

pocket, and drove rapidly to the queen-mother's palace.

Frederick had a long and secret interview with his mother. The ladies

in the next room heard the loud and angry voice of the queen, but they

could not distinguish her words. It seemed to them that she was

weeping, not from sorrow or pain, but from rage and scorn, for now and

then they heard words of menace, and her voice was harsh. At last, a

servant was directed to summon Mademoiselle von Pannewitz to the

presence of the queen.

He soon returned, stating that Mademoiselle Laura's room was empty, and

that she had gone to Schonhausen to visit Queen Elizabeth Christine.

"I will follow her there myself," said the king, "and your majesty may

rest assured that Queen Elizabeth will assist us to separate these

unhappy lovers as gently as possible."

"Ah, you pity them still, my son?" said the queen, shrugging her

shoulders.

"Yes, madame, I pity all those who are forced to sacrifice their

noblest, purest feelings to princely rank. I pity them; but I cannot

allow them to forget their duty."

Laura von Pannewitz had lived through sad and weary days since her last

interview with the prince. The enthusiasm and exaltation of her passion

had soon been followed by repentance. The prince's eloquent words had

lost their power of conviction, now that she was no more subject to the

magic of his glance and his imposing beauty. He stood no longer before

her, in the confidence of youth, to banish doubts and despair from her

soul, and convince her of the justification of their love.

Laura was now fully conscious that she was about to commit a great

crime--that, in the weakness of her love, she was about to rob the

prince of his future, of his glory and power. She said to herself that

it would be a greater and nobler proof of her love to offer up herself

and her happiness to the prince, than to accept from him the sacrifice

of his birthright. But in the midst of these reproaches and this

repentance she saw ever before her the sorrowful face of her

beloved--she heard his dear voice imploring her to follow him--to be

his.

Laura, in the anguish of her soul and the remorse of conscience, had

flown for refuge to the gentle, noble Queen Elizabeth, who had promised

her help and consolation when the day of her trial should come. She had

hastened, therefore, to Schonhausen, sure of the tender sympathy of her

royal friend.

As Laura's carriage entered the castle court, the carriage of the king

drew up at the garden gate. He commanded the coachman to drive slowly

away, and then stepped alone into the garden. He walked hastily through

the park, and drew near to the little side door of the palace, which

led through lonely corridors and unoccupied rooms, to the chamber of

the queen. He knew that Elizabeth only used this door when she wished

to take her solitary walk in the park. The king wished to escape the

curious and wondering observations of the attendants, and to surprise

the queen and Laura von Pannewitz. He stepped on quietly, and, without

being seen, reached the queen's rooms, convinced that he would find

them in the boudoir. He was about to raise the portiere which separated

it from the ante-room, when he was arrested by the voices of women; one

piteous and full of tears, the other sorrowful but comforting. The king

let the portiere fall, and seated himself noiselessly near the door.

"Let us listen awhile," said the king; "the women are always coquetting

when in the presence of men. We will listen to them when they think

themselves alone. I will in this way become acquainted with this

dangerous Laura, and learn better, than by a long interview, how I can

influence her."

The king leaned his head upon his stick, and fixed his piercing eyes

upon the heavy velvet portiere, behind which two weak women were now

perhaps deciding the fate of the dynasty of Hohenzollern.

"Madame," said Laura, "the blossoms of our happiness are already faded

and withered, and our love is on the brink of the grave."

"Poor Laura!" said the queen, with a weary smile, "it needed no gift of

prophecy to foretell that. No flowers bloom around a throne; thorns

only grow in that fatal soil! Your young eyes were blinded by magic;

you mistook these thorns for blossoms. Alas! I have wounded my heart

with them, and I hope that it will bleed to death!"

"O queen, if you knew my doubts and my despair, you would have pity

with me; you would not be so cruel as to command me to sacrifice my

love and my happiness! My happiness is his, and my love is but the echo

of his own. If it was only a question of trampling upon my own foolish

wishes, I would not listen to the cry of my soul. But the prince loves

me. Oh, madame, think how great and strong this love must be, when I

have the courage to boast of it! yes, he loves me; and when I forsake

him, I will not suffer alone. He will also be wretched, and his tears

and his despair will torture my heart. How can I deceive him? Oh,

madame, I cannot bear that his lips should curse me!"

"Yield him up now," said the queen, "and a day will come when he will

bless you for it; a day in which he will confess that your love was

great, was holy, that you sacrificed yourself and all earthly happiness

freely, in order to spare him the wretchedness of future days. He loves

you now, dearly, fondly, but a day will come in which he will demand of

you his future, his greatness, his royal crown, all of which he gave up

for you. He will reproach you for then having accepted this great

sacrifice, and he will never forgive you for your weakness in yielding

to his wishes. Believe me, Laura, in the hearts of men there lives but

one eternal passion, and that is ambition. Love to them is only the

amusement of the passing hour, nothing more."

"Oh, madame, if that is so, would God that I might die; life is not

worth the trouble of living!" cried Laura, weeping bitterly.

"Life, my poor child, is not a joy which we can set aside, but a duty

which we must bear patiently. You cannot trample upon this duty; and if

your grief is strong, so must your will be stronger."

"What shall I do? What name do you give the duty which I must take upon

myself?" cried Laura, with trembling lips. "I put my fate in your

hands. What shall I do?"

"You must overcome yourself; you must conquer your love; you must

follow the voice of conscience, which brought you to me for counsel."

"Oh, my queen, you know not what you ask! Your calm, pure heart knows

nothing of love."

"You say that I know nothing of love?" cried the queen, passionately.

"You know not that my life is one great anguish, a never-ceasing

self-sacrifice! Yes, I am the victim of love--a sadder, more helpless,

more torturing love than you, Laura, can ever know. I love, and am not

beloved. What I now confess to you is known only to God, and I tell you

in order to console you, and give you strength to accept your fate

bravely. I suffer, I am wretched, although I am a queen! I love my

husband; I love him with the absorbing passion of a young girl, with

the anguish which the damned must feel when they stand at the gates of

Paradise, and dare not enter in. My thoughts, my heart, my soul belong

to him; but he is not mine. He stands with a cold heart near my glowing

bosom, and while with rapture of love I would throw myself upon his

breast, I must clasp my arms together and hold them still, and must

seek and find an icy glance with which to answer his. Look you, there

was a time when I believed it impossible to bear all this torture; a

time in which my youth struggled like Tantalus; a time in which my

pride revolted at this love, with its shame and humiliation; in which I

would have given my crown to buy the right to fly into some lonely

desert, and give myself up to tears. The king demanded that I should

remain at his side, not as his wife, but as his queen; ever near him,

but forever separated from him; unpitied and misunderstood; envied by

fools, and thought happy by the world! And, Laura, oh, I loved him so

dearly that I found strength to bear even this torture, and he knows

not that my heart is being hourly crushed at the foot of his throne. I

draw the royal purple over my wounded bosom, and it sometimes seems to

me that my heart's blood gives this ruddy color to my mantle. Now,

Laura, do I know nothing of love? do I not understand the greatness of

the sacrifice which I demand of you?"

The queen, her face bathed in tears, opened her arms, and Laura threw

herself upon her bosom; their sighs and tears were mingled.

The king sat in the ante-room, with pale face and clouded eyes. He

bowed his head, as if in adoration, and suddenly a glittering

brilliant, bright as a star, and nobler and more precious than all the

jewels of this sorrowful world, fell upon his pallid cheek. "Truly,"

said he to himself, "there is something great and exalted in a woman's

nature. I bow down in humility before this great soul, but my heart,

alas! cannot be forced to love. The dead cannot be awakened, and that

which is shrouded and buried can never more be brought to life and

light!"

"You have conquered, my queen," said Laura, after a long pause; "I will

be worthy of your esteem and friendship. That day shall never come in

which my lover shall reproach me with selfishness and weakness! 'I am

ready to be offered up!' I will not listen to him; I will not flee with

him; and while I know that he is waiting for me. I will cast myself in

your arms, and beseech you to pray to God for me, that He would send

Death, his messenger of love and mercy, to relieve me from my torments."

"Not so, my Laura," said the queen; "you must make no half offering; it

is not enough to renounce your lover, you must build up between

yourselves an everlasting wall of separation; you must make this

separation eternal! You must marry, and thus set the prince a noble

example of self-control."

"Marry!" cried Laura; "can you demand this of me? Marry without love!

Alas, alas! The prince will charge me with inconstancy and treachery to

him, and I must bear that in silence."

"But I will not be silent," said the queen, "I will tell him of your

grief and of the greatness of your soul; and when he ceases, as he must

do, to look upon you as his beloved, he will honor you as the

protecting angel of his existence."

"You promise me that. You will say to him that I was not

faithless--that I gave him up because I loved him more than I did

myself; I seemed faithless only to secure his happiness!"

"I promise you that, Laura."

"Well, then, I bow my head under the yoke--I yield to my fate--I accept

the hand which Count Voss offers me. I ask that you will go to the

queen-mother and say I submit to her commands--I will become the wife

of Count Voss!"

"And I will lead you to the queen and to the altar," said the king,

raising the portiere, and showing himself to the ladies, who stared at

him in breathless silence. The king drew nearer to Laura, and bowing

low, he said: "Truly my brother is to be pitied, that he is only a

prince, and not a freeman; for a pitiful throne, he must give up the

holiest and noblest possession, the pure heart of a fair woman, glowing

with love for him! And yet men think that we, the princes of the world,

are to be envied! They are dazzled by the crown, but they see not the

thorns with which our brows are beset! You, Laura, will never envy us;

but on that day when you see my brother in his royal mantle and his

crown--when his subjects shout for joy and call him their king--then

can you say to yourself, 'It was I who made him king--I anointed him

with my tears!' and when his people honor and bless him, you can

rejoice also in the thought, This is the fruit of the strength of my

love!' Come, I will myself conduct you to my mother, and I will say to

her that I would consider myself happy to call you sister." Turning to

Queen Elizabeth, he said: "I will say to my mother that Mademoiselle

von Pannewitz has not yielded to my power or my commands, but to the

persuasive eloquence of your majesty, when the people of Prussia have

for years considered their protecting angel, and who from this time

onward must be regarded as the guardian spirit of our royal house!"

He reached his hand to the queen, but she took it not. Trembling

fearfully, with the paleness of death in her face, she pointed to the

portiere and said, "You were there--you heard all!"

The king, his countenance beaming with respectful admiration, drew near

the queen, and placing his arm around her neck, he whispered, "Yes, I

was there--I heard all. I heard, and I know that I am a poor, blind

man, to whom a kingdom is offered, a treasure-house of love and all

good gifts, and I cannot, alas! cannot, accept it!"

The queen uttered a loud cry, and her weary head dropped upon his

shoulder. The king gazed silently into the pale and sorrowful face, and

a ray of infinite pity beamed in his eyes. "I have discovered to-day a

noble secret--a secret that God alone was worthy to know. From this day

I consider myself as the high priest of the holiest of holies, and I

will guard this secret as my greatest treasure. I swear this to you,

and I seal my oath with this kiss pressed upon your lips by one who

will never again embrace a woman!" He bowed low, and pressed a fervent,

kiss upon the lips of the queen. Elizabeth, who had borne her

misfortunes bravely, had not the power to withstand the sweet joy of

this moment; she uttered a loud cry, and sank insensible to the floor.

When she awoke she was alone; the king had called her maids--had

conducted Laura von Pannewitz to the carriage, and returned to Berlin.

Elizabeth was again alone--alone with her thoughts--with her sorrows

and her love. But a holy fire was in her eyes, and raising them toward

Heaven, she whispered: "I thank thee, O heavenly Father, for the

happiness of this hour! I feel his kiss upon my lips! by that kiss they

are consecrated! Never, never will they utter one murmuring word!" She

arose and entered her cabinet, with a soft smile; she drew near to a

table which stood by the window, and gazed at a beautiful landscape,

and the crayons, etc., etc., which lay upon it. "He shall think of me

from time to time," whispered she. "For his sake I will become an

artist and a writer; I will be something more than a neglected queen.

He shall see my books upon his table and my paintings on his wall. Will

I not then compel him sometimes to think of me with pride?"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SURPRISE.

The day after the queen-mother's interview with the king, the court was

surprised by the intelligence that the physician had mistaken the

malady of Louise von Schwerin; that it was not scarlet fever, as had

been supposed, but some simple eruption, from which she was now

entirely restored.

The little maiden appeared again amongst her companions, and there was

no change in her appearance, except a slight pallor. No one was more

amazed at her sudden recovery than Louise. With watchful suspicion, she

remarked that the queen-mother had resumed her gracious and amiable

manner toward her, and seemed entirely to have forgotten the events of

the last few days; her accusations and suspicions seemed quieted as if

by a stroke of magic. In the beginning, Louise believed that this was a

trap laid for her, she was therefore perpetually on her guard; she did

not enter the garden, and was well pleased that Fritz Wendel had the

prudence and forbearance never to walk to and fro by her chamber, and

never to place in her window the beautiful flowers which she had been

wont to find there every morning. In a short time Louise became

convinced that she was not watched, that there were no spies about her

path; that she was, in fact, perfectly at liberty to come and go as she

pleased. She resumed her thoughtless manner and childish dreamings,

walked daily in the garden, and took refuge in the green-house. Strange

to say, she never found her beautiful Fritz, never met his glowing,

eloquent eyes, never caught even a distant view of his handsome figure.

This sudden disappearance of her lover made her restless and unhappy,

and kindled the flame of love anew. Louise, who in the loneliness and

neglect of her few days of confinement, had become almost ashamed of

her affair with Fritz Wendel, and begun to repent of her foolish love,

now excited by the obstacles in her path, felt the whole strength of

her passion revive, and was assured of her eternal constancy.

"I will overcome all impediments," said this young girl, "and nothing

shall prevent me from playing my romance to the end. Fritz Wendel loves

me more passionately than any duke or baron will ever love me; he has

been made a prisoner because of his love for me, and that is the reason

I see him no more. But I will save him; I will set him at liberty, and

then I will flee with him, far, far away into the wide, wide world

where no one shall mock at our love."

With such thoughts as these she returned from her anxious search in the

garden. As she entered her room, she saw upon her table a superb

bouquet, just such a tribute as her loved Fritz had offered daily at

her shrine before the queen's unfortunate discovery. With a loud cry of

joy, she rushed to the table, seized the flowers, and pressed them to

her lips; she then sought in the heart of her bouquet for the little

note which she had ever before found concealed there.

Truly this bouquet contained also a love-letter, a very tender, glowing

love-letter, in which Fritz Wendel implored her to fly with him; to

carry out their original plan, and flee with him to Oranienburg, where

they would be married by the priest who had been won over by the Prince

Augustus William. To-day, yes, this evening at nine o'clock must the

flight take place.

Louise did not hesitate an instant; she was resolved to follow the call

of her beloved. A court ball was to take place this evening, and Louise

von Schwerin must appear in the suite of the queen; she must find some

plausible excuse and remain at home. As the hour for the queen's

morning promenade approached, Louise became so suddenly ill that she

was forced to ask one of the maids of honor to make her excuses, to

return to her room, and lay herself upon the bed.

The queen came herself to inquire after her health, and manifested so

much sympathy, so much pity, that Louise was fully assured, and

accepted without suspicion the queen's proposal that she should give up

the ball, and remain quietly in her room. Louise had now no obstacle to

fear; she could make her preparations for flight without interruption.

The evening came. She heard the carriages rolling away with the queen

and her suite. An indescribable anxiety oppressed this young girl. The

hour of decision was at hand. She felt a maidenly trembling at the

thought of her rash imprudence, but the hour was striking--the hour of

romantic flight, the hour of meeting with her fond lover.

It seemed to her as if she saw the imploring eyes of Fritz ever before

her--as if she heard his loving, persuasive voice. Forgetting all

consideration and all modesty, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and

drawing the hood tightly over her head, she hastened with flying feet

through the corridors and down the steps to the front door of the

palace. With a trembling heart she stepped into the street.

Unspeakable terror took possession of her. "What if he was not there?

What if this was a plot, a snare laid for her feet? But no, no!" She

saw a tall and closely-muffled figure crossing the open square, and

coming directly to her. She could not see his face, but it was surely

him. Now he was near her. He whispered the signal word in a low, soft

tone. With a quaking heart, she gave the answer.

The young man took her cold little hand, and hurried her forward to the

corner of the square. There stood the carriage. The stranger lifted her

in his arms, and carried her to the carriage, sprang in, and slammed

the door. Forward! The carriage seemed forced onward by the wings of

the wind. In a few moments the city lay far behind them. In wild haste

they flew onward, ever onward. The young man, still closely muffled,

sat near to Louise--her lover, soon to be her husband! Neither spoke a

word. They were near to each other, with quickly-beating hearts, but

silent, still silent.

Louise found this conduct of her lover mysterious and painful. She

understood not why he who had been so tender, so passionate, should

remain so cold and still by her side. She felt that she must fly far,

far away from this unsympathizing lover, who had no longer a word for

her, no further assurances of love. Yes, he despised her because she

had followed him, no longer thought her worthy of his tenderness. As

this thought took possession of her, she gave a fearful shriek, and

springing up from her seat, she seized the door, and tried to open it

and jump out. The strong hand of her silent lover held her back.

"We have not yet arrived, mademoiselle," whispered he.

Louise felt a cold shudder pass over her. Fritz Wendel call her

mademoiselle! and the voice sounded cold and strange. Anxiously,

silently, she sank back in the carriage. Her searching glance was fixed

upon her companion, but the night was dark. She could see nothing but

the mysteriously muffled figure. She stretched out her small hands

toward him, as if praying for help. He seized them, and pressed them to

his heart and lips, but he remained silent. He did not clasp her in his

arms as heretofore; he whispered no tender, passionate assurances in

her ear. The terror of death overcame Louise. She clasped her hands

over her face, and wept aloud. He heard her piteous sobs, and was still

silent, and did not seek to comfort her.

Onward went the flying wheels. The horses had been twice changed in

order to reach the goal more quickly. Louise wept without ceasing.

Exhausted by terror, she thought her death was near. Twice tortured by

this ominous silence, she had dared to say a few low, sobbing words to

her companion, but he made no reply.

At last the carriage stopped. "We have arrived," he whispered to

Louise, sprang from the carriage, and lifted her out.

"Where are we?" she said, convinced that she had been brought to a

prison, or some secret place of banishment.

"We are in Oranienburg, and there is the church where the preacher

awaits us." He took her arm hastily, and led her into the church. The

door was opened, and as Louise stepped upon the threshold, she felt her

eyes blinded by the flood of light upon the altar. She saw the priest

with his open book, and heard the solemn sounds of the organ. The young

man led Louise forward, but not to the altar; he entered first into the

sacristy. There also wax lights were burning, and on the table lay a

myrtle wreath and a lace veil.

"This is your bridal wreath and veil," said the young man, who still

kept the hood of his cloak drawn tightly over his face. He unfastened

and removed Louise's mantle, and handed her the veil and wreath. Then

he threw back his hood, and removed his cloak. Louise uttered a cry of

amazement and horror. He who stood before her was not her lover, was

not the gardener Fritz Wendel, but a strange young officer in

full-dress uniform!

"Forgive me," said he, "that I have caused you so much suffering

to-day, but the king commanded me to remain silent, and I did so. We

are here in obedience to the king, and he commanded me to hand you this

letter before our marriage. It was written by his own hand." Louise

seized the royal letter hastily. It was laconic, but the few words it

contained filled the heart of the little maiden with shame. The letter

contained these lines:

"As you are resolved, without regard to circumstances, to marry, out of

consideration for your family I will fulfil your wish. The handsome

gardener-boy is not in a condition to become your husband, he being now

confined in a madhouse. I have chosen for you a gallant young officer,

of good family and respectable fortune, and I have commanded him to

marry you. If he pleases you, the priest will immediately perform the

marriage ceremony, and you will follow your husband into his garrison

at Brandenburg. If you refuse him, the young officer, Von Cleist, has

my command to place you again in the carriage, and take you to your

mother. There you will have time to meditate upon your inconsiderate

boldness. FREDERICK II."

Louise read the letter of the king again and again; she then fixed her

eyes upon the young man who stood before her, and who gazed at her with

a questioning and smiling face. She saw that he was handsome, young,

and charming, and she confessed that this rich uniform was more

attractive than the plain, dark coat of the gardener-boy Fritz Wendel.

She felt that the eyes of the young cavalier were as glowing and as

eloquent as those of her old love.

"Well," said he, laughing, "have you decided, mademoiselle? Do you

consider me worthy to be the envied and blessed husband of the

enchanting and lovely Louise von Schwerin, or will you cruelly banish

me and rob me of this precious boon?"

She gazed down deep into his eyes and listened to his words

breathlessly. His voice was so soft and persuasive, not harsh and rough

like that of Fritz Wendel, it fell like music on her ear.

"Well," repeated the young Von Cleist, "will you be gracious, and

accept me for your husband?"

"Would you still wish to marry me, even if the king had not commanded

it?"

"I would marry you in spite of the king and the whole world," said Von

Cleist. "Since I have seen you, I love you dearly."

Louise reached him her hand.

"Well, then," she said, "let us fulfil the commands of the king. He

commands us to marry. We will commence with that: afterwards we will

see if we can love each other without a royal command."

The young captain kissed her hand, and placed the myrtle wreath upon

her brow.

"Come, the priest is waiting, and I long to call you my bride."

He led the young girl of fourteen to the altar. The priest opened the

holy book, and performed the marriage ceremony.

At the same hour, in the chapel of the king's palace, another wedding

took place. Laura von Pannewitz and Count Voss stood before the altar.

The king himself conducted Laura, and Queen Elizabeth gave her hand to

Count Voss. The entire court had followed the bridal pair, and all were

witnesses to this solemn contract. Only one was absent--the Prince

Augustus William was not there.

While Laura von Pannewitz stood above in the palace chapel, swearing

eternal constancy to Count Voss, the prince stood below at the castle

gate, waiting for her descent. But the hour had long passed, and she

came not. A dark fear and torturing anguish came over him.

Had the king discovered their plan? Was it he who held Laura back, or

had she herself forgotten her promise? Was she unfaithful to her oath?

The time still flew, and she came not. Trembling with scorn, anguish,

and doubt, he mounted the castle steps, determined to search through

the saloons, and, at all risks, to draw near his beloved. Driven by the

violence of his love, he had almost determined to carry her off by

force.

Throwing off his mantle, he stepped into the anteroom. No man regarded

him. Every eye was turned toward the great saloon. The prince entered.

The whole court circle, which were generally scattered through the

adjoining rooms, now forced themselves into this saloon--it glittered

and shimmered with diamonds, orders, and gold and silver embroidery.

The prince saw nothing of all this. He saw only the tall, pallid girl,

who stood in the middle of the room with the sweeping bridal veil and

the myrtle wreath in her hair.

Yes, it was her--Laura von Pannewitz--and near her stood the young,

smiling Count Voss. What did all this mean? Why was his beloved so

splendidly attired? Why was the royal family gathered around her? Why

was the queen kissing even now his beautiful Laura, and handing her

this splendid diamond diadem? Why did Count Voss press the king's hand,

which was that moment graciously extended to him, to his lips?

Prince Augustus William understood nothing of all this. He felt as if

bewildered by strange and fantastic dreams. With distended, glassy eyes

he stared upon the newly wedded pair who were now receiving the

congratulations of the court.

But the king's sharp glance had observed him, and rapidly forcing his

way through the crowd of courtiers, he drew near to the prince. "A word

with you, brother," said the king; "come, let us go into my cabinet."

The prince followed him, bewildered--scarcely conscious. "And now, my

brother," said the king, as the door closed behind him, "show yourself

worthy of your kingly calling and of your ancestors; show that you

deserve to be the ruler of a great people; show that you know how to

govern yourself! Laura von Pannewitz can never be yours; she is the

wife of Count Voss!" The prince uttered so piercing, so heartrending a

cry, that the king turned pale, and an unspeakable pity took possession

of his soul. "Be brave, my poor brother; what you suffer, that have I

also suffered, and almost every one who is called by Fate to fill an

exalted position has the same anguish to endure. A prince has not the

right to please himself--he belongs to the people and to the world's

history, and to both these he must be ever secondary."

"It is not true, it is not possible!" stammered the prince. "Laura can

never belong to another! she is mine! betrothed to me by the holiest of

oaths, and she shall be mine in spite of you and of the whole world! I

desire no crown, no princely title; I wish only Laura, only my Laura! I

say it is not true that she is the wife of Count Voss!"

"It is true," whispered a soft, tearful, choking voice, just behind

him. The prince turned hastily; the sad eye of Laura, full of

unspeakable love, met his wild glance. Queen Elizabeth, according to an

understanding with the king, had led the young Countess Voss into this

apartment, and then returned with a light step to the adjoining room.

"I will grant to your unhappy love, my brother, one last evening glow,"

said the king. "Take a last, sad farewell of your declining sun; but

forget not that when the sun has disappeared, we have still the stars

to shine upon us, though, alas! they have no warmth and kindle no

flowers into life." The king bowed, and followed his wife into the next

room. The prince remained alone with Laura.

What was spoken and sworn in this last sad interview no man ever knew.

In the beginning, the king, who remained in the next room, heard the

raging voice of the prince uttering wild curses and bitter complaints;

then his tones were softer and milder, and touchingly mournful. In half

an hour the king entered the cabinet. The prince stood in the middle of

the room, and Laura opposite to him. They gazed into each other's wan

and stricken faces with steady, tearless eyes; their hands were

clasped. "Farewell, my prince," said Laura, with a firm voice; "I

depart IMMEDIATELY with my husband; we will never meet again!"

"Yes, we will meet again," said the prince, with a weary smile; "we

will meet again in another and a better world: I will be there awaiting

you, Laura!" They pressed each other's hands, then turned away.

Laura stepped into the room where Count Voss was expecting her. "Come,

my husband," she said; "I am ready to follow you, and be assured I will

make you a faithful and submissive wife."

"Brother," said Prince Augustus William, extending his hand to the

king, "I struggle no more. I will conform myself to your wishes, and

marry the Princess of Brunswick."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE RESIGNATION OF BARON POLLNITZ.

The morning after the ball, Pollnitz entered the cabinet of the king;

he was confused and sat down, and that happened to him which had never

before happened--he was speechless. The king's eyes rested upon him

with an ironical and contemptuous expression.

"I believe you are about to confess your sins, Pollnitz, and make me

your father confessor. You have the pitiful physiognomy of a poor

sinner."

"Sire, I would consent to be a sinner, but I am bitterly opposed to

being a poor sinner."

"Ah! debts again; again in want!" cried the king. "I am weary of this

everlasting litany, and I forbid you to come whining to me again with

your never-ending necessities; the evil a man brings upon himself he

must bear; the dangers which he involuntary incurs, he must conquer

himself."

"Will not your majesty have the goodness to assist me, to reach me a

helping hand and raise me from the abyss into which my creditors have

cast me?"

"God forbid that I should waste the gold upon a Pollnitz which I need

for my brave soldiers and for cannon!" said the king, earnestly.

"Then, sire," said Pollnitz, in a low and hesitating tone, "I must beg

you to give me my dismissal."

"Your dismissal! Have you discovered in the moon a foolish prince who

will pay a larger sum for your miserable jests and malicious scandals

and railings than the King of Prussia?"

"Not in the moon, sire, is such a mad individual to be found, but in a

Dutch realm; however, I have found no such prince, but a beautiful

young maiden, who will be only too happy to be the Baroness Pollnitz,

and pay the baron's debts."

"And this young girl is not sent to a mad-house?" said the king;

"perhaps the house of the Baron von Pollnitz is considered a house of

correction, and she is sent there to be punished for her follies. Has

the girl who is rich enough to pay the debts of a Pollnitz no guardian?"

"Father and mother both live, sire; and both receive me joyfully as

their son. My bride dwells in Nuremberg, and is the daughter of a

distinguished patrician family."

"And she buys you," said the king, "because she considers you the most

enchanting of all Nuremberger toys! As for your dismissal, I grant it

to you with all my heart. Seat yourself and write as I shall dictate."

He looked toward the writing-table, and Pollnitz, obeying his command,

took his seat and arranged his pen and paper. The king, with his arms

folded across his back, walked slowly up and down the room.

"Write! I will give you a dismissal, and also a certificate of

character and conduct."

The king dictated to the trembling and secretly enraged baron the

following words:

"We, Frederick II., make known, that Baron Pollnitz, born in Berlin,

and, so far as we believe, of an honorable family, page to our sainted

grandfather, of blessed memory, also in the service of the Duke of

Orleans, colonel in the Spanish service, cavalry captain in the army of

the deceased Emperor, gentleman-in-waiting to the Pope,

gentlemen-in-waiting to the Duke of Brunswick, color-bearer in the

service of the Duke of Weimar, gentleman-in-waiting to our sainted

father, of ever-blessed memory; lastly, and at last, master of

ceremonies in our service;--said Baron Pollnitz, overwhelmed by this

stream of military and courtly honors which had been thrust upon him,

and thereby weary of the vanities of this wicked world; misled, also,

by the evil example of Monteulieu, who, a short time ago, left the

court, now entreats of us to grant him his dismissal, and an honorable

testimony as to his good name and service. After thoughtful

consideration, we do not find it best to refuse him the testimony he

has asked for. As to the most important service which he rendered to

the court by his foolish jests and INCONSISTENCIES, and the pastimes

and distractions which he prepared for nine years for the amusement of

our ever-blessed father, we do not hesitate to declare that, during the

whole time of his service at court, he was not a street-robber nor a

cut-purse, nor a poisoner; that he did not rob young women nor do them

any violence; that he has not roughly attacked the honor of any man,

but, consistently with his birth and lineage, behaved like a man of

gallantry; that he has consistently made use of the talents lent to him

by Heaven, and brought before the public, in a merry and amusing way,

that which is ridiculous and laughable amongst men, no doubt with the

same object which lies at the bottom of all theatrical representations,

that is, to improve the race. Said baron has also steadily followed the

counsel of Bacchus with regard to frugality and temperance, and he has

carried his Christian love so far, that he has left wholly to the

PEASANTS that part of the Evangelists which teaches that 'To give is

more blessed than to receive.' He knows all the anecdotes concerning

our castles and pleasure resorts, and has indelibly imprinted upon his

memory a full list of all our old furniture and silver; above all

things, he understands how to make himself indispensable and agreeable

to those who know the malignity of his spirit and his cold heart."

"As, however, in the most fruitful regions waste and desert spots are

to be found, as the most beautiful bodies have their deformities, and

the greatest painters are not without faults, so will we deal gently

and considerately with the follies and sins of this much-talked-of

baron; we grant him, therefore, though unwillingly, the desired

dismissal. In addition to this, we abolish entirely this office so

worthily filled by said baron, and wish to blot out the remembrance of

it from the memory of man; holding that no other man can ever fill it

satisfactorily." "FREDERICK II."

THE END.