Berlin and Sans-Souci; or Frederick the Great and his friends[1]

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Money should be paid to the: "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: hart@pobox.com [Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] [Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or software or any other related product without express permission.] *END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END* This etext was produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI OR, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS An Historical Romance BY L. MUHLBACH AUTHOR OF JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT, MERCHANT OF BERLIN, ETC. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND HER DAUGHTERS CONTENTS. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. BOOK II. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. The Two Sisters The Tempter The Wedding-Festival of the Princess Ulrica Behind the Curtain A Shame-faced King The First Rendezvous On The Balcony The First Cloud The Council of War The Cloister of Camens The King and the Abbot The Unknown Abbot The Levee of a Dancer The Studio The Confession The Traitor The Silver-Ware The First Flash of Lightning The Alchemist's Incantation The Old Courtier The Morning Hours of a King The Pardoned Courtier How the Princess Ulrica became Queen of Sweden The Tempter The First Interview Signora Barbarina The King and Barbarina Eckhof A Life Question Superstition and Piety BOOK III. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. BOOK IV. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. The Promise Voltaire and his Royal Friend The Confidence-Table The Confidential Dinner Rome Sauvee A Woman's Heart Madame von Cocceji Voltaire A Day in the Life of Voltaire The Lovers Barbarina Intrigues The Last Struggle The Actors in Halle The Student Lupinus The Disturbance in the Theatre The Friends The Order of the King The Battle of Sohr After the Battle A Letter Pregnant with Fate The Return to Berlin Job's Post The Undeceived Trenck's First Flight The Flight "I will" The Last Struggle for Power The Disturbance in the Theatre Sans-Souci BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI OR, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FRIENDS. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. THE ALCHEMIST'S INCANTATION. It was a lovely May morning! The early rays of the sun had not withered the blossoms, or paled the fresh green of the garden of Charlottenburg, but quickened them into new life and beauty. The birds sang merrily in the groves. The wind, with light whispers, swept through the long avenues of laurel and orange trees, which surrounded the superb greenhouses and conservatories, and scattered far and wide throughout the garden clouds of intoxicating perfume. The garden was quiet and solitary, and the closed shutters of the castle proved that not only the king, but the entire household, from the dignified and important chamberlain to the frisky garden-boy, still slept. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of hasty steps. A young man, in simple citizen costume, ran up the great avenue which led from the garden gate to the conservatory; then cautiously looking about him, he drew near to a window of the lower story in a wing of the castle. The window was closed and secured with inside shutters; a small piece of white paper was seen between the glass and the shutter. A passer-by might have supposed this was accidental, but the young burgher knew that this little piece of paper was a signal. His light stroke upon the window disturbed for a moment the deathlike silence around, but produced no other effect; he struck again, more loudly, and listened breathlessly. The shutters were slowly and cautiously opened from within, and behind the glass was seen the wan, sick face of Fredersdorf, the private secretary and favorite of the king. When he saw the young man, his features assumed a more animated expression, and a hopeful smile played upon his lip; hastily opening the window, he gave the youth his hand. "Good-morning, Joseph," said he; "I have not slept during the whole night, I was so impatient to receive news from you. Has he shown himself?" Joseph bowed his head sadly. "He has not yet shown himself," he replied in a hollow voice; "all our efforts have been in vain; we have again sacrificed time, money, and strength. He has not yet appeared." "Alas!" cried Fredersdorf, "who could believe it so difficult to move the devil to appear in person, when he makes his presence known daily and hourly through the deeds of men? I must and will see him! He MUST and SHALL make known this mystery. He shall teach me HOW and of WHAT to make gold." "He will yield at last!" cried Joseph, solemnly. "What do you say? Will we succeed? Is not all hope lost?" "All is not lost: the astrologer heard this night, during his incantations, the voice of the devil, and saw for one moment the glare of his eye, though he could not see his person." "He saw the glare of his eye!" repeated Fredersdorf joyfully. "Oh, we will yet compel him to show himself wholly. He must teach us to make gold. And what said the voice of the devil to our astrologer?" "He said these words: 'Would you see my face and hear words of golden wisdom from my lips? so offer me, when next the moon is full and shimmers like liquid gold in the heavens, a black ram; and if you shed his blood for me, and if not one white hair can be discovered upon him, I will appear and be subject to you.'" "Another month of waiting, of patience, and of torture," murmured Fredersdorf. "Four weeks to search for this black ram without a single white hair; it will be difficult to find!" "Oh, the world is large; we will send our messengers in every quarter; we will find it. Those who truly seek, find at last what they covet. But we will require much gold, and we are suffering now, unhappily, for the want of it." "We? whom do you mean by we?" asked Fredersdorf, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "I, in my own person, above all others, need gold. You can well understand, my brother, that a student as I am has no superfluous gold, even to pay his tailor's bills, much less to buy black rams. Captain Kleist, in whose house the assembly meets to-night, has already offered up far more valuable things than a score of black rams; he has sacrificed his health, his rest, and his domestic peace. His beautiful wife finds it strange, indeed, that he should seek the devil every night everywhere else than in her lovely presence." "Yes, I understand that! The bewitching Madame Kleist must ever remain the vain-glorious and coquettish Louise von Schwerin; marriage has infused no water in her veins." "No! but it has poured a river of wine in the blood of her husband, and in this turbid stream their love and happiness is drowned. Kleist is but a corpse, whom we must soon bury from our sight. The king has made separation and divorce easy; yes, easier than marriage. Is it not so, my brother? Ah, you blush; you find that your light-hearted brother has more observant eyes than you thought, and sees that which you intended to conceal. Yes, yes! I have indeed seen that you have been wounded by Cupid's arrow, and that your heart bleeds while our noble king refuses his consent to your marriage." "Ah, let me once discover this holy mystery--once learn how to make gold, and I will have no favor to ask of any earthly monarch; I shall acknowledge no other sovereign than my own will." "And to become the possessor of this secret, and your own master, you require nothing but a black ram. Create for us, then, my powerful and wealthy brother, a black ram, and the work is done!" "Alas! to think," cried Fredersdorf, "that I cannot absent myself; that I must fold my hands and wait silently and quietly! What slavery is this! but you, you are not in bondage as I am. The whole world is before you; you can seek throughout the universe for this blood-offering demanded by the devil." "Give us gold, brother, and we will seek; without gold, no black ram; without the black ram, no devil!" Fredersdorf disappeared a moment and returned with a well-filled purse, which he handed to his brother. "There, take the gold; send your messengers in every quarter; go yourself and search. You must either find or create him. I swear to you, if you do not succeed, I will withdraw my protection from you; you will be only a poor student, and must maintain yourself by your studies." "That would be a sad support, indeed," said the young man, smiling. "I am more than willing to choose another path in life. I would, indeed, prefer being an artist to being a philosopher." "An artist!" cried Fredersdorf, contemptuously; "have you discovered in yourself an artist's vein?" "Yes; or rather, Eckhof has awakened my sleeping talent." "Eckhof--who is Eckhof?" "How? you ask who is Eckhof? You know not, then, this great, this exalted artist, who arrived here some weeks since, and has entranced every one who has a German heart in his bosom, by his glorious acting? I saw him a few days since in Golsched's Cato. Ah! my brother, on that evening it was clear to me that I also was born for something greater than to sit in a lonely study, and seek in musty books for useless scraps of knowledge. No! I will not make the world still darker and mistier for myself with the dust of ancient books; I will illuminate my world by the noblest of all arts--I will become an actor!" "Fantastic fool!" said his brother. "A GERMAN ACTOR! that is to say, a beggar and a vagabond! who wanders from city to city, and from village to village, with his stage finery, who is laughed at everywhere, even as the monkeys are laughed at when they make their somersets over the camels' backs; it might answer to be a dancer, or, at least, a French actor." "It is true that the German stage is a castaway--a Cinderella-thrust aside, and clothed with sackcloth and ashes, while the spoiled and petted step-child is clothed in gold-embroidered robes. Alas! alas! it is a bitter thing that the French actors are summoned by the king to perform in the royal castle, while Schonemein, the director of the German theatre, must rent the Council-house for a large sum of money, and must pay a heavy tax for the permission to give to the German public a German stage. Wait patiently, brother, all this shall be changed, when the mystery of mysteries is discovered, when we have found the black ram! I bless the accident which gave me a knowledge of your secret, which forced you to receive me as a member in order to secure my silence. I shall be rich, powerful, and influential; I will build a superb theatre, and fill the German heart with wonder and rapture." "Well, well, let us first understand the art of making gold, and we will make the whole world our theatre, and all mankind shall play before us! Hasten, therefore, brother, hasten! By the next full moon we will be the almighty rulers of the earth and all that is therein!" "Always provided that we have found the black ram." "We will find him! If necessary, we will give his weight in gold, and gold can do all things. Honor, love, power, position, and fame, can all be bought with gold! Let us, then, make haste to be rich. To be rich is to be independent, free, and gloriously happy. Go, my brother, go! and may you soon return crowned with success." "I have still a few weighty questions to ask. In the first place, where shall I go?" "To seek the black ram--it makes no difference where." "Ah! it makes no difference! You do not seem to remember that the vacation is over, that the professors of the University of Halle have threatened to dismiss me if my attendance is so irregular. I must, therefore, return to Halle to-day, or--" "Return to Halle to-day!" cried Fredersdorf, with horror. "That is impossible! You cannot return to Halle, unless you have already found what we need." "And that not being the case, I shall not return to Halle; I shall be dismissed, and will cease to be a student. Do you consent, then, that I shall become an actor, and take the great Eckhof for my only professor?" "Yes, I consent, provided the command of the alchemist is complied with." "And how if the alchemist, notwithstanding the blood of the black ram, is unhappily not able to bring up the devil?" At this question, a feverish crimson spot took possession of the wan cheek of Fredersdorf, which was instantly chased away by a more intense pallor. "If that is the result, I will either go mad or die," he murmured. "And then will you see the devil face to face!" cried his brother, with a gay laugh. "But perhaps you might find a Eurydice to unlock the under world for you. Well, we shall see. Till then, farewell, brother, farewell." Nodding merrily to Fredersdorf, Joseph hurried away. Fredersdorf watched his tall and graceful figure as it disappeared among the trees with a sad smile. "He possesses something which is worth more than power or gold; he is young, healthy, full of hope and confidence. The world belongs to him, while I--" The sound of footsteps called his attention again to the allee. CHAPTER II. THE OLD COURTIER. The figure of a man was seen approaching, but with steps less light and active than young Joseph's. As the stranger drew nearer, Fredersdorf's features expressed great surprise. When at last he drew up at the window, the secretary burst into a hearty laugh. "Von Pollnitz! really and truly I do not deceive myself," cried Fredersdorf, clapping his hands together, and again and again uttering peals of laughter, in which Pollnitz heartily joined. Then suddenly assuming a grave and dignified manner, Fredersdorf bowed lowly and reverentially. "Pardon, Baron Pollnitz, pardon," said he in a tone of mock humility, "that I have dared to welcome you in such an unseemly manner. I was indeed amazed to see you again; you had taken an eternal leave of the court, we had shed rivers of tears over your irreparable loss, and your unexpected presence completely overpowered me." "Mock and jeer at me to your heart's content, dear Fredersdorf; I will joyfully and lustily unite in your laughter and your sport, as soon as I have recovered from the fearful jolting of the carriage which brought me here. Be pleased to open the window a little more, and place a chair on the outside, that I may climb in, like an ardent, eager lover. I have not patience to go round to the castle door." Fredersdorf silently obeyed orders, and in a few moments Von Pollnitz was lying comfortably stretched out on a silk divan, in the secretary's room. "Ask me no questions, Fredersdorf," said he, breathing loudly; "leave me awhile to enjoy undisturbed the comfort of your sofa, and do me the favor first to answer me a few questions, before I reply to yours." "Demand, baron, and I will answer," said Fredersdorf, seating himself on a chair near the sofa. "First of all, who is King of Prussia? You, or Jordan,--or General Kothenberg,--or Chazot,--or--speak, man, who is King of Prussia?" "Frederick the Second, and he alone; and he so entirely, that even his ministers are nothing more than his secretaries, to write at his dictation; and his generals are only subordinate engineers to draw the plans of battle which he has already fully determined upon; his composers are only the copyists of his melodies and his musical conceptions; the architects are carpenters to build according to the plan which he has either drawn or chosen from amongst old Grecian models: in short, all who serve him are literally servants in this great state machine; they understand his will and obey it, nothing more." "Hum! that is bad, very bad," said Pollnitz. "I have found, however, that there are two sorts of men, and you have mentioned in your catalogue but one species, who have fallen so completely under the hand of Frederick. You have said nothing of his cook, of his valetde-chambre, and yet these are most important persons. You must know that in the presence of these powers, a king ceases to be a king, and indeed becomes an entirely commonplace mortal, who eats and drinks and clothes himself, and who must either conceal or adorn his bodily necessities and weaknesses like any other man." Fredersdorf shook his head sadly. "It seems to me that Frederick the Second is beyond the pale of temptation; for even with his cook and his valet he is still a king; his cook may prepare him the most costly and luxurious viands, but unhappily they do not lead him into temptation; a bad dish makes him angry, but the richest and choicest food has no effect upon his humor; he is exactly the same before dinner as after, fasting or feasting, and the favor he refuses before the champagne, he never grants afterward." "The devil! that is worse still," murmured Pollnitz. "And the valet-with him also does the king remain king?" "Yes, so entirely, that he scarcely allows his valet to touch him. He shaves, coifs, and dresses himself." "My God! who, then, has any influence over him? To whom can I turn to obtain a favor for me?" "To his dogs, dear baron; they are now the only influential dependants!" "Do you mean truly the four-footed dogs?--or--" "The four-footed, dearest baron! Frederick has more confidence in them than in any two-legged animal. You know the king always trusted much to the instincts of his dogs; he has now gone so far in this confidence, as to believe that the hounds have an instinctive aversion to all false, wicked, and evil-minded men. It is therefore very important to every new-comer to be well received by the hounds, as the king's reception is somewhat dependent upon theirs." "Is Biche yet with the king?" "Yes, still his greatest favorite." "I am rejoiced to hear that! I was always in favor with the Signora Biche; it was her custom to smell my pocket, hoping to find chocolate. I beseech you, therefore, dearest friend, to give me some chocolate, with which I may touch and soften the heart of the noble signora, and thus induce the king to look upon me favorably. "I will stick a half pound in each of your pockets, and if Biche still growls at you, it will be a proof that she is far more noble than men; in short, that she cannot be bribed. Have you finished with your questions? I think it is now my time to begin." "Not so, my friend. My head is still entirely filled with questions, and they are twining and twisting about like the fishing-worms in a bag, by the help of which men hope to secure fish. Be pitiful and allow me to fasten a few more of these questions to my fishing-rod, and thus try to secure my future." "Well, then, go on--ask further!" "Does Frederick show no special interest in any prima donna of the opera, the ballet, or the theatre?" "No, he cares for none of these things." "Is his heart, then, entirely turned to stone?" "Wholly and entirely." "And the queen-mother, has she no influence?" "My God! Baron Pollnitz, how long have you been away? You ask me as many questions as if you had fallen directly from the moon, and knew not even the outward appearance of the court." "Dear friend, I have been a whole year away, that is to say, an eternity. The court is a very slippery place; and if a man does not accustom himself hourly to walk over this glassy parquet, he will surely fall. "Also there is nothing so uncertain as a court life; that which is true to-day, is to-morrow considered incredible; that which was beautiful yesterday is thrust aside to-day, as hateful to look upon: that which we despise to-day is to-morrow sought after as a rare and precious gem. "Oh, I have had my experiences. I remember, that while I was residing at the court of Saxony, I composed a poem in honor of the Countess Aurora of Konigsmark. This was by special command of the king; the poem was to be set to music by Hasse, and sung by the Italian singers on the birthday of Aurora. Well, the Countess Aurora was cast aside before my poem was finished, and the Countess Kozel had taken her place. I finished my poem, but Amelia, and not Aurora, was my heroine. Hasse composed the music, and no one who attended the concert, given in honor of the birthday of the Countess Kozel, had an idea that this festal cantata had been originally ordered for Aurora of Konigsmark! "Once, while I was in Russia, I had an audience from the Empress Elizabeth. As I approached the castle, leaning on the arm of the Captain Ischerbatow, I observed the guard, who stood before the door, and presented arms. Well, eight weeks later, this common guard was a general and a prince, and Isoherbatow was compelled to bow before him! "I saw in Venice a picture of the day of judgment by Tintoretto. In this picture both Paradise and Hell were portrayed. I saw in Paradise a lovely woman glowing with youth, beauty, and grace. She was reclining in a most enchanting attitude, upon a bed of roses, and surrounded by angels. Below, on the other half of the picture-that is to say, in Hell--I saw the same woman; she had no couch of roses, but was stretched upon a glowing gridiron; no smiling angels surrounded her, but a hideous, grinning devil tore her flesh with red-hot pincers. "Pope Adrian had commanded Tintoretto to paint this picture, to make it a monument in honor of the lovely Cinnia, and to glorify her by all the power of art. Cinnia was a very dear friend of Adrian. He was not only a pope, but a man, and a man who took pleasure in all beautiful things. Cinnia was enchanting, and it was Tintoretto's first duty to paint her picture, and make her the principal object in Paradise. But look you! the Last Judgment by Tintoretto was a large painting, so large that to count even the heads upon it is laborious. The heads in each corner are counted separately, and then added together, It required some years, of course, to paint such a picture; and by the time Tintoretto had completed Paradise and commenced the lower regions, many sad changes had occurred. The fond heart of the seducing Cinnia had withdrawn itself from the pope and clung tenaciously to Prince Colonna. The Holy Father, as we have said before, notwithstanding he was pope, had some human weaknesses; he naturally hated the fair inconstant, and sought revenge. He recommended Tintoretto to bring the erring one once more before the public--this time, however, as a guilty and condemned shiner in hell. "Dear Fredersdorf, I think always of this picture when I look at the favorites of princes and kings, and I amuse myself with their pride and arrogance. When I see them in their sunny paradise of power and influence, I say to myself, 'All's well for the fleeting present, I'll wait patiently; soon I shall see you roasting on the glowing gridiron of royal displeasure, and the envious devils of this world filled with rapture at your downfall, will tear your flesh to pieces.' Friend Fredersdorf, that is my answer to your question as to whether I have in one short year forgotten the quality of court life." "And by Heaven, that is a profound answer, which shows at least that Baron Pollnitz has undergone no change during the last year, but is still the experienced man of the world and the wise cavalier!" "But why do you not give me my title, Fredersdorf? Why do you not call me grand chamberlain?" "Because you are no longer in the service of the king, but have received your dismissal." "Alas! God grant that the Signora Biche is favorable to me; then will the king, as I hope, forget this dismissal. One question more. You say that the queen-mother has no influence; how is it with the wife of the king, Elizabeth Christine? Is she indeed the reigning sovereign?" "When did you return to Berlin?" "Now, to-night; and when I left the carriage, I hastened here." "Well, that is some excuse for your question. If you have only just arrived, you could not possibly know of the important event which will take place at the court to-night. This evening the king will present his brother, Augustus William, to the court as Prince of Prussia, and his successor, I think that is a sufficient answer to your question. As to Queen Elizabeth Christine, she lives at Schonhausen, and might be called the widow of her husband. The king never addresses one word to her, not even on grand festal days, when etiquette compels him to take a seat by her at table." "Now, one last question, dear friend. How is it with yourself? Are you influential? Does Frederick love you as warmly as he did a year ago? Do you hope to reach the goal of your ambition and become allpowerful?" "I have ceased to be ambitious," sighed Fredersdorf. "I no longer thirst to be the king of a king. My only desire is to be independent of courts and kings--in short, to be my own master. Perhaps I may succeed in this; if not, be ruined, as many others have been. If I cannot tear my chains apart, I will perish under them! As for my influence over the king, it is sufficient to say, that for six months I have loved a woman to distraction, who returns my passion with ardor, and I cannot marry her because the king, notwithstanding my prayers and agony, will not consent." "He is right," said Pollnitz, earnestly, as he stretched himself out comfortably on the sofa; "he is a fool who thinks of yielding up his manly freedom to any woman." "You say that, baron? you, who gave up king and court, and went to Nurnberg, in order that you might marry!" "Aha! how adroitly you have played the knife out of my hands, and have yourself become the questioner! Well. it is but just that you also should have your curiosity satisfied. Demand of me now and I will answer frankly." "You are not married, baron?" "Not in the least; and I have sworn that the goddess Fortuna alone shall be my beloved. I will have no mortal wife." "The report, then, is untrue that you have again changed your religion, and become Protestant?" "No, this time rumor has spoken the truth. The Nurnberger patrician would accept no hand offered by a Catholic; so I took off the glove of my Catholicism and drew on my Protestant one. My God! to a man of the world, his outside faith is nothing more than an article of the toilet. Do you not know that it is bon ton for princes when they visit strange courts to wear the orders and uniforms of their entertainers? So it is my rule of etiquette to adopt the religion which the circumstances in which I find myself seem to make suitable and profitable. My situation in Nurnberg demanded that I should become a Protestant, and I became one." "And for all that the marriage did not take place?" "No, it was broken off through the obstinacy of my bride, who refused to live in good fellowship and equality with me, and gave me only the use of her income, and no right in her property. Can you conceive of such folly? She imagined I would give myself in marriage, and make a baroness of an indifferently pretty burgher maiden; yes, a baroness of the realm, and expect no other compensation for it than a wife to bore me! She wished to wed my rank, and found it offensive that I should marry, not only her fair self, but her millions! The contest over this point broke off the contract, and I am glad of it. From my whole soul I regret and am ashamed of having ever thought of marriage. The king, therefore, has reason to be pleased with me." "You are thinking, then, seriously of remaining at court?" "Do you not find that natural, Fredersdorf? I have lived fifty years at this court, and accustomed myself to its stupidity, its nothingness, and its ceremony, as a man may accustom himself to a hard tent-bed, and find it at last more luxurious than a couch of eider-down. Besides, I have just lost a million in Nurnberg, and I must find a compensation; the means at least to close my life worthily as a cavalier. I must, therefore, again bow my free neck, and enter service. You must aid me, and this day obtain for me an audience of the king. I hope your influence will reach that far. The rest must be my own affair." "We will see what can be done. I have joyful news for the king today. Perhaps it will make him gay and complaisant, and he will grant you an audience." "And this news which you have for him?" "The Barbarina has arrived!" "What! the celebrated dancer?" "The same. We have seized and forcibly carried her off from the republic of Venice and from Lord McKenzie; and Baron Swartz has brought her as prisoner to Berlin!" Pollnitz half raised himself from the sofa, and, seizing the arm of the private secretary, he looked him joyfully in the face. "I have conceived a plan," said he, "a heavenly plan! My friend, the sun of power and splendor is rising for us, and your ambition, which has been weary and ready to die, will now revive, and raise its head proudly on high! That which I have long sought for is at last found. The king is too young, too ardent, too much the genius and poet, to be completely unimpassioned. Even Achilles was not impenetrable in the heel, and Frederick has also his mortal part. Do you know, Fredersdorf, who will discover the weak point, and send an arrow there?" "No." "Well, I will tell you: the Signora Barbarina. Ah, you smile! you shake your unbelieving head. You are no good psychologist. Do you not know that we desire most earnestly that which seems difficult, if not impossible to attain, and prize most highly that which we have won with danger and difficulty? Judge, also, how precious a treasure the Barbarina must be to Frederick. For her sake he has for months carried on a diplomatic contest with Venice, and at last he has literally torn her away from my Lord Stuart McKenzie." "That is true," said Fredersdorf, thoughtfully; "for ten days the king has waited with a rare impatience for the arrival of this beautiful dancer, and he commanded that, as soon as she reached Berlin, it should be announced to him." "I tell you the king will adore the Signora Barbarina," said Pollnitz, as he once more stretched himself upon the sofa pillows. "I shall visit her to-day, and make the necessary arrangements. Now I am content. I see land, a small island of glorious promise, which will receive me, the poor shipwrecked mariner, and give me shelter and protection. I will make myself the indispensable counsellor of Barbarina; I will teach her how she can melt the stony heart of Frederick, and make him her willing slave." "Dreams, dreams!" said Fredersdorf, shrugging his shoulders. "Dreams which I will make realities as soon as you obtain me an audience with the king." "Well, we will see what can be done, and whether--but listen, the king is awake, and has opened his window. He is playing upon the flute, which is his morning custom. His morning music is always the barometer of his mood, and I can generally judge what kind of royal weather we will have, whether bright or stormy. Come with me to the window and listen awhile." "Agreed," said Pollnitz, and he sprang with youthful elasticity from the divan and joined Fredersdorf at the window. They listened almost breathlessly to the sweet tones which seemed to whisper to them from the upper windows; then mingling and melting with the perfume of the orange-blossoms and the glorious and life-giving morning air, they forced their sweet and subtle essence into the room with the cunning and hardened old courtiers. Fredersdorf and Pollnitz listened as a sly bat listens to the merry whistling of an innocent bird, and watches the propitious moment to spring upon her prey. It was an adagio which the king played upon his flute, and he was indeed a master in the art. Slightly trembling, as if in eternal melancholy, sobbing and pleading, soon bursting out in rapturous and joyful strains of harmony, again sighing and weeping, these melting tones fell like costly pearls upon the summer air. The birds in the odorous bushes, the wind which rustled in the trees, the light waves of the river, which with soft murmurs prattled upon the shore, all Nature seemed for the moment to hold her breath and listen to this enchanting melody. Even Fredersdorf felt the power and influence of this music as he had done in earlier days. The old love for his king filled his heart, and his eyes were misty with tears. As the music ceased, Fredersdorf exclaimed involuntarily: "He is, after all, the noblest and greatest of men. It is useless to be angry with him. I am forced against my will to worship him." "Now," said Pollnitz, whose face had not for one moment lost its expression of cold attention and sly cunning, "how says the barometer? May we promise ourselves a clear and sunny day?" "Yes, Frederick is in one of his soft and yielding moods. It is probable he has been some hours awake and has written to some of his friends--perhaps to Voltaire, or Algarotti; this makes him always bright and clear." "You think I shall obtain my audience?" "I think you will." "Then, dear friend, I have only to say that I hope you will give me the chocolate for that noble and soul-searching hound, the Signora Biche." CHAPTER III. THE MORNING HOURS OF A KING. King Frederick had finished the adagio, and stood leaning against the window gazing into the garden; his eyes, usually so fierce and commanding, were softened by melancholy, and a sad smile played upon his lips. The touching air which he had played found its echo within, and held his soul a prisoner to troubled thoughts. Suddenly he seemed to rouse himself by a great effort to the realities of life, and, hastily ringing the bell, he commanded Jordan, the director of the poor and the almshouse, to be summoned to him. A few moments later, Jordan, who had been for some days a guest at the castle of Charlottenburg, entered the king's room. Frederick advanced to meet him, and extended both hands affectionately. "Goodmorning, Jordan," said he, gazing into the wan, thin face of his friend, with the most earnest sympathy. "I hope you had a refreshing night." "I have had a charming night, for I was dreaming of your majesty," he replied, with a soft smile. Frederick sighed, released his hands, and stepped back a few paces. "Your majesty?" repeated he. "Why do you lay so cold a hand upon that heart which beats so warmly for you? To what purpose is this etiquette? Are we not alone? and can we not accord to our souls a sweet interchange of thought and feeling without ceremony? Do we not understand and love each other? Forget, then, for awhile, dear Jordan, all these worldly distinctions. You see I am still in my morning-dress. I do not, like the poor kings upon the stage, wear my crown and sceptre in bed, or with my night-dress." Jordan gazed lovingly and admiringly upon his great friend. "You need no crown upon your brow to show to the world that you are a king by the grace of God. The majesty of greatness is written upon your face, my king." "That," said Frederick with light irony, "is because we princes and kings are acknowledged to be the exact image of the Creator, the everlasting Father. As for you, and all the rest of the race, you dare not presume to compare yourselves with us. Probably you are made in the image of the second and third persons of the Trinity, while we carry upon our withered and wearisome faces the quintessence of the Godhead." "Alas! alas, sire, if our pious priest heard you, what a stumblingblock would he consider you!" The king smiled. "Do you know, Jordan," said he gravely, "I believe God raised me up for this special mission, to be a rock of offence to these proud and worldly priests, and to trample under foot their fooleries and their arrogance? I look upon that as the most important part of my mission upon earth, and I am convinced that I am appointed to humble this proud church, the vain and arrogant work of hypocritical priests, and to establish in its place the pure worship of God." "Yes, yes," said Jordan, shrugging his shoulders; "if the mass of men had the clear intellect of a Frederick! if their eyes were like those of my royal eagle, to whom it is given to gaze steadfastly at the sun without being dazzled. Alas! sire, the most of our race resemble you so little! They are all like the solemn night-owls, who draw a double curtain over their eyes, lest the light should blind them. The church serves as this double eyelid for the night-owls among men, or, rather, the churches, for the cunning and covetousness of those priests has not been satisfied with one church, but has established many." "Yes," said the king angrily; "they have sown dragons' teeth, from which bloodthirsty warriors have sprung, who wander up and down, and in mad ambition tear all mankind, and themselves included, to pieces. Listen, Jordan, we have fallen upon a subject which, as you know, has interested and occupied me much of late, and it is precisely upon these points that I have sought your counsel to-day. Be seated, then, and hear what I have to say to you. You know that the pietists and priests charge me with being a heretic, because I do not think as they think, and believe as they believe. Which of them, think you, Jordan, has the true faith? What is truth, and what is wisdom? Each sect believes itself--and itself alone--the possessor of both. That is reason enough, it appears to me, for doubting them all." "In the same land?" "Yes, in various places in the same city, we are taught entirely different and opposing doctrines in the name of religion. On one hand, we are threatened with everlasting fire in the company of the devil and his angels, if we believe that the Almighty is bodily present in the elements offered at the sacrament of the Lord's supper. On the other hand, we are taught, with equal assurance, that the same terrible punishment will be awarded us unless we believe that God is literally, and not symbolically, present in the bread and wine. The simple statement of the doctrines of the different churches in the world would fill an endless number of folios. Each religion condemns all others, as leading to perdition; they cannot therefore all be true, for truth does not contradict itself. If any one of these were the true faith, would not God have made it clear, and without question, to our eyes? God, who is truth, cannot be dark or doubtful! If these differences in religion related only to outward forms and ceremonies, we would let them pass as agreeable and innocent changes, even as we adopt contentedly the changes in style and fashion of our clothing. The doctrines of faith, as taught in England, cannot be made to harmonize with those fulminated at Rome. He to whom it would be given to reconcile all opposing doctrines, and to unite all hearts in one pure and simple faith would indeed give peace to the world, and be a Messiah and a Saviour." "Yes, he would accomplish what God himself, as it appears, has not thought proper to do; his first great act must be to institute and carry out a terrible massacre, in which every priest of every existing religion must be pursued to the death." "And that is precisely my mission," said the king. "I will institute a massacre, not bodily and bloodily, but soul-piercing and purifying. I say to you, Jordan, God dwells not in the churches of these imperious priests, who choose to call themselves the servants of God. God was with Moses on Mount Sinai, and with Zoroaster in the wilderness; he was by Dante's side as he wrote his 'Divina Commedia,' and he piloted the ships of Columbus as he went out bravely to seek a new world! God is everywhere, and that mankind should reverence and believe in and worship him, is proved by their bearing his image and their high calling." Jordan seized the hand of the king and pressed it enthusiastically to his lips. "And the world says that you do not believe in God," he exclaimed; "they class you with the unbelievers, and dare to preach against you, and slander you from the pulpit." "Yes, as I do not adopt their dogmas, I am, to them, a heretic," said the king laughing; "and when they preach against me, it proves that they fear me, and look upon me as a powerful enemy. The enemy of the priests I will be as long as I live, that is to say, of those arrogant and imperious men who are wise in their own eyes, and despise all who do not agree with them! I will destroy the foundations of all these different churches, with their different dogmas. I will utterly extinguish them by a universal church, in which every man shall worship God after his own fashion. The worship of God should be the only object of every church! All these different doctrines, which they cast in each other's teeth, and for love of which they close their doors against each other, shall be given up. I will open all their churches, and the fresh, pure air of God shall purify the musty buildings. I will build a temple, a great illimitable temple, a second Pantheon, a church which shall unite all churches within itself, in which it shall be granted to every man to have his own altar, and adopt his own religious exercises. All desire to worship God; every man shall do so according to his conscience! Look you, Jordan, how pathetically they discourse of brotherly love, and they tear each other to pieces! Let me only build my Pantheon, and then will all men, in truth, become brothers. The Jew and the so-called heathen, the Mohammedan and the Persian, the Calvinist and the Catholic, the Lutheran and the Reformer--they will all gather into my Pantheon, to worship God; all their forms and dogmas will simultaneously fall to the ground. They will believe simply in one God, and the churches of all these different sects will soon stand empty and in ruins." [Footnote: Thiebault, in his "Souvenirs de Vingt Ans," tells of Frederick's plan for a Pantheon.] While the king spoke, his countenance was illumined; a noble enthusiasm fired his large clear eyes, and his cheeks glowed as if from the awakening breath of some new internal light. Jordan's glance expressed unspeakable love, but at the same time he looked so sad, so pained, that Frederick felt chilled and restrained. "How, Jordan! you are not of my opinion?" said he, with surprise. "Our souls, which have been always heretofore in union, are now apart. You do not approve of my Pantheon?" "It is too exalted, sire, to be realized. Mankind require a form of religion, in order not to lose all personal control." "No, you mistake. They require only God, only love for this exalted and lofty Being, whom we call God. The only proof by which we can know that we can sincerely love God, lies in a steadfast and strong purpose to obey Him. According to this, we need no other religion than our reason, the good gift of God. So soon as we know that He has spoken, we should be silent and submissive. Our inward worship of God should consist in this, that we acknowledge Him and confess our sins; our outward worship in the performance of all our duties, according to our reason, the exalted nature of God, and our entire dependence upon Him." "It is to be regretted, sire, that this world is not sufficiently enlightened to comprehend you. I am afraid that your majesty will bring about exactly the opposite of that which you design. All these religious sects which, as you say, are so entirely antagonistic, would by this forced union feel themselves humiliated and trampled upon; their hatred toward each other would be daily augmented; their antipathies would find new food; and their religious zeal, which is always exclusive, would burn with fiercer fury. Not only the priests, but kings and princes, would look upon the carrying out of your plan with horror. And shall not this daring step bring terror into the cabinets of kings? A monarch, who has just drawn the eyes of all politicians upon himself, now proposes to take charge of the consciences of his subjects, and bow them to his will! Alas, how would envy, with all her poisonous serpents, fasten upon the triumphal car of a king who, by the great things he has already achieved, had given assurance of yet greater results, and now stoops to tyrannize over and oppress the weak and good, and cast them among the ruins of their temples of worship to weep and lament in despair! No, my king, this idea of a Pantheon, a universal house of worship, can never be realized. It was a great and sublime thought, but not a wise one; too great, too enlarged and liberal to be appreciated by this pitiable world. Your majesty will forgive me for having spoken the honest truth. I was forced to speak. Like my king, I love the one only and true God, and God is truth." "You have done well, Jordan," said the king, after a long pause, during which he raised his eyes thoughtfully toward heaven. "Yes, you have done well, and I believe you are right in your objections to my Pantheon. I offer up to you, therefore, my favorite idea. For your dear sake, my Pantheon shall become a ruin. Let this be a proof of the strong love I bear you, Jordan. I will not contend with the priests in my church, but I will pursue them without faltering into their own; and I say to you, this will be a long and stiff-necked war, which will last while my life endures. I will not have my people blinded and stupefied by priests. I will suffer no other king in Prussia. I alone will be king. These proud priests may decide, in silence and humility, to teach their churches and intercede for them; but let them once attempt to play the role of small popes, and to exalt themselves as the only possessors of the key to heaven, then they shall find in me an adversary who will prove to them that the key is false with which they shut up the Holiest of Holies, and is but used by them as a means to rob the people of their worldly goods. Light and truth shall be the device of my whole land. This will I seek after, and by this will I govern Prussia. I will have no blinded subjects, no superstitious, conscience-stricken, trembling, priest-ridden slaves. My people shall learn to think; thought shall be free as the wanton air in Prussia; no censor or police shall limit her boundary. The thoughts of men should be like the lifegiving and beautifying sun, all-nourishing and all-enlightening; calling into existence and fructifying, not only the rich, and rare, and lovely, but also the noxious and poisonous plant and the creeping worm. These have also the right of life: if left to themselves, they soon die of their own insignificance or nothingness--die under the contempt of all the good and great." "I fear," said Jordan, "that Frederick the Great is the only man whose mind is so liberal and so unprejudiced. Believe me, my king, there is no living sovereign in Europe who dares guarantee to his subjects free thought and free speech." "I will try so to act as to leave nothing to fear from the largest liberty of thought or speech," said the king, quietly. "Men may think and say of me what they will--that troubles me not; I will amuse myself with their slanders and accusations of heresy; as for their applause--well, that is a cheap merchandise, which I must share with every expert magician and every popular comedian. The applause of my own conscience, and of my friends--thy applause, my Jordan--is alone of value for me. Then," said he, earnestly, almost solemnly, "above all things, I covet fame. My name shall not pass away like a soft tone or a sweet melody. I will write it in golden letters on the tablet of history; it shall glitter like a star in the firmament; when centuries have passed away, my people shall remember me, and shall say, 'Frederick the Second made Prussia great, and enlarged her borders; he was a father who loved his people more than he did himself, and cheerfully sacrificed his own rest and comfort in their service, he was a teacher who spoke to them by word of mouth, and gave liberty to their souls.' Oh, Jordan, you must stand by me and help me to reach this great goal for which I thirst. Remain with me, dear friend, remain ever by my side, and with thy love, thy constancy, thy truth, and thy sincerity, help me to establish what is good, and to punish the evil; to acknowledge and promote what is noble and expose the unworthy to shame and confusion. Oh, Jordan! God has perhaps called me to be a great king; remain by me, and help me to be a good and simple-minded man." He threw himself with impetuosity on Jordan's breast, and clasped him passionately in his arms. Jordan returned the king's embrace, and silently raised his moist eyes to heaven. A prayer to "Our Father" spoke in that eloquent eye, a heart-felt, glowing prayer for this man now resting upon his bosom, and who for him was not the all-powerful and commanding sovereign, but the noble, loving, and beloved friend, this poet and philosopher, before whose mighty genius his whole soul bowed in wonder and admiration; but suddenly, in this moment of deep and pious emotion, a cold, an icy chill, seemed to shiver and play like the breath of death over his features, and the hot blood, like liquid metal, rushed madly through his veins; he gave a light, short cough; with a quick, abrupt movement, he released himself from the arms of the king. Withdrawing a few steps, he turned away, and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. "Jordan, you suffer, you are sick," said the king, anxiously. Jordan turned again to him; his face was calm, and even gay; his eyes beamed with that strange, mysterious, and touching fire of consumption which hides the shadow of death under the rosy lip and glowing cheek; and, less cruel than all other maladies, leaves to the soul its freshness, and to the heart its power to love and hope. "Not so, sire," said Jordan, "I do not suffer. How can I be otherwise than well and happy in your presence?" As he said this he tried to thrust his handkerchief in his pocket. The king looked earnestly at this handkerchief. "Jordan, why did you press that handkerchief so hastily to your lips?" Jordan forced a smile. "Well," said he, "I was obliged, as your majesty no doubt saw, to cough, and I wished to make this disagreeable music as soft as possible." "That was not the reason," said Frederick; and, stepping hastily forward, he seized the handkerchief. "Blood! it is drenched in blood," said he, in a tone so full of anguish, that it was evident he recognized and feared this fatal signal. "Well, yes, it is blood; your majesty sees I am blood-thirsty! Unhappily, I do not shed the blood of your enemies, but my own, which I would gladly give, drop by drop, if I could thereby save my king one hour's suffering or care." "And yet you, Jordan, are now the cause of my bitterest grief. You are ill, and you conceal it from me. You suffer, and force yourself to seem gay, and hide your danger from me, in place of turning to my physicians and demanding their counsel and aid." "Frederick the Wise once said to me, 'Physicians are but quacks and charlatans, and a man gives himself up to a tedious suicide who swallows their prescriptions.'" "No, it was not 'Frederick the Wise,' but 'Frederick the Fool,' who uttered that folly. When the sun is shining, Frederick has no fear of ghosts; but at the turn of midnight, he will breathe a silent 'Father in heaven,' to be protected from them. We have no use for confidence in physicians when we are healthy; when we are ill we need them, and then we begin to hold them in consideration. You are ill, your breast suffers. I entreat you, Jordan, to call upon my physician, and to follow his advice promptly and systematically. I demand this as a proof of your friendship." "I will obey your majesty, immediately," said Jordan, who now found himself completely overcome by the weakness which follows loss of blood; trembling, and almost sinking, he leaned upon the table. Frederick perceived this, and rolling forward his own arm-chair, with loving and tender care, he placed Jordan within it. He called his servant, and ordered him to roll the chair to Jordan's room, and go instantly for the physician Ellertt. "It will be all in vain, and I shall lose him," murmured the king. "Yes, I will lose him, as I have lost Suhm, and as I shall soon lose my Caesarius, the good Kaiserling. Alas! why did God give me so warm a heart for friendship, and then deprive me of my friends?" Folding his arms, he stepped to the window and gazed thoughtfully and sadly into the garden below, but he saw not its bloom and beauty; his eyes were turned inward, and he saw only the grave of his friend. Suddenly rousing and conquering himself, he shook off the weary spirit of melancholy, and sought comfort in his flute, the faithful companion of all his sufferings and struggles. CHAPTER IV. THE PARDONED COURTIER. Frederick commenced again to play, but this time it was not an adagio, but a joyous and triumphant allegro, with which he sought to dispel the melancholy and quench the tears flowing in his troubled heart. He walked backward and forward in his room, and from time to time stood before the sofa upon which his graceful greyhound, Biche, was quietly resting. Every minute the king passed her sofa, Biche raised her beautiful head and greeted her royal friend with an intelligent and friendly glance and a gentle wagging of her tail, and this salutation was returned each time by Frederick before he passed on. Finally, and still playing the flute, the king pressed his foot upon a silver button in the floor of his room, and rang a bell which hung in Fredersdorf's room, immediately under his own. A few minutes later the secretary entered, but stood quietly at the door till the king had finished his allegro and laid aside his flute. "Good-morning," said the king, and he looked up at his favorite with so sharp and piercing a glance that Fredersdorf involuntarily trembled, and cast his eyes to the ground. "You must have been long wide awake, you answer the bell so quickly." "Yes, your majesty, I have been long awake. I am happy, for I have good news to bring you." "Well, what is it?" said the king smiling. "Has my god-mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, voluntarily surrendered to the Emperor Charles VII.? Have France and England become reconciled? or--and that seems to me the most probable--has my private secretary mastered the mystery of gold-making, after which he has so long striven, and for which he so willingly offers up the most costly and solemn sacrifices?" The king laid so peculiar an expression upon the word SACRIFICE that Fredersdorf wondered if he had not listened to his conversation with Joseph, and learned the strange sacrifice which they now proposed to offer up to the devil's shrine. "Well, tell your news quickly," said the king. "You see that I am torturing myself with the most wild and incredible suppositions." "Sire, the Barbarina reached Berlin last night." "Truly," said the king, indifferently, "so we have at last ravished her from Venice, and Lord Stuart McKenzie." "Not exactly so, your highness. Lord Stuart McKenzie arrived in Berlin this morning." Frederick frowned. "This is also, as it appears, a case of true love, and may end in a silly marriage. I am not pleased when men or women in my service entertain serious thoughts of love or marriage; it occupies their thoughts and interferes with the performance of their duty." "Your majesty judges severely," murmured Fredersdorf, who knew full well that this remark was intended for his special benefit. "Well, this is not only my opinion, but I act in consonance with it. I allow myself no relaxation. Have I ever had a love-affair? Perhaps, Fredersdorf, you believe my blood to be frozen like ice in my veins; that I have a heart of stone; in short, that I ceased to be a man when I became a king." "Not so; but I believe your majesty is too great and too exalted to find any one worthy of your love." "Folly, folly, sheer folly, Fredersdorf! When a man loves, he does not weigh himself in the scales and find out how many pounds of worth he has; he only loves, and forgets all other earthly things. Now, for myself, I dare not forget that I am a king, and that my time and strength belong to my people. My heart is too tender, and for this reason I fly from love. So should you also flee, you also dare not forget that your life is consecrated to your king. The Signora Barbarina shall not forget that she is in my service; dancing, and not loving, must now occupy her thoughts and actions. I will allow her flirtations and amours, but a true love I absolutely forbid. How can she go through with her ballets, her pirouettes, and entrechats gayly and gracefully if a passionate love sits enthroned within her heart? I have promised the English ambassador, who is the cousin of this Lord Stuart McKenzie, that I will separate these lovers. At this moment the friendship of England is of much importance to me, and I shall certainly keep my promise. Write immediately to the director of police that I command him not only to banish Lord McKenzie from Berlin, but to send him under guard to Hamburg, and there place him upon an English ship bound for England. In twelve hours he must leave Berlin. [Footnote: This order was obeyed. Lord McKenzie, the tender lover of the beautiful Barbarina, who had followed her from Venice to Berlin, was, immediately on his arrival, banished from Prussia by the special command of the king, and taken to Hamburg; from thence he addressed some passionate letters to his beautiful beloved, which she, of course, never received, and which are preserved in the royal archives at Berlin. (See Schneider's "History of Operas.")] Is that your only news, Fredersdorf?" "No, sire," said he, stealing a glance toward the door, which at this moment was lightly opened. "I have another novelty to announce, but I do not know whether it will be acceptable to your majesty. Baron von Pollnitz--" "Has sent us the announcement of his marriage?" "No, sire, he is not married." At this moment, the Signora Biche began to bay light notes of welcome, and raised herself up from her comfortable position on the sofa. The king did not remark her, however; he was wholly occupied with Fredersdorf. "How! do you say he is not married?" "No, he has not married," said a plaintive voice from behind the door, "and he prays your majesty, of your great grace, to allow him to dedicate his whole life to his royal master, forgetting all other men and women." The king turned and saw his former master of ceremonies kneeling before the door, and his clasped hands stretched out imploringly before him. Frederick gave a hearty peal of laughter, while Biche, raising herself with a joyful bark, sprang toward the kneeling penitent, and capered playfully about him; she appeared indeed to be licking the hand in which the sagacious baron held loosely a large piece of her favorite chocolate. At first, the king laughed heartily; then, as he remarked how tenderly Biche licked the hand of the baron, he shook his head thoughtfully. "I have had a false confidence in the true instinct of my little Biche; she seems, indeed, to welcome Pollnitz joyfully; while a sharp bite in his calf is the only reception which his wicked and faithless heart deserves." "Happily, sire, my heart is not lodged in my calves," said Pollnitz. "The wise Biche knows that the heart of Pollnitz is always in the same place, and that love to my king and master has alone brought me back to Berlin." "Nonsense! A Pollnitz can feel no other love than that which he cherishes for his own worthy person, and the purses of all others. Let him explain now, quickly and without circumlocution, if he really wishes my pardon, why, after going to Nurnberg to marry a bag of gold, containing a few millions, he has now returned to Berlin." "Sire, without circumlocution, the bag of gold would not open for me, and would not scatter its treasures according to my necessities and desires." "Ah! I comprehend. The beautiful Nurnberger had heard of your rare talent for scattering gold, and thought it wiser to lose a baron of the realm than to lose her millions." "Yes, that's about it, sire." "I begin to have a great respect for the wisdom of this woman," said Frederick, laughing. "I think she has a more reliable instinct than my poor Biche, who, I see, still licks your hands." "Oh, Biche knows me better than any man," said Pollnitz, tenderly patting the greyhound. "Biche knows that my heart is filled with but one love--love to my king and master. She knows that I have returned to lay myself as she does, in all humility and self-abandonment, at the feet of my royal Frederick, to receive either kicks or favors, as he may see fit to bestow them; to be equally grateful for the bones he may throw to me in his pity, as for the costly viands he may grant in the magnanimity of his great soul." "You are an absolute and unqualified fool," said the king, laughing, "and if it was not against my conscience, and unworthy of human nature, to engage a man as a perpetual buffoon, I would promote you to the office of court fool. You might, at least, serve as an example to my cavaliers, by teaching them what they ought to avoid." "I have merited this cruel contempt, this painful punishment from my royal master," said Pollnitz. "I submit silently. I will not, for a moment, seek to justify myself." "You do well in that. You can make no defence. You left my service faithlessly and heartlessly, with the hope of marrying a fortune. The marriage failed, and you come back with falsehood in your heart and on your lips, chattering about your love for my royal house. You are not ashamed to liken yourself to a hound, and to howl even as they do, in order that I may take you back into favor. Do not suppose, for one moment, that I am deceived by these professions--if you could have done better for yourself elsewhere, you would not have returned to Berlin; that not being the case, you creep back, and vow that love alone has constrained you. Look you, Pollnitz, I know you, I know you fully. You can never deceive me; and, most assuredly, I would not receive you again into my service, if I did not look upon you as an old inventory of my house, an inheritance from my grandfather Frederick. I receive you, therefore, out of consideration for the dead kings in whose service you were, and who amused themselves with your follies; for their sakes I cannot allow you to hunger. Think not that I will prepare you a bed of down, and give you gold to waste in idleness. You must work for your living, even as we all do. I grant you a pension, but you will perform your old duty, as grand master of ceremonies. You understand such nonsense better than I do. You were educated in a good school, and studied etiquette from the foundation stone, under Prussia's first king; and that you may not say we have overlooked your great worth, I will lay yet another burden upon your shoulders, and make you 'master of the wardrobe.' It shall not be said of us, that nonsense and folly are neglected at our court; even these shall have their tribute. You shall therefore be called 'Master of the Robes,' but I counsel you, yes, I warn you, never to interfere with my coats and shirts. You shall have no opportunity to make a gold-embroidered monkey of me. Etiquette requires that I must have a master of the robes, but I warn you to interest yourself in all other things rather than in my toilet." "All that your majesty condescends to say, is written in letters of flame upon my heart." "I would rather suppose upon your knees; they must indeed burn from this long penance. I have read you a lecture, a la facon of a village schoolmaster. You can rise, the lecture is over." Pollnitz rose from his knees, and, straightening himself, advanced before the king, and made one of those low, artistic bows, which he understood to perfection. "When does your majesty wish that I should enter upon my duties?" "To-day--at this moment. Count Tessin, a special ambassador from Sweden, has just arrived. I wish to give him a courtly reception. You will make the necessary arrangements. Enter at once upon the discharge of your functions." "I suppose, sire, that my salary also commences so soon as I begin the discharge of my duties?" "I said nothing about a salary. I promised you a pension; and, not wishing to maintain you in absolute idleness, I lay upon you these absurd and trifling duties." "Shall I not, then, receive two pensions, if I discharge the two functions?" said Pollnitz, in a low voice. "You are an out-and-out scoundrel," said Frederick, "but I know all your tricks. I shall not follow my father's example, who once asked you how much it required to maintain worthily a cavalier of rank, and you assured him that a hundred thousand thalers was not sufficient. I grant you a pension of two thousand thalers, and I tell you it must suffice to support you creditably. Woe to you, when you commence again your former most contemptible and miserable life! woe to you, when you again forget to distinguish between your own money and the money of others! I assure you that I will never again pay one of your debts. And in order that credulous men may not be so silly as to lend you money, I will make my wishes known by a printed order, and impose a tax of fifty thalers upon every man silly and bold enough to lend you money. Are you content with this, and will you enter my service upon these terms?" "Yes, on any conditions which your majesty shall please to lay upon me. But when, in spite of this open declaration of your majesty, crazy people will still insist upon lending me money, you will admit, sire, in short, that it is not my debt, and I cannot be called upon for payment." "I will take such precautions that no one will be foolish enough to lend you money. I will have it publicly announced that he who lends you money shall have no claim upon you, so that to lend you gold is to give you gold, and truly in such a way as to spare you even the trouble of thanks. I will have this trumpted through every street. Are you still content?" "Oh, sire, you show me in this the greatest earthly kindness; you make me completely irresponsible. Woe to the fools and lunatics who are mad enough to lend me money! From this time onward, I shall never know a weary or listless moment. I shall have always the cheering and inspiring occupation of winning the hearts of trusting and weak-minded dunces, and, by adroit sleight-of-hand, transferring the gold from their pockets to my own." "You are incorrigible," said the king. "I doubt if all mankind are made after the image of God. I think many of the race resemble the devil, and I look upon you, Pollnitz, as a tolerably successful portrait of his satanic majesty. I don't suppose you will be much discomposed by this opinion. I imagine you look upon God and the devil in very much the same light." "Oh, not so, your majesty; I am far too religious to fall into such errors." "Yes, you are too religious; or, rather you have to many religions. To which, for example, do you now profess to belong?" "Sire, I have become a Protestant." "From conviction?" "So long as I believed in the possibility of marrying several millions--yes, from conviction. These millions would have made me happy, and surely I might allow myself to become a Protestant in order to be happy." "Once for all, how many times have you changed your religion?" said the king, thoughtfully. "Oh, not very often, sire! I am forever zealously seeking after the true faith, and so long as I do not find that religion which makes me content with such things as I have, I am forced to change in justice to myself. In my childhood I was baptized and brought up a Lutheran, and I had nothing against it, and remained in that communion till I went to Rome; there I saw the Holy Father, the Pope, perform mass, and the solemn ceremony roused my devotional feelings to such a height that I became a Catholic immediately. This was, however, no change of religion. Up to this time I had not acted for myself; so the Catholic may be justly called my first faith." "Yes, yes! that was about the time you stole your dying bride's diamonds and fled from France." "Oh, your majesty, that is a wicked invention of my enemies, and utterly unfounded. If I had really stolen and sold those magnificent brilliants--worth half a million--from my dying love, it would have been sufficient to assure me a luxurious life, and I should not have found it imperative to become a Catholic." "Ah, you confess, then, that you did not become a Catholic from conviction, but in order to obtain the favor of the cardinals and the Pope?" "Nothing escapes the quick eye of your majesty, so I will not dare to defend myself. I came back to Berlin then, a Catholic, and the ever-blessed king received me graciously. He was a noble and a pious man, and my soul was seized with a glowing desire to imitate him. I saw, indeed, how little I had advanced on the path to glory by becoming a Catholic! I made a bold resolve and entered the Reformed Church." "And by this adroit move you obtained your object: you became the favorite of my father the king. As he, unhappily, can show you no further favor, it is no longer prudent to be a reformer, so you are again a Lutheran--from conviction!" "Oh, all the world knows the great, exalted, and unprejudiced mind of our young king," said Pollnitz. "It is to him a matter of supreme indifference what religious sect a man belongs to, so he adopts that faith which makes him a brave, reliable, and serviceable subject of his king and his fatherland." Frederick cast a dark and contemptuous glance at him. "You are a miserable mocker and despiser of all holy things; you belong to that large class who, not from convictions of reason, but from worldlymindedness and licentiousness, do not believe in the Christian religion. Such men can never be honest; they have, perhaps, from their childhood been preached to, not to do evil from fear of hellfire; and so soon as they cease to believe in hell-fire, they give themselves up to vice without remorse. You are one of these most miserable wretches; and I say to you, that you will at last suffer the torments of the damned. I know there is a hell-fire, but it can only be found in a man's conscience! Now go and enter at once upon your duties; in two hours I will receive Count Tessin in the palace at Berlin." Pollnitz made the three customary bows and left the room. The king gazed after him contemptuously. "He is a finished scoundrel!" Then turning to Fredersdorf, who at that moment entered the room, he said, "I believe Pollnitz would sell his mother if he was in want of money. You have brought me back a charming fellow; I rejoice that there are no more of the race; Pollnitz has at least the fame of being alone in his style. Is there any one else who asks an audience?" "Yes, sire, the antechamber is full, and every man declares that his complaint can only be made personally to your majesty. It will require much time to listen to all these men, and would be, besides, a bad example. If your majesty receives fifty men to-day, a hundred will demand audience to-morrow; they must therefore be put aside; I have advised them all to make their wishes known in writing." "Well, I think every man knows that is the common mode of proceeding; as these people have not adopted it, it is evident they prefer speaking to me. There are many things which can be better said than written. A king has no right to close his ear to his subjects. A ruler should not resemble a framed and curtained picture of a god, only on rare and solemn occasions to be stared and wondered at; he must be to his people what the domestic altar and the household god was to the Romans, to which they drew near at all hours with consecrated hearts and pious memories. Here they made known all their cares, their sorrows, and their joys; here they found comfort and peace. I will never withdraw myself from my subjects; no, I will be the household god of my people, and will lend a willing ear to all their prayers and complaints. Turn no man away, Fredersdorf; I will announce it publicly, that every man has the right to appeal to me personally." "My king is great and good," said Fredersdorf, sadly; "every man but myself can offer his petition to your majesty and hope for grace; the king's ear is closed only to me; to my entreaties he will not listen." "Fredersdorf, you complain that I will not give my consent to your marriage. What would you? I love you too well to give you up; but when you take a wife you will be forever lost to me. A man cannot serve two masters, and I will not divide your heart with this Mademoiselle Daum; you must give it to me entire! Do not call me cruel, Fredersdorf; believe that I love you and cannot give you up." "Oh, sire, I shall only truly belong to you in love and gratitude, when you permit me to be happy and wed the maiden I so fondly love." "I will have no married private secretary, nor will I have a married secretary of state," said the king, with a dark frown. "Say not another word, Fredersdorf; put these thoughts away from you! My God, there are so many other things on which you could have set your heart! why must it be ever on a woman?" "Because I love her passionately, your majesty." "Ah, bah! do you not love other things with which you can console yourself? You are a scholar and an alchemist. Well, then, read Horace; exercise yourself in the art of making gold, and forget this Mademoiselle Daum, who, be it said, in confidence between us, has no other fascination than that she is rich. As to her wealth, that can have but little charm for YOU, who, without doubt, will soon have control of all the treasures of the world. By God's help, or the devil's, you will very soon, I suppose, discover the secret of making gold." "He has, indeed, heard my conversation with Joseph," said Fredersdorf to himself, and ashamed and confused, he cast his eyes down before the laughing glance of the king. "Read your Horace diligently," said Frederick--"you know he is also my favorite author; you shall learn one of his beautiful songs by heart, and repeat it to me." The king walked up and down the room, and cast, from time to time, a piercing glance at Fredersdorf. He then repeated from Horace these two lines: "'Torment not your heart With the rich offering of a bleeding lamb.'" "I see well," said Fredersdorf, completely confused, "I see well that your majesty knows--" "That it is high time," said the king, interrupting him, "to go to Berlin; you do well to remind me of it. Order my carriage--I will be off at once." CHAPTER V. HOW THE PRINCESS ULRICA BECAME QUEEN OF SWEDEN. Princess Ulrica, the eldest of the two unmarried sisters of the king, paced her room with passionate steps. The king had just made the queen-mother a visit, and had commanded that his two sisters should be present at the interview. Frederick was gay and talkative. He told them that the Signora Barbarina had arrived, and would appear that evening at the castle theatre. He invited his mother and the two princesses to be present. He requested them to make tasteful and becoming toilets, and to be bright and amiable at the ball and supper after the theatre. The king implored them both to be gay: the one, in order to show that she was neither angry nor jealous; the other, that she was proud and happy. The curiosity of the two young girls was much excited, and they urged the king to explain his mysterious words. He informed them that Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassador, would be present at the ball; that he was sent to Berlin to select a wife for the prince royal of Sweden, or, rather, to receive one; the choice, it appeared, had been already made, as the count had asked the king if he might make proposals for the hand of the Princess Amelia, or if she were already promised in marriage. The king replied that Amelia was bound by no contract, and that proposals from Sweden would be graciously received. "Be, therefore, lovely and attractive," said the king, placing his hand caressingly upon the rosy cheek of his little sister; "prove to the count that the intellectual brow of my sweet sister is fitted to wear a crown worthily." The queen-mother glanced toward the window into which the Princess Ulrica had hastily withdrawn. "And will your majesty really consent that the youngest of my daughters shall be first married?" The king followed the glance of his mother, and saw the frowning brow and trembling lip of his sister. Frederick feared to increase the mortification of Ulrica, and seemed, therefore, not to observe her withdrawal. "I think," said he, "your majesty was not older than Amelia when you married my father; and if the crown prince of Sweden wishes to marry Amelia, I see no reason why we should refuse him. Happily, we are not Jews, and our laws do not forbid the younger sister to marry first. To refuse the prince the hand of Amelia, or to offer him the hand of Ulrica, would indicate that we feared the latter might remain unsought. I think my lovely and talented sister does not deserve to be placed in such a mortifying position, and that her hand will be eagerly sought by other royal wooers." "And, for myself, I am not at all anxious to marry," said Ulrica, throwing her head back proudly, and casting a half-contemptuous, half-pitiful look at Amelia. "I have no wish to marry. Truly, I have not seen many happy examples of wedded life in our family. All my sisters are unhappy, and I see no reason why I should tread the same thorny path." The king smiled. "I see the little Ulrica shares my aversion to wedded life, but we cannot expect, dearest, that all the world should be equally wise. We will, therefore, allow our foolish sister Amelia to wed, and run away from us. This marriage will cost her anxiety and sorrow; she must not only place her little feet in the land of reindeers, bears, and eternal snows, but she must also be baptized and adopt a new religion. Let us thank God, then, that the prince has had the caprice to pass you by and choose Amelia, who, I can see, is resolved to be married. We will, therefore, leave the foolish child to her fate." It was Frederick's intention, by these light jests, to comfort his sister Ulrica, and give her time to collect herself. He did not remark that his words had a most painful effect upon his younger sister, and that she became deadly pale as he said she must change her faith in order to become princess royal of Sweden. The proud queen-mother had also received this announcement angrily. "I think, sire," said she, "that the daughter of William the Second, and the sister of the King of Prussia, might be allowed to remain true to the faith of her fathers." "Madame," said the king, bowing reverentially, "the question is not, I am sorry to say, as to Amelia's father or brother; she will be the mother of sons, who, according to the law of the land, must be brought up in the religion of their father. You see, then, that if this marriage takes place, one of the two contracting parties must yield; and, it appears to me, that is the calling and the duty of the woman." "Oh, yes," said the queen bitterly, "you have been educated in too good a school, and are too thoroughly a Hohenzollern, not to believe in the complete self-renunciation of women. At this court, women have only to obey." "Nevertheless, the women do rule over us; and even when we appear to command, we are submissive and obedient," said the king, as he kissed his mother's hand and withdrew. The three ladies also retired to their own rooms immediately. Each one was too much occupied with her own thoughts to bear the presence of another. And now, being alone, the Princess Ulrica found it no longer necessary to retain the smiles which she had so long and with such mighty effort forced to play upon her lips; every pulse was beating with glowing rage, and she gave free course to her scorn. Her younger sister, this little maiden of eighteen years, was to be married, to wed a future king; while she, the eldest, now two-andtwenty, remained unchosen! And it was not her own disinclination nor the will of the king which led to this shameful result; no! the Swedish ambassador came not to seek her hand, but that of her sister! She, the elder, was scorned--set aside. The king might truthfully say there was no law of the land which forbade the marriage of the younger sister before the elder; but there was a law of custom and of propriety, and this law was trampled upon. As Ulrica thought over these things, she rose from her seat with one wild spring. On entering the room she had completely overcome, and, with trembling knees, she had fallen upon the divan. She stood now, however, like a tigress prepared for attack, and looking for the enemy she was resolved to slay. The raging, stormy blood of the Hohenzollerns was aroused. The energy and pride of her mother glowed with feverish pulses in her bosom. She would have been happy to find an enemy opposed to her, the waves of passion rushing through her veins might have been assuaged; but she was alone, entirely alone, and had no other enemy to overcome than herself. She must, then, declare war against her own evil heart. With wild steps she rushed to the glass, and scrutinizingly and fiercely examined her own image. Her eye was cold, searching, and stern. Yes, she would prove herself; she would know if it were any thing in her own outward appearance which led the Swedish ambassador to choose her sister rather than herself. "It is true, Amelia is more beautiful, in the common acceptation of the word; her eyes are larger, her cheek rosier, her smile more fresh and youthful, and her small but graceful figure is at the same time childlike and voluptuous. She would make an enchanting shepherdess, but is not fitted to be a queen. She has no majesty, no presence. She has not by nature that imposing gravity, which is the gift of Providence, and cannot be acquired, and without which the queen is sometimes forgotten in the woman. Amelia can never attain that eternal calm, that exalted composure, which checks all approach to familiarity, and which, by an almost imperceptible pressure of the hand and a light smile, bestows more happiness and a more liberal reward than the most impassioned tenderness and the warmest caresses of a commonplace woman. No, Amelia could never make a complete queen, she can only be a beautiful woman; while I--I know that I am less lovely, but I feel that I am born to rule. I have the grace and figure of a queen--yes, I have the soul of a queen! I would understand how to be imposing, and, at the same time, to obtain the love of my people, not from any weak thirst for love, but from a queenly ambition. But I am set aside, and Amelia will be a queen; my fate will be that of my elder sisters, I shall wed a poor margrave, or paltry duke, and may indeed thank God if I am not an old maiden princess, with a small pension." She stamped wildly upon the floor, and paced the room with hasty steps. Suddenly she grew calmer, her brow, which had been overshadowed by dark clouds, cleared, and a faint smile played upon those lips which a moment before had been compressed by passion. "After all," she said, "the formal demand for the hand of Amelia has not yet been made; perhaps the ambassador has mistaken my name for that of Amelia, and as he has made no direct proposition, I am convinced he wishes to make some observations before deciding. Now, if the result of this examination should prove to him that Amelia is not fitted to be the wife of his prince, and if Amelia herself--I thought I saw that she turned pale as the king spoke of abandoning her faith; and when she left the room, despair and misery were written upon that face which should have glowed with pride and triumph. Ah, I see land!" said Ulrica, breathing freely and sinking comfortably upon the divan, "I am no longer hopelessly shipwrecked; I have found a plank, which may perhaps save me. Let me consider calmly,"--and, as if Fate itself were playing into her hand, the door opened and Amelia entered. One glance was sufficient to show Ulrica that she was not deceived, and that this important event had brought no joy to poor Amelia. The lovely eyes of the princess were red with weeping; and the soft lips, so generally and gladly given to gay chat and merry laughter, were now expressive of silent anguish. Ulrica saw all this, and laid her plans accordingly. In place of receiving Amelia coldly and repulsively, which but a few moments before she would have done, she sprang to meet her with every sign of heart-felt love; the little maiden threw herself weeping convulsively into her sister's arms, and was pressed closely and tenderly to her bosom. "Tears!" said Ulrica lovingly, as she drew her sister to the sofa and pressed her down upon the soft pillows; "you weep, and yet a splendid future is this day secured to you!" Amelia sobbed yet more loudly and pressed her tear-stained face more closely to the bosom of her sister. Ulrica looked down with a mixture of curiosity and triumph; she could not understand these tears; but she had a secret satisfaction in seeing the person she most envied weeping so bitterly. "How is this? are you not happy to be a queen?" Amelia raised her face hastily and sobbed out: "No! I am not pleased to be an apostate, to perjure myself! I am not content to deny my faith in order to buy a miserable earthly crown! I have sworn to be true to my God and my faith, and now I am commanded to lay it aside like a perishable robe, and take another in exchange." "Ah, is it that?" said Ulrica, with a tone of contempt she could scarcely control; "you fear this bold step by which your poor innocent soul may be compromised." "I will remain true to the belief in which I have been educated, and to which I have dedicated myself at the altar!" cried Amelia, bursting again into tears. "It is easy to see that but a short time only has elapsed since you took these vows upon you. You have all the fanaticism of a new convert. How would our blessed father rejoice if he could see you now!" "He would not force me to deny my religion; he would not, for the sake of outward splendor, endanger my soul's salvation. Oh! it is harsh and cruel of my brother to treat me as a piece of merchandise; he asks not whether my heart or principles can conscientiously take part in his ambitious plans." Ulrica cast a long and piercing glance upon her sister. She would gladly have searched to the bottom of her soul; she wished to know if this fierce opposition to the marriage was the result of love to the faith of her fathers. "And you are not ambitious? you are not excited by the thought of being a queen, of marrying a man who will fill a place in the world's history?" The young girl raised her eyes in amazement, and her tears ceased to flow. "What has a woman to do with the world's history?" she said; "think you I care to be named as the wife of a king of Sweden? It is a sad, unhappy fate to be a princess. We are sold to him who makes the largest offer and the most favorable conditions. Well, let it be so; it is the fate of all princesses; it is for this we are educated, and must bow humbly to the yoke; but liberty of conscience should be at least allowed us, freedom of thought, the poor consolation of worshipping God in the manner we prefer, and of seeking help and protection in the arms of that religion we believe in and love." "One can be faithful to God even when unfaithful to their first faith," said Ulrica, who began already to make excuses to herself for the change of religion she contemplated. "That is not in my power!" cried Amelia passionately. "I cling to the religion of my house, and I should tremble before the wrath of God if I gave it up." "After all, it is but a small and unimportant difference between the Reformed and Lutheran Churches," said Ulrica, much excited, and entirely forgetting that the question had as yet no relation to herself. "One can be as pious a Christian in the Reformed Church as in the Lutheran." "Not I; it is not in my power," said Amelia, with the wilfulness of a spoiled child not accustomed to opposition. "I will not become a Lutheran. A Pollnitz may change his faith, but not the daughter of Frederick William. Did not the king with indignation and contempt relate to us how Pollnitz had again changed his religion and become a Protestant? Did we not laugh heartily, and in our hearts despise the dishonorable man? I will not place myself in such a position." "Then, my sister, there will be stormy times and stern strife in our household: the bitter scenes of earlier days will be renewed. Our royal brother is not less resolute than our stern father. I fear that his brothers and sisters are nothing more to him than useful instruments in this great state machine, and they must bow themselves unquestioningly to his commands." "Yes, I feel this; I see it clearly," said Amelia, trembling; "and for this reason, dear sister, you must stand by me and help me. I swear to you that I will not become a Lutheran." "Is that your unchangeable resolution?" "Yes, unchangeable." "Well, if that is so, I will give you my counsel." "Speak, speak quickly," said Amelia, breathlessly, and throwing her arms around the slender waist of her sister, she laid her head trustingly upon her shoulder. "Firstly, the Swedish ambassador has not made a formal demand for your hand; that probably proves that he will first examine and observe you closely, to see if you are suited to be the wife of the prince royal. We have still, therefore, a short delay, which, if wisely used, may conduct you to the desired goal. But, Amelia, prove yourself once more; ask counsel again of your heart and conscience, before you make a final resolve. I will not have you complain of me in future, and say that my foolish and guilty counsel lost you the throne of Sweden." "Oh, fear not, my beloved sister. I will not be queen of Sweden at the cost of my immortal soul." "You will not, then, reproach me, Amelia?" "Never." "Listen, then. From this moment lay a mask upon your face; that is to say, assume a proud, rude, overbearing tone to all around you-toward your friends, your servants, the court circle, yes, even toward the members of your family. Particularly in the presence of this Swedish ambassador, show yourself to be a capricious, nervous, and haughty princess, who scarcely thinks it worth the trouble to speak a word, or give a friendly glance, to a man in his position. When you speak to him and he attempts to answer, cut short his replies, and command him to be silent; if he strives to win your favor by the most respectful civility, let an unmistakable expression of contempt be written upon your face, and let that be your only answer. Regulate your conduct for a few days by these rules, and I am convinced you will attain your object." "Yes, yes! I understand, I understand!" said the young girl, clapping her little white hands, and looking up joyously. "I shall, by my pride and passion, freeze the words in the mouth of my lord ambassador, so that the decisive word cannot find utterance. Oh! this will be a precious comedy, my sweet sister, and I promise you to carry out my role of heroine to perfection. Oh, I thank you! I thank you! I am indeed happy to have found so wise a sister, so brave a comrade in arms, while surrounded with such perils!" "She would not have it otherwise," said Ulrica, laconically, as she found herself again alone. "If she is without ambition, so much the worse for her--so much the better for me! And now, it is high time to think of my toilet--that is the most important consideration. Today I must be not only amiable, but lovely. To-day I will appear an innocent and unpretending maiden." With a mocking smile she entered her boudoir, and called her attendants. CHAPTER VI. THE TEMPTER. Princess Ulrica was earnestly occupied with considerations of her toilet. Amelia had returned to her room, musing and thoughtful. There were difficulties in the way of the new role she had resolved to play, and by which she expected to deceive the world. She stood for a moment before the door of her dressing-room, and listened to the voices of her attendants, who were gayly laughing and talking. It was her custom to join them, and take a ready part in their merry sports and jests. She must now, however, deny herself, and put a guard over her heart and lips. Accordingly, with a dark frown on her brow and tightly-compressed lips, she entered the room in which her maids were at that moment arranging her ball toilet for the evening. "It seems to me that your loud talking is most unseemly," said Amelia, in a tone so haughty, so passionate, that the smiles of the two young girls vanished in clouds. "I will be obliged to you if you will complete your work noiselessly, and reserve your folly till you have left my room! And what is that, Mademoiselle Felicien? for what purpose have you prepared these flowers, which I see lying upon your table?" "Your royal highness, these flowers are for your coiffure, and these bouquets are intended to festoon your dress." "How dare you allow yourself to decide upon my toilet, mademoiselle?" "I have not dared," said Felicien, tremblingly; "your royal highness ordered moss roses for your hair, and bouquets of the same for your bosom and your robe." "It appears to me," said Amelia, imperiously, "that to contradict me, and at the same time assert that which is false, is, to say the least, unbecoming your position. I am not inclined to appear in the toilet of a gardener's daughter. To prove this, I will throw these flowers, which you dare to assert I ordered, from the window; with their strong odor they poison the air." With a cruel hand, she gathered up the lovely roses, and hastened to the window. "Look, mademoiselle, these are the flowers which you undertook to prepare for my hair," said Amelia, with well-assumed scorn, as she threw the bouquet into the garden which surrounded the castle of Monbijou; "look, mademoiselle." Suddenly the princess uttered a low cry, and looked, blushing painfully, into the garden. In her haste, she had not remarked that two gentlemen, at that moment, crossed the great court which led to the principal door of the castle; and the flowers which she had so scornfully rejected, had struck the younger and taller of the gentlemen exactly in the face. He stood completely amazed, and looked questioningly at the window from which this curious bomb had fallen. His companion, however, laughed aloud, and made a profound bow to the princess, who still stood, blushing and embarrassed, at the window. "From this hour I believe in the legend of the Fairy of the Roses," said the elder of the two gentlemen, who was indeed no other than Baron Pollnitz. "Yes, princess, I believe fully, and I would not be at all astonished if your highness should at this moment flutter from the window in a chariot drawn by doves, and cast another shower of blossoms in the face of my friend." The princess had found time to recover herself, and to remember the haughty part she was determined to play. "I hope, baron," she said, sternly, "you will not allow yourself to suppose it was my purpose to throw those roses either to your companion or yourself? I wished only to get rid of them." She shut the window rudely and noisily, and commanded her attendants to complete her toilet at once. She seated herself sternly before the glass, and ordered her French maid to cover her head with jewels and ribbons. The two gentlemen still stood in the garden, in earnest conversation. "This is assuredly an auspicious omen, my friend," said Pollnitz to the young officer, who was gazing musingly at the roses he held in his hand. He had raised his eyes from the flowers to the window at which the lovely form of the princess had, for a few moments, appeared. "Alas!" said he, sighing, and gazing afar off; "she is so wonderfully beautiful--so lovely; and she is a princess!" Pollnitz laughed heartily. "One might think that you regretted that fact! Listen to me, my young friend; stand no longer here, in a dream. Come, in place of entering the castle immediately, to pay our respects to the queen-mother, we will take a walk through the garden, that you may allay your raptures and recover your reason." He took the arm of the young man, and drew him into a shady, private pathway. "Now, my dear friend, listen to me, and lay to heart all that I say to you. Accident, or, if you prefer it, Fate brought us together. After all, it seems indeed more than an accident. I had just returned to Berlin, and was about to pay my respects to the queenmother, when I met you, who at the same time seek an audience, in order to commend yourself to her royal protection. You bear a letter of commendation from my old friend, Count Lottum. All this, of course, excites my curiosity. I ask your name, and learn, to my astonishment, that you are young Von Trenck, the son of the woman who was my first love, and who made me most unhappy by not returning my passion. I assure you, it produces a singular sensation to meet so unexpectedly the son of a first love, whose father, alas! you have not the happiness to be. I feel already that I am prepared to love you as foolishly as I once loved your fair mother." "I will not, like my mother, reject your vows," said the young officer, smiling, and extending his hand to Pollnitz. "I hoped as much," said Pollnitz; "you shall find a fond father in me, and even to-day I will commence my parental duties. In the first place, what brings you here?" "To make my fortune--to become a general, or field-marshal, if possible," said the young man, laughing. "How old are you?" "I am nineteen." "You wear the uniform of an officer of the life-guard; the king has, therefore, already promoted you?" "I was a cadet but eight days," said Trenck, proudly. "My stepfather, Count Lottum, came with me from Dantzic, and presented me to the king. His majesty received me graciously, and remembered well that I had received, at the examination at Konigsberg, the first prize from his hand." "Go on, go on," said Pollnitz; "you see I am all ear, and I must know your present position in order to be useful to you." "The king, as I have said, received me graciously, even kindly; he made me a cadet in his cavalry corps, and three weeks after, I was summoned before him; he had heard something of my wonderful memory, and he wished to prove me." "Well, how did you stand the proof?" "I stood with the king at the window, and he called over to me quickly the names of fifty soldiers who were standing in the court below, pointing to each man as he called his name. I then repeated to him every name in the same succession, but backward." "A wonderful memory, indeed," said Pollnitz, taking a pinch of Spanish snuff; "a terrible memory, which would make me shudder if I were your sweetheart!" "And why?" said the young officer. "Because you would hold ever in remembrance all her caprices and all her oaths, and one day, when she no longer loved you, she would be held to a strict account. Well, did the king subject you to further proof?" "Yes; he gave me the material for two letters, which I dictated at the same time to his secretaries, one in French and one in Latin. He then commanded me to draw the plan of the Hare Meadow, and I did so." "Was he pleased?" "He made me cornet of the guard," said Trenck, modestly avoiding a more direct answer. "I see you are in high favor: in three weeks you are promoted from cadet to lieutenant! quick advancement, which the king, no doubt, signalized by some other act of grace?" "He sent me two horses from his stable, and when I came to thank him, he gave me a purse containing two hundred 'Fredericks.'" Pollnitz the king you, but present. gave a spring backward. "Thunder! you are indeed in favor! gives you presents! Ah, my young friend, I would protect it seems you can patronize me. The king has never made me a And what do you desire to-day of the queen-mother?" "As I am now a lieutenant, I belong to the court circle, and must take part in the court festivals. So the king commanded me to pay my respects to the queen-mother." "Ah, the king ordered that?" said Pollnitz; "truly, young man, the king must destine you for great things--he overloads you with favors. You will make a glittering career, provided you are wise enough to escape the shoals and quicksands in your way. I can tell you, there will be adroit and willing hands ready to cast you down; those who are in favor at court have always bitter enemies." "Yes, I am aware that I have enemies," said Trenck; "more than once I have already been charged with being a drunkard and a rioter; but the king, happily, only laughed at the accusations." "He is really in high favor, and I would do well to secure his friendship," thought Pollnitz; "the king will also be pleased with me if I am kind to him." He held out his hand to the young officer, and said, with fatherly tenderness: "From this time onward, when your enemies shall please to attack you, they shall not find you alone; they will find me a friend ever at your side. You are the son of the only woman I ever loved--I will cherish you in my heart as my first-born!" "And I receive you as my father with my whole heart," said Trenck; "be my father, my friend, and my counsellor." "The court is a dangerous and slippery stage, upon which a young and inexperienced man may lightly slip, unless held up by a strong arm. Many will hate you because you are in favor, and the hate of many is like the sting of hornets: one sting is not fatal, but a general attack sometimes brings death. Make use, therefore, of your sunshine, and fix yourself strongly in an immovable position." "The great question is, what shall be my first step to secure it?" "How! you ask that question, and you are nineteen years old, six feet high, have a handsome face, a splendid figure, an old, renowned name, and are graciously received at court! Ah! youngster, I have seen many arrive at the highest honors and distinctions, who did not possess half your glittering qualities. If you use the right means at the right time, you cannot fail of success." "What do you consider the best means?" "The admiration and favor of women! You must gain the love of powerful and influential women. Oh, you are terrified, and your brow is clouded! perhaps, unhappily, you are already in love?" "No!" said Frederick von Trenck, violently. "I have never been in love. I dare say more than that: I have never kissed the lips of a woman." Pollnitz gazed at him with an expression of indescribable amazement. "How!" said he; "you are nineteen, and assert that you have never embraced a woman?" He gave a mocking and cynical laugh. "Ordinary women have always excited my disgust," said the young officer, simply; "and until this day I have never seen a woman who resembled my ideal." "So, then, the woman with whom you will now become enamored will receive your first tender vows?" "Yes, even so." "And you wear the uniform of the life-guard--you are a lieutenant!" cried Pollnitz with tragical pathos, and extending his arms toward heaven. "But how?--what did you say?--that until to-day you had seen no woman who approached your ideal?" "I said that." "And to-day--?" "Well, it seems to me, we have both seen an angel to-day!--an angel, whom you have wronged, in giving her the common name of fairy." "Aha! the Princess Amelia," said Pollnitz. "You will love this young maiden, my friend." "Then, indeed, shall I be most unhappy! She is a royal princess, and my love must ever be unrequited." "Who told you that? who told you that this little Amelia was only a princess? I tell you she is a young girl with a heart of fire. Try to awake her--she only sleeps! A happy event has already greeted you. The princess has fixed your enraptured gaze upon her lovely form, by throwing or rather shooting roses at you. Perhaps the god of Love has hidden his arrow in a rose. You thought Amelia had only pelted your cheek with roses, but the arrow has entered your soul. Try your luck, young man; gain the love of the king's favorite sister, and you will be all-powerful." The young officer looked at him with confused and misty eyes. "You do not dare to suggest," murmured he, "that--" "I dare to say," cried Pollnitz, interrupting him, "that you are in favor with the brother; why may you not also gain the sister's good graces? I say further, that I will assist you, and I will ever be at your side, as a loving friend and a sagacious counsellor." "Do you know, baron, that your wild words open a future to my view before which my brain and heart are reeling? How shall I dare to love a princess, and seek her love in return?" "As to the first point, I think you have already dared. As to the second, I think your rare beauty and wondrous accomplishments might justify such pretensions." "You know I never can become the husband of a princess." "You are right," said Pollnitz, laughing aloud; "you are as innocent as a girl of sixteen! you have this moment fallen headlong in love, and begin at once to think of the possibility of marriage, as if love had no other refuge than marriage, and yet I think I have read that the god of Love and the god of Hymen are rarely seen together, though brothers; in point of fact, they despise and flee from each other. But after all, young man, if your love is virtuous and requires the priest's blessing, I think that is possible. Only a few years since the widowed margravine, the aunt of the king, married the Count Hoditz. What the king's aunt accomplished, might be possible to the king's sister." "Silence, silence!" murmured Frederick von Trenck; "your wild words cloud my understanding like the breath of opium; they make me mad, drunk. You stand near me like the tempter, showing to my bewildered eyes more than all the treasures of this world, and saying, 'All these things will I give thee'; but alas! I am not the Messiah. I have not the courage to cast down and trample under foot your devilish temptations. My whole soul springs out to meet them, and shouts for joy. Oh, sir, what have you done? You have aroused my youth, my ambition, my passion; you have filled my veins with fire, and I am drunk with the sweet but deadly poison you have poured into my ears." "I have assured you that I will be your father. I will lead you, and at the right moment I will point out the obstacles against which your inexperienced feet might stumble," said Pollnitz. The stony-hearted and egotistical old courtier felt not the least pity for this poor young man into whose ear, as Trenck had well said, he was pouring this fatal poison. Frederick von Trenck, the favorite of the king, was nothing more to him than a ladder by which he hoped to mount. He took the arm of the young officer and endeavored to soothe him with cool and moderate words, exhorting him to be quiet and reasonable. They turned their steps toward the castle, in order to pay their respects to the queen-mother. The hour of audience was over, and the two gentlemen lounged arm in arm down the street. "Let us go toward the palace," said Pollnitz. "I think we will behold a rare spectacle, a crowd of old wigs who have disguised themselves as savans. To-day, the first sitting of the Academy of Arts and Sciences takes place, and the celebrated President Maupertius will open the meeting in the name of the king. This is exactly the time for the renowned worthies to leave the castle. Let us go and witness this comical show." The two gentlemen found it impossible to carry out their plans. A mighty crowd of men advanced upon them at this moment, and compelled them to stand still. Every face in the vast assemblage was expectant. Certainly some rare exhibition was to be seen in the circle which the crowd had left open in their midst. There were merry laughing and jesting and questioning amongst each other, as to what all this could mean, and what proclamation that could be which the drummer had just read in the palace garden. "It will be repeated here in a moment," said a voice from the crowd, which increased every moment, and in whose fierce waves Pollnitz and Trenck were forcibly swallowed up. Pressed, pushed onward by powerful arms, resistance utterly in vain, the two companions found themselves at the same moment in the open space just as the drummer broke into the circle, and, playing his drumsticks with powerful and zealous hands, he called the crowd to order. The drum overpowered the wild outcries and rude laughter of the vast assemblage, and soon silenced them completely. Every man held his breath to hear what the public crier, who had spoken so much to the purpose by his drum, had now to declare by word of mouth. He drew from his pocket a large document sealed with the state seal, and took advantage of the general quiet to read the formal introductory to all such proclamations: "We, Frederick, King of Prussia," etc., etc. On coming to the throne, Frederick had abolished all that long and absurd list of titles and dignities which had heretofore adorned the royal declarations. Even that highest of all titles, "King by the grace of God," had Frederick the Second set aside. He declared that, in saying King of Prussia, all was said. His father had called himself King of Prussia, by the grace of God; he, therefore, would call himself simply the King of Prussia, and if he did not boast of God's grace, it was because he would prove by deeds, not words, that he possessed it. After this little digression we will return to our drummer, who now began to read, or rather to cry out the command of the king. "We, Frederick, King of Prussia, order and command that no one of our subjects shall, under any circumstances, lend gold to our master of ceremonies, whom we have again taken into our service, or assist him in any way to borrow money. Whoever, therefore, shall, in despite of this proclamation, lend money to said Baron Pollnitz, must bear the consequences; they shall make no demand for repayment, and the case shall not be considered in court. Whosoever shall disobey this command, shall pay a fine of fifty thalers, or suffer fifteen days' imprisonment." A wild shout of laughter from the entire assembly was the reply to this proclamation, in which the worldly-wise Pollnitz joined heartily, while his young companion had not the courage to raise his eyes from the ground. "The old courtier will burst with rage," said a gay voice from the crowd. "He is a desperate borrower," cried another. "He has richly deserved this public shame and humiliation from the king," said another. "And you call this a humiliation, a merited punishment!" cried Pollnitz. "Why, my good friends, can you not see that this is an honor which the king shows to his old and faithful servant? Do you not know that by this proclamation he places Baron Pollnitz exactly on the same footing with the princes of the blood, with the prince royal?" "How is that? explain that to us," cried a hundred voices in a breath. "Well, it is very simple. Has not the king recently renewed the law which forbids, under pain of heavy punishment, the princes of the blood to borrow money? Is not this law printed in our journals, and made public in our collections of laws?" "Yes, yes! so it is," said many voices simultaneously. "Well, certainly, our exalted sovereign, who loves his royal brothers so warmly, would not have cast shame upon their honor. Certainly he would not have wished to humiliate them, and has not done so. The king, as you must now plainly perceive, has acted toward Baron Pollnitz precisely as he has done to his brothers." "And that is, without doubt, a great honor for him," cried many voices. No one guessed the name of the speaker who was so fortunately at hand to defend the honor of the master of ceremonies. A general murmur of applause was heard, and even the public crier stood still and listened to the eloquent unknown speaker, and forgot for a while to hurry off to the next street-corner and proclaim the royal mandate. "Besides, this law is 'sans consequence,' as we are accustomed to say," said Pollnitz. "Who would not, in spite of the law, lend our princes gold if they had need of it? And who has right to take offence if the state refuses to pay the debts which the princes make as private persons? The baron occupies precisely the same position. The king, who has honored the newly returned baron with two highly important trusts, master of ceremonies and master of the robes, will frighten his rather lavish old friend from making debts. He chooses, therefore, the same means by which he seeks to restrain his royal brothers, and forbids all persons to lend gold to Pollnitz: as he cannot well place this edict in the laws of the land, he is obliged to make it known by the drummer. And now," said the speaker, who saw plainly the favorable impression which his little oration had made-"and now, best of friends, I pray you to make way and allow me to pass through the crowd; I must go at once to the palace to thank his majesty for the special grace and distinction which he has showered upon me to-day. I, myself, am Baron Pollnitz!" An outcry of amazement burst from the lips of hundreds, and all who stood near Pollnitz stepped aside reverentially, in order to give place to the distinguished gentleman who was treated by the king exactly as if he were a prince of the blood. Pollnitz stepped with a friendly smile through the narrow way thus opened for him, and greeted, with his cool, impertinent manner those who respectfully stood back. "I think I have given the king a Roland for his Oliver," he said to himself. "I have broken the point from the arrow which was aimed at me, and it glanced from my bosom without wounding me. Public opinion will be on my side from this time, and that which was intended for my shame has crowned me with honor. It was, nevertheless, a harsh and cruel act, for which I will one day hold a reckoning with Frederick. Ah, King Frederick! King Frederick! I shall not forget, and I will have my revenge; my cards are also well arranged, and I hold important trumps. I will wait yet a little while upon our lovelorn shepherd, this innocent and tender Trenck, who is in a dangerous way about the little princess." Pollnitz waited for Trenck, who had with difficulty forced his way through the crowd and hastened after him. CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST INTERVIEW. The ball at the palace was opened. The two queens and the princesses had just entered the great saloon, in order to receive the respectful greetings of the ladies of the court; while the king, in an adjoining room, was surrounded by the gentlemen. A glittering circle of lovely women, adorned with diamonds and other rich gems, stood on each side of the room, each one patiently awaiting the moment when the queens should pass before her, and she might have the honor of bowing almost to the earth under the glance of the royal eye. According to etiquette, Queen Elizabeth Christine, who, notwithstanding her modest and retired existence, was the reigning sovereign, should have made the grand tour alone, and received the first congratulations of the court; but this unhappy, shrinking woman, had never found the courage to assume the rights or privileges which belonged to her as wife of the king. She who was denied the highest and holiest of all distinctions, the first place in the heart of her husband, cared nothing for these pitiful and outward advantages. Elizabeth had to-day, as usual, with a soft smile, given precedence to the queen-mother, Sophia Dorothea, who was ever thirsting to show that she held the first place at her son's court, and who, delighted to surround herself with all the accessories of pomp and power, was ever ready to use her prerogative. With a proud and erect head, and an almost contemptuous smile, she walked slowly around the circle of high-born dames, who bowed humbly before this representative of royalty. Behind her came the reigning queen, between the two princesses, who now and then gave special and cordial greetings to their personal friends as they passed, Elizabeth Christine saw this and sighed bitterly. She had no personal friend to grace with a loving greeting. No man saw any thing else in her than a sovereign by sufferance, a woman sans consequence, a, powerless queen and unbeloved wife. She had never had a friend into whose sympathetic and silent bosom she could pour out her griefs. She was alone, so entirely alone and lonely, that the heavy sighs and complaints dwelling in her heart were ever reverberating in her cars because of the surrounding silence. And now, as she made the grand tour with the two princesses, no one seemed to see her; she was regarded as the statue of a queen, richly dressed and decked with costly lace and jewels, but only a picture: yet this picture had a soul and a heart of fire--it was a woman, a wife, who loved and who endured. Suddenly she trembled; a light, like the glory of sunshine, flashed in her eyes, and a soft rosy blush spread over her fair cheek. The king had entered the room; yes, he was there in all his beauty, his majesty, his power; Elizabeth felt that the world was bright, her blood was rushing madly through her veins, her heart was beating as stormily as that of an impassioned young girl. Oh, it might be that the eye of the king--that glowing, wondrous eye--might even by accident rest upon her; it might be that Frederick would be touched by her patient endurance, her silent resignation, and give her one friendly word. She had been four years a queen, for four years this title had been a crown of thorns; during all this weary time her husband had not vouchsafed to her poor heart, sick unto death, one single sympathetic word, one affectionate glance; he sat by her side at the table during the court festivals; he had from time to time, at the balls and masquerades, opened the dance with her; never, however, since that day on which he had printed the first kiss upon her lips, never had he spoken to her; since that moment she was to him the picture of a queen, the empty form of a woman. [Footnote: The king never spoke to his wife, but his manner toward her was considerate and respectful; no one dared to fail in the slightest mark of courtly observance toward Elizabeth--this the king sternly exacted. Only once did the king address her. During the seventh year of their marriage, the queen, by an unhappy accident, had seriously injured her foot: this was a short time before her birthday, which event was always celebrated with great pomp and ceremony, the king honoring the fete with his presence. On this occasion he came as usual, but in place of the distant and silent bow with which he usually greeted her, he drew near, gave her his hand, and said with kindly sympathy, "I sincerely hope that your majesty has recovered from your accident." A general surprise was pictured in the faces of all present--but the poor queen was so overcome by this unexpected happiness, she had no power to reply, she bowed silently. The king frowned and turned from her. Since that day, the happiness of which she had bought with an injured foot, the king had not spoken to her.] But Queen Elizabeth would not despair. Hope was her motto. A day might come when he would speak to her, when he would forget that she had been forced upon him as his wife, a day when his heart might be touched by her grief, her silent and tearless love. Every meeting with Frederick was to this poor queen a time of hope, of joyful expectation; this alone sustained her, this gave her strength silently, even smilingly, to draw her royal robe over her bleeding heart. And now the king drew near, surrounded by the princesses and the queen-mother, to whom he gave his hand with an expression of reverence and filial love. He then bowed silently and indifferently to his wife, and gave a merry greeting to his two sisters. "Ladies," said he, in a full, rich voice, "allow me to present to you and my court my brother, the Prince Augustus William; he is now placed before you in a new and more distinguished light." He took the hand of his brother and led him to the queen-mother. "I introduce your son to you; he will be from this day onward, if it so please you, also your grandson." "How is that, your majesty? I confess you have brought about many seemingly impossible things; but I think it is beyond your power to make Augustus at the same time both my son and my grandson." "Ah, mother, if I make him my son, will he not be of necessity, your grandson? I appoint him my successor; in so doing, I declare him my son. Embrace him, therefore, your majesty, and be the first to greet him by his new title. Embrace the Prince of Prussia, my successor." "I obey," said the queen, "I obey," and she cast her arms affectionately around her son. "I pray God that this title of 'Prince of Prussia,' which it has pleased your majesty to lend him, may be long and honorably worn." The prince bowed low before his mother, who tenderly kissed his brow, then whispered, "Oh, mother, pray rather that God may soon release me from this burden." "How!" cried the queen threateningly, "you have then a strong desire to be king? Has your vaulting ambition made you forget that to wish to be king is, at the same time, to wish the death of your brother?" The prince smiled sadly. "Mother, I would lay aside this rank of Prince of Prussia, not because I wish to mount the throne, but I would fain lie down in the cold and quiet grave." "Are you always so sad, so hopeless, my son--even now, upon this day of proud distinction for you? To-day you take your place as Prince of Prussia." "Yes, your majesty, to-day I am crowned with honor," said he, bitterly. "This is also the anniversary of my betrothal." Augustus turned and drew near to the king, who seized his hand and led him to his wife and the young princesses, saying with a loud voice, "Congratulate the Prince of Prussia, ladies." He then beckoned to some of his generals, and drew back with them to the window. As he passed the queen, his eye rested upon her for a moment with an expression of sympathy and curiosity; he observed her with the searching glance of a physician, who sinks the probe into the bleeding wound, in order to know its depth and danger. The queen understood his purpose. That piercing glance was a warning; it gave her courage, self-possession, and proud resignation. Her husband had spoken to her with his eyes; that must ever be a consolation, a painful but sweet joy. She controlled herself so far as to give her hand to the prince with a cordial smile. "You are most welcome in your double character," she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the king and all around her. "Until to-day, you have been my beloved brother; and from this time will you be to me, as also to my husband, a dear son. By the decrees of Providence a son has been denied me; I accept you, therefore, joyfully, and receive you as my son and brother." A profound silence followed these words; here and there in the crowd, slight and derisive smiles were seen, and a few whispered and significant words were uttered. The queen had now received the last and severest blow; in the fulness and maturity of her beauty she had been placed before the court as unworthy or incapable of giving a successor to the throne; but she still wished to save appearances: she would, if possible, make the world believe that the decree of Providence alone denied to her a mother's honors. She had the cruel courage to conceal the truth by prevarication. The watchful eyes of the court had long since discovered the mystery of this royal marriage: they had long known that the queen was not the wife of Frederick; her words, therefore, produced contemptuous surprise. Elizabeth cared for none of these things. She looked toward her husband, whose eyes were fixed upon her; she would read in his countenance if he were pleased with her words. A smile played upon the lips of the king, and he bowed his head almost imperceptibly as a greeting to his wife. A golden ray of sunlight seemed to play upon her face; content was written in her eyes; twice to-day her glance had met her husband's, and both times his eyes had spoken. Elizabeth was happier than she had been for many days; she laughed and jested with the ladies, and conversed gayly over the great event of the evening--the first appearance of the Signora Barbarina. The princesses, also, conversed unceremoniously with the ladies near them. A cloud darkened the usually clear brow of the Princess Amelia, and she seemed to be in a nervous and highly excited state. At this moment the master of ceremonies, Pollnitz, drew near, with Count Tessin, the Swedish ambassador. The princess immediately assumed so scornful an expression, that even Pollnitz scarcely found courage to present Count Tessin. "Ah! you come from Sweden," said Amelia, immediately after the presentation. "Sweden is a dark and gloomy country, and you have indeed done well to save yourself, by taking refuge in our gay and sunny clime." The count was evidently wounded. "Your royal highness calls this a refuge," said he; "you must, then, think those to be pitied who dwell in my fatherland?" "I do not feel it necessary to confide my views on that subject to Count Tessin," said Amelia, with a short, rude laugh. "Yes, sister, it is necessary," said Ulrica, with a magical smile, "you must justify yourself to the count, for you have cast contempt upon his country." "Ah! your highness is pleased to think better of my fatherland," said Tessin, bowing low to Ulrica. "It is true, Sweden is rich in beauty, and nowhere is nature more romantic or more lovely. The Swedes love their country passionately, and, like the Swiss, they die of homesickness when banished from her borders. They languish and pine away if one is cruel enough to think lightly of their birth-place." "Well, sir, I commit this cruelty," cried Amelia, "and yet I scarcely think you will languish and pine away on that account." "Dear sister, I think you are out of temper to-day," said Ulrica, softly. "And you are wise to remind me of it in this courtly style," said Amelia; "have you taken the role of governess for my benefit today?" Ulrica shrugged her shoulders and turned again to the count, who was watching the young Amelia with a mixture of astonishment and anger. She had been represented at the Swedish court as a model of gentleness, amiability, and grace; he found her rude and contradictory, fitful and childish. The Princess Ulrica soon led the thoughts of the count in another direction, and managed to retain him at her side by her piquant and intellectual conversation; she brought every power of her mind into action; she was gracious in the extreme; she overcame her proud nature, and assumed a winning gentleness; in short, she flattered the ambassador with such delicate refinement, that he swallowed the magical food offered to his vanity, without suspecting that he was victimized. Neither the princess nor the count seemed any longer to remember Amelia, who still stood near them with a lowering visage. Pollnitz made use of this opportunity to draw near with his young protege, Frederick von Trenck, and present him to the princess, who immediately assumed a gay and laughing expression; she wished to give the ambassador a new proof of her stormy and fitful nature: she would humble him by proving that she was not harsh and rude to all the world. She received the two gentlemen, therefore, with great cordiality, and laughed heartily over the adventure of the morning; she recounted to them, merrily and wittily, how and why she had thrown the sweet roses away. Amelia was now so lovely and so spirited to look upon, so radiant with youth, animation, and innocence, that the eyes of the poor young officer were dazzled and sought the floor; completely intoxicated and bewildered, he could not join in the conversation, uttering here and there only a trembling monosyllable. This did not escape the cunning eye of the master of ceremonies. "I must withdraw," thought he; "I will grant them a first tete-a-tete. I will observe them from a distance, and be able to decide if my plan will succeed." Excusing himself upon the plea of duty, Pollnitz withdrew; he glided into a window and concealed himself behind the curtains, in order to watch the countenances of his two victims. Pollnitz had rightly judged. The necessity of taking part in the conversation with the princess restored to the young officer his intellect and his courage, and, in the effort to overcome his timidity, he became too earnest, too impassioned. But the princess did not remark this; she rejoiced in an opportunity to show the Swedish ambassador how amiable and gracious she could be to others, and thus make him more sensible of her rudeness to himself; he should see and confess that she could be winning and attractive when it suited her purpose. The count observed her narrowly, even while conversing with Ulrica; he saw her ready smile, her beaming eye, her perhaps rather demonstrative cordiality to the young officer. "She is changeable and coquettish," he said to himself, while still carrying on his conversation with the talented, refined, and thoroughly maidenly Princess Ulrica. The great and, as we have said, somewhat too strongly marked kindliness of Amelia, added fuel to the passion of Trenck; he became more daring. "I have to implore your highness for a special grace," said he in a suppressed voice. "Speak on," said she, feeling at that moment an inexplicable emotion which made her heart beat high, and banished the blood from her cheeks. "I have dared to preserve one of the roses which you threw into the garden. It was a mad theft, I know it, but I was under the power of enchantment; I could not resist, and would at that moment have paid for the little blossom with my heart's blood. Oh, if your royal highness could have seen, when I entered my room and closed the door, with what rapture I regarded my treasure, how I knelt before it and worshipped it, scarcely daring to touch it with my lips! it recalled to me a lovely fairy tale of my childhood." "How could a simple rose recall a fairy tale?" said Amelia. "It is a legend of a poor shepherd-boy, who, lonely and neglected, had fallen asleep under a tree near the highway. Before sleeping, he had prayed to God to have pity upon him; to fill this great and painful void in his heart, or to send His Minister, Death, to his release. While sleeping he had a beautiful dream. He thought he saw the heavens open, and an angel of enchanting grace and beauty floated toward him. Her eyes glowed like two of the brightest stars. 'You shall be no longer lonely,' she whispered; 'my image shall abide ever in your heart, and strengthen and stimulate you to all things good and beautiful.' While saying this, she laid a wondrous rose upon his eyes, and, floating off, soon disappeared in the clouds. The poor shepherd-boy awoke, and was enraptured with what he supposed had been a wild dream. But lo! there was the rose, and with unspeakable joy he pressed it to his heart. He thanked God for this sweet flower, which proved to him that the angel was no dream, but a reality. The rose, the visible emblem of his good angel, was the joy and comfort of his life, and he wore it ever in his heart.--I thought of this fairy tale, princess, as I looked upon my rose, but I felt immediately that I dared not call it mine without the consent of your highness. Decide, therefore; dare I keep this rose?" Amelia did not reply. She had listened with a strange embarrassment to this impassioned tale. The world--all, was forgotten; she was no longer a princess, she was but a simple young girl, who listened for the first time to words of burning passion, and whose heart trembled with sweet alarm. "Princess, dare I guard this rose?" repeated Frederick, with a trembling voice. She looked at him; their eyes met; the young maiden trembled, but the man stood erect. He felt strong, proud, and a conqueror; his glance was like the eagle's, when about to seize a lamb and bear it to his eyrie. "He goes too far; truly, he goes too far," whispered Pollnitz, who had seen all, and from their glances and movements had almost read their thoughts and words. "I must bring this tete-a-tete to an end, and I shall do so in a profitable manner." "Dare I keep this rose?" said Frederick von Trenck, a third time. Amelia turned her head aside and whispered, "Keep it." Trenck would have answered, but in that moment a hand was laid upon his arm, and Pollnitz stood near him. "Prudence," whispered he, anxiously. "Do you not see that you are observed? You will make of your insane and treasonable passion a fairy tale for the whole court." Amelia uttered a slight cry, and looked anxiously at Pollnitz. She had heard his whispered words, and the sly baron intended that she should. "Will your royal highness dismiss this madman," whispered he, "and allow me to awake his sleeping reason?" "Go, Herr von Trenck," said she lightly. Pollnitz took the arm of the young officer and led him off, saying to himself, with a chuckle: "That was a good stroke, and I feel that I shall succeed; I have betrayed his passion to her, and forced myself into their confidence. I shall soon be employed as Love's messenger, and that is ever with princesses a profitable service. Ah, King Frederick, King Frederick, you have made it impossible for me to borrow money! Well, I shall not find that necessary; my hands shall be filled from the royal treasures. When the casket of the princess is empty, the king must of course replenish it." And the baron laughed too loudly for a master of ceremonies. CHAPTER VIII. SIGNORA BARBARINA. The princess regarded their retreating figures with dreamy eyes. Then, yielding to an unconquerable desire to be alone, to give herself up to undisturbed thought, she was about to withdraw; but the Princess Ulrica, who thought it necessary that the Swedish ambassador should have another opportunity of observing the proud and sullen temper of her sister, called her back. "Remain a moment longer, Amelia," said the princess. "You shall decide between Count Tessin and myself. Will you accept my sister as umpire, count?" "Without doubt," said the count. "I should be greatly honored if the princess will be so gracious. Perhaps I may be more fortunate on this occasion." "It appears to me," said Amelia, rudely interrupting him, "that 'fortunate' and 'unfortunate' are not terms which can be properly used in any connection between a princess of Prussia and yourself." Amelia then turned toward her sister and gave her a glance which plainly said: Well, do I not play my role in masterly style? Have I not hastened to follow your counsels? "Speak, sister; name the point which Count Tessin dares to contest with you." "Oh, the count is a man and a scholar, and has full right to differ," said Ulrica, graciously. "The question was a comparison of Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen Christina of Sweden. I maintain that Christina had a stronger and more powerful intellect; that she knew better how to conquer her spirit, to master her womanly weaknesses; that she was more thoroughly cultivated, and studied philosophy and science, not as Elizabeth, for glitter and show, but because she had an inward thirst for knowledge. The count asserts that Elizabeth was better versed in statecraft, and a more amiable woman. Now, Amelia, to which of these two queens do you give the preference?" "Oh, without doubt, to Queen Christina of Sweden. This great woman was wise enough not to regard the crown of Sweden as a rare and precious gem; she chose a simple life of obscurity and poverty in beautiful Italy, rather than a throne in cold and unfruitful Sweden. This act alone establishes her superiority. Yes, sister, you are right. Christina was the greater woman, even because she scorned to be Queen of Sweden." So saying, Amelia bowed slightingly, and, turning aside, she summoned Madame von Kleist, and commenced a merry chat with her. Count Tessin regarded her with a dark and scornful glance, and pressed his lips tightly together, as if to restrain his anger. "I beseech you, count," said Ulrica, in a low, soft voice, "not to be offended at the thoughtless words of my dear little sister. It is true, she is a little rude and resentful to-day; but you will see-to-morrow, perhaps, will be one of her glorious sunny days, and you will find her irresistibly charming. Her moods are changeable, and for that reason we call her our little 'April fee.'" "Ah, the princess is, then, as uncertain as April?" said the count, with a frosty smile. "More uncertain than April," said Ulrica, sweetly. "But what would you, sir? we all, brothers and sisters, are responsible for that. You must know that she is our favorite, and is always indulged. I counsel you not to find fault with our little sister, Count Tessin; that would be to bring an accusation against us all. You have suffered to-day from a shower of her April moods; to-morrow you may rejoice in the sunshine of her favor." "I shall, however, be doubtful and anxious," said the ambassador, coolly; "the April sun is sometimes accompanied by rain and storm, and these sudden changes bring sickness and death." "Allow me to make one request," said Ulrica. "Let not the king guess that you have suffered from these April changes." "Certainly not; and if your royal highness will graciously allow me to bask in the sunshine of your presence, I shall soon recover from the chilling effect of these April showers." "Well, I think we have played our parts admirably," said Ulrica to herself, as she found time, during the course of the evening, to meditate upon the events of the day. "Amelia will accomplish her purpose, and will not be Queen of Sweden. She would have it so, and I shall not reproach myself." Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably back in her arm-chair, and gave her attention to a play of Voltaire, which was now being performed. This representation took place in the small theatre in the royal palace. There was no public theatre in Berlin, and the king justly pronounced the large opera-house unsuited to declamation. Frederick generally gave his undivided attention to the play, but this evening he was restless and impatient, and he accorded less applause to this piquant and witty drama of his favorite author than he was wont to do. The king was impatient, because the king was waiting. He had so far restrained all outward expression of his impatient curiosity; the French play had not commenced one moment earlier than usual. Frederick had, according to custom, gone behind the scenes, to say a few friendly and encouraging words to the performers, to call their attention to his favorite passages, and exhort them to be truly eloquent in their recitations. And now the king waited; he felt feverishly impatient to see and judge for himself this capricious beauty, this world-renowned artiste, this Signora Barbarina, whose rare loveliness and grace enchanted and bewildered all who looked upon her. At length the curtain fell. In a few moments he would see the Barbarina dance her celebrated solo. A breathless stillness reigned throughout the assembly; every eye was fixed upon the curtain. The bell sounded, the curtain flew up, and a lovely landscape met the eye: in the background a village church, rose-bushes in rich bloom, and shady trees on every side; the declining sun gilded the summit of the mountain, against the base of which the little village nestled. The distant sound of the evening bell was calling the simple cottagers to "Ave Maria." It was an enchanting picture of innocence and peace; in striking contrast to this courtly assemblage, glittering with gems and starry orders--a startling opposite to that sweet, pure idyl. And now this select circle seemed agitated as by an electric shock. There, upon the stage, floated the Signora Barbarina. The king raised himself involuntarily a little higher in his armchair, in order to examine the signora more closely; he leaned back, however, ashamed of his impatience, and a light cloud was on his brow; he felt himself oppressed and overcome by this magical beauty. He who had looked death in the face without emotion, who had seen the deadly cannon-balls falling thickly around him without a trembling of the eyelids, now felt a presentiment of danger, and shrank from it. Barbarina was indeed lovely, irresistibly lovely, in her ravishing costume of a shepherdess; her dress was of crimson satin, her black velvet bodice was fastened over her voluptuous bosom by rich golden cords, finished off by tassels glittering with diamonds. A wreath of crimson roses adorned her hair, which fell in graceful ringlets about her wondrous brow, and formed a rich frame around her pure, oval face. The dark incarnate of her full, ripe lip contrasted richly with the light, rosy blush of her fair, smooth cheek. Barbarina's smile was a promise of love and bliss; and, when those great fiery eyes looked at you earnestly, there was such an intense glow, such a depth of power and passion in their rays, you could not but feel that there was danger in her love as in her scorn. To-day, she would neither threaten nor inspire; she was only a smiling, joyous, simple peasant-girl, who had returned wild with joy to her native village, and whose rapture found expression in the gay and graceful mazes of the dance. She floated here and there, like a wood-nymph, smiling, happy, careless, wonderful to look upon in her loveliness and beauty, but more wonderful still in her art. Simplicity and grace marked every movement; there seemed no difficulties in her path--to dance was her happiness. The dance was at an end. Barbarina, breathless, glowing, smiling, bowed low. Then all was still; no hand was moved, no applause greeted her. Her great burning eyes wandered threateningly and questioningly over the saloon; then, raising her lovely head proudly, she stepped back. The curtain fell, and now all eyes were fixed upon the king, in whose face the courtiers expected to read the impression which the signora had made upon him; but the countenance of the king told nothing; he was quiet and thoughtful, his brow was stern, and his lips compressed. The courtiers concluded that he was disappointed, and began at once to find fault, and make disparaging remarks. Frederick did not regard them. At this moment he was not a king, he was only a man--a man who, in silent rapture, had gazed upon this wondrous combination of grace and beauty. The king was a hero, but he trembled before this woman, and a sort of terror laid hold upon him. The curtain rose, and the second act of the drama began; no one looked at the stage; after this living, breathing, impersonation of a simple story, a spoken drama seemed oppressive. Every one rejoiced when the second act was at an end. The curtain would soon rise for Barbarina. But this did not occur; there was a long delay; there was eager expectation; the curtain did not rise; the bell did not ring. At last, Baron Swartz crossed the stage and drew near to the king. "Sire," said he, "the Signora Barbarina declares she will not dance again; she is exhausted by grief and anxiety, and fatigued by her journey." "Go and say to her that I command her to dance," said Frederick, who felt himself once more a king, and rejoiced in his power over this enchantress, who almost held him in her toils. Baron Swartz hastened behind the scenes, but soon returned, somewhat cast down. "Sire, the signora affirms that she will not dance, and that the king has no power to compel her. She dances to please herself." "Ah! that is a menace," said the king, threateningly; and without further speech he stepped upon the stage, followed by Baron Swartz. "Where is this person?" said the king. "She is in her own room, your majesty; shall I call her?" "No, I will go to her. Show me the way." The baron stepped forward, and Frederick endeavored to collect himself and assume a cool and grave bearing. "Sire, this is the chamber of the Signora Barbarina." "Open the door." But before the baron had time to obey the command, the impatient hand of the king had opened the door, and he had entered the room. CHAPTER IX. THE KING AND BARBARINA. Barbarina was resting, half reclining, and wholly abstracted, upon a small crimson divan; her rounded arms were crossed over her breast. She fixed her blazing, glowing eyes upon the intruders, and seemed petrified, in her stubborn immobility, her determined silence. She had the glance of a panther who has prepared herself for death, or to slay her enemy. The king stood a moment quiet and waiting, but Barbarina did not move. Baron Swartz, alarmed by her contemptuous and disrespectful bearing, drew near, in order to say that the king had vouchsafed to visit her, but Frederick motioned him to withdraw; and, in order that Barbarina might not understand him, he told him in German to leave the room and await him in the corridor. "I do not wish the signora to know that I am the king," said he. As the baron withdrew, Frederick said to him, "Leave the door open." Barbarina was motionless, only her large black eyes wandered questioningly from one to the other; she sought to read the meaning of their words, not one of which she understood; but her features expressed no anxiety, no disquiet; she did not look like a culprit or a rebel; she had rather the air of a stern queen, withholding her royal favor. The king drew near her. Her eyes were fixed upon him with inexpressible, earnest calm; and this cool indifference, so rarely seen by a king, embarrassed Frederick, and at the same time intoxicated him. "You are, then, determined not to dance again?" said the king. "Fully determined," said she, in a rich and sonorous voice. "Beware! beware!" said he; but he could not assume that threatening tone which he wished. "The king may perhaps compel you." "Compel me! me, the Barbarina!" said she, with a mocking laugh, aim disclosing two row? of pearly teeth. "And how can the king compel me to dance?" "You must be convinced that he has some power over you, since he brought you here against your will." "Yes, that is true," said she, raising herself up proudly; "he brought me here by force; he has acted like a barbarian, a coldblooded tyrant!" "Signora," said Frederick, menacingly, "one does not speak so of kings." "And why not?" she said, passionately. "What is your king to me? What claim has he upon my love, upon my consideration, or even my obedience? What has he done for me, that I should regard him otherwise than as a tyrant? What is he to me? I am myself a queen; yes, and believe me, a proud and an obstinate one! Who and what is this king, whom I do not know, whom I have never seen, who has forgotten that I am a woman, yes, forgotten that he is a man, though he bears the empty title of a king? A true king is always and only a gallant cavalier in his conduct to women. If he fails in this, he is contemptible and despised." "How! you despise the king?" said Frederick, who really enjoyed this unaccustomed scene. "Yes, I despise him! yes, I hate him!" cried the Barbarina, with a wild and stormy outbreak of her southern nature. "I no longer pray to God for my own happiness; that this cruel king has destroyed. I pray to God for revenge; yes, for vengeance upon this man, who has no heart, and who tramples the hearts of others under his feet. And God will help me. I shall revenge myself on this man. I have sworn it--I will keep my word! Go, sir, and tell this to your king; tell him to beware of Barbarina. Greater, bolder, more magnanimous than he, I warn him! Cunningly; slyly, unwarned, by night I was fallen upon by spies, and dragged like a culprit to Berlin." The king had no wish to put an end to this piquant scene; he was only accustomed to the voice of praise and of applause; it was a novelty, and therefore agreeable to be so energetically railed at and abused. "Do you not fear that the king will be angry when I repeat your words?" "Fear! What more can your king do, that I should fear him? Yes, he is a king; but am not I a queen? This paltry kingdom is but a small portion of the world, which is mine, wholly mine; it belongs to me, as it belongs to the eagle who spreads her proud wings and looks down upon her vast domains; he has millions in his treasury, but they are pressed from the pockets of his poor subjects; he requires many agents to collect his gold, and his people give it grudgingly, but my subjects bring their tribute joyfully and lay it at my feet with loving words. Look you! look at these two little feet: they are my assessors; they collect the taxes from my people, and all the dwellers in Europe are mine. These are my agents, they bring me in millions of gold; they are also my avengers, by their aid I shall revenge myself on your barbaric king." She leaned back upon the pillows and breathed audibly, exhausted by her wild passion. The king looked at her with wonder. She was to him a rare and precious work of art, something to be studied and worshipped. Her alluring beauty, her impetuous, uncontrolled passions, her bold sincerity, were all attractions, and he felt himself under the spell of her enchantments. Let her rail and swear to be revenged on the barbarian. The king heard her not; a simple gentleman stood before her; a man who felt that Barbarina was right, and who confessed to himself that the king had forgotten, in her rude seizure, that this Barbarina was a woman--forgotten that he, in all his relations with women, should be only a cavalier. "Yes, yes," said Barbarina, and an expression of triumph was painted on her lips--"yes, my little feet will be my avengers. The king will never more see them dance--never more; they have cost him thousands of gold; because of them he is at variance with the noble Republic of Venice. Well, he has seen them for the last time. Ah! it is a light thing to subdue a province, but impossible to conquer a woman and an artiste who is resolved not to surrender." Frederick smiled at these proud words. "So you will not dance before the king, and yet you have danced for him this evening?" "Yes," said she, raising her head proudly. "I have proved to him that I am an artiste; only when he feels that, will it pain him never again to see me exercise my art." "That is, indeed, refined reasoning," said the king. "You danced, then, in order to make the king thirst anew for this intoxicating draught, and then deny him? Truly, one must be an Italian to conceive this plan." "I am an Italian, and woe to me that I am!" A storm of tears gushed from her eyes, but in a moment, as if scorning her own weakness, she drove them back into her heart. "Poor Italian," she said, in a soft, low tone--"poor child of the South, what are you doing in this cold North, amongst these frosty hearts whose icy smiles petrify art and beauty? Ah! to think that even the Barbarina could not melt the icerind from their pitiful souls; to think that she displayed before them all the power and grace of her art, and they looked on with motionless hands and silent lips! Ah! this humiliation would have killed me in Italy, because I love my people, and they understand and appreciate all that is rare and beautiful. My heart burns with scorn and contempt for these torpid Berliners." "I understand you now," said the king; "you heard no bravos, you were not applauded; therefore you are angry?" "I laugh at it!" said she, looking fiercely at the king. "Do you not know, sir, that this applause, these bravos, are to the artiste as the sound of a trumpet to the gallant war-horse, they invigorate and inspire, and swell the heart with strength and courage? When the artiste stands upon the stage, the saloon before him is his heaven, and there his judges sit, to bestow eternal happiness or eternal condemnation; to crown him with immortal fame, or cover him with shame and confusion. Now, sir, that I have explained to you that the stage saloon is our heaven, and the spectators are our judges, you will understand that these bravos are to us as the music of the spheres." "Yes, I comprehend," said the king, smiling; "but you must be indulgent; in this theatre etiquette forbids applause. You have danced to-day before an invited audience, who pay nothing, and therefore have not the right to blame or praise; no one dare applaud--no one but the king." "Ha! and this rude man did not applaud!" cried she, showing her small teeth, and raising her hand threateningly toward heaven. "Perhaps he was motionless and drunk from rapture," said the king, bowing gracefully; "when he sees you dance again, he will have more control over himself, and will, perhaps, applaud you heartily." "Perhaps?" cried she. "I shall not expose myself to this 'perhaps.' I will dance no more. My foot is sore, and your king cannot force me to dance." "No, he cannot force you, but you will do it willingly; you will dance for him again this evening, of your own free will." Barbarina answered by one burst of wild, demoniac laughter, expressive of her scorn and her resentment. "You will dance again this evening," repeated Frederick, and his keen eye gazed steadily into that of Barbarina, who, though weeping bitterly, shook her lovely head, and gave him back bravely glance for glance. "You will dance, Barbarina, because, if you do not, you are lost. I do not mean by this that you are lost because the king will punish you for your obstinacy. The king is no Bluebeard; he neither murders women nor confines them in underground prisons; he has no torture chambers ready for you; for the King of Prussia, whom you hate so fiercely, has abolished the torture throughout his kingdom--the torture, which still flourishes luxuriantly by the side of oranges and myrtles in your beautiful Italy. No, signora, the king will not punish you if you persist in your obstinacy; he will only send you away, that is all." "And that is my only wish, all that I ask of Fate." "You do not know yourself. You, who are an artiste, who are a lovely woman, who are ambitious, and look upon fame as worth striving for, you would not lose your power, trample under foot your ambition, see your rare beauty slighted, and your enchanting grace despised?" "I cannot see why all these terrible things will come to pass if I refuse to dance again before your king?" "I will explain to you, signora--listen. The king (however contemptuously you may think and speak of him) is still a man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe are turned--that is to say," he added, with a gay smile and a graceful bow, "when his bold eye is not exactly fixed upon them, signora. The voice of this king has some weight in your world, though, as yet, he has only stolen provinces and women. It is well known that the king has so irresistible a desire to see you and to admire you, that he forgot his knightly gallantry, or set it aside, and, relying only upon his right, he exacted the fulfilment of the contract signed by your own lovely hand. That was, perhaps, not worthy of a cavalier, but it was not unjust. You were forced to obey. You came to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; but you have this evening danced before the king of your own free will. This, from your stand-point, was a great mistake. You can no longer say, 'I will not dance before the king, because I wish to revenge myself.' You have already danced, and no matter with what refinement of reason you may explain this false step, no one will believe you if the king raises his voice against you; and he will do this, believe me. He will say: 'I brought this Barbarina to Berlin. I wished to see if the world had gone mad or become childish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and adoration which followed her steps. Well, I have seen her dance, and I find the world is mad in folly. I give them back their goddess-she does not suit me. She is a wooden image in my eyes. I wished to capture Terpsichore herself, and lo, I found I had stolen her chambermaid! I have seen your goddess dance once, and I am weary of her pirouettes and minauderies. Lo, there, thou hast that is thine.'" "Sir, sir!" cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing up with flaming eyes and panting breath. "That is what the king will say," said Frederick quietly. "You know that the voice of the king is full and strong; it will resound throughout Europe. No one will believe that you refused to dance. It will be said that you did not please the king; this will be proved by the fact that he did not applaud, did not utter a single bravo. In a word, it will be said you have made a fiasco." Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon the arm of the king with indescribable, inimitable grace and passion. "Lead me upon the stage--I will dance now. Ah, this king shall not conquer me, shall not cast me down. No, no! I will compel him to applaud; he shall confess that I am indeed an artiste. Tell the director to prepare--I will come immediately upon the stage." Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a war-horse. At this moment she did indeed resemble one: she seemed to hear the sound of the trumpet calling to battle and to fame. Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils dilated, a quick and violent breathing agitated her breast, and a nervous and convulsive trembling for action was seen in every movement. The king observed and comprehended her. He understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this soulthirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by the possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him. The sincerity and power with which she expressed her emotions, commanded his respect; and while the king paid this tribute to her intellectual qualities, the man at the same time confessed to himself that her personal attractions merited the worship she received. She was beautiful, endowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and at the same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the goddess rising from the sea. "Come," said Frederick, "give me your hand. I will conduct you, and I promise you that this time the king will applaud." Barbarina did not reply. In the fire of her impatience, she pressed the king onward toward the door. Suddenly she paused, and giving him an enchanting smile, she said, "I am, without doubt, much indebted to you; you have warned me of a danger, and in fact guarded me from an abyss. Truly I think this was not done for my sake, but because your king had commanded that I should dance. Your reasons were well grounded, and I thank you sincerely. I pray you, sir, give me your name, that I may guard it in my memory as the only pleasant association with Berlin." "From this day, signora, you will confess that you owe me a small service. You have told ine it was a light task to win provinces, but to capture and subdue a woman was impossible, I hope now I shall be a hero in your eyes: I have not only conquered provinces, I have captured a woman and subdued her." Barbarina was neither astonished nor alarmed at these words. She had seen so many kings and princes at her feet to be blinded by the glitter of royalty. She let go the arm of the king, and said calmly and coolly: "Sire, I do not ask for pardon or grace. The possessor of a crown must wear it, if he demands that it should be acknowledged and respected, and the pomp and glare of royalty is, it seems, easily veiled. Besides, I would not have acted otherwise, had I known who it was that dared intrude upon me." "I am convinced of that," said Frederick, smiling. "You are a queen who has but small consideration for the little King of Prussia, because he requires so many agents to impress the gold from the pockets of his unwilling subjects. You are right--my agents cost me much money, and bring small tribute, while yours cost nothing and yield a rich harvest. Come, signora, your assessors must enter upon their duties." He nodded to Baron Swartz, who stood in the corridor, and said in German, "The signora will dance; she must be received with respect and treated with consideration." He gave a light greeting to Barbarina and returned to the saloon, where he found the last act of the drama just concluded. Every eye was fixed upon the king as he entered. He had left the room in anger, and the courtiers almost trembled at the thought of his fierce displeasure; but Frederick's brow was clear, and an expression of peace and quiet was written on his features. He took his place between the two queens, muttered a few words of explanation to his mother, and bowed smilingly to his wife. Poor queen! poor Elizabeth Christine! she had the sharp eye of a loving and jealous woman, and she saw in the king's face what no one, not even Frederick himself, knew. While every eye was turned upon the stage; while all with breathless rapture gazed upon the marvellous beauty and grace of Barbarina, the queen alone fixed a stolen and trembling glance upon the countenance of her husband. She saw not that Barbarina, inspired by ambition and passion, was more lovely, more enchanting than before. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of her husband, now luminous with admiration and delight; she saw his soft smile, and the iron entered her soul. The dance was at an end. Barbarina came forward and bowed low; and now something happened so unheard of, so contrary to court etiquette, that the master of ceremonies was filled with surprise and disapprobation. The king applauded, not as gracious kings applaud generally, by laying his hands lightly together, but like a wild enthusiast who wishes to confess to the world that he is bewildered, enraptured. He then rose from his chair, and turning to the princesses and generals behind him, he said, "Gentlemen, why do you not applaud?" and as if these magical words had released the hands from bondage and given life to the wild rapture of applause which had before but trembled on the lip, the wide hall rang with the plaudits and enthusiastic bravos of the spectators. Barbarina bowed low and still lower, an expression of happy triumph playing upon her glowing face. "I have never seen a more beautiful woman," said the king, as he sank back, seemingly exhausted, in his chair. Queen Elizabeth pressed her lips together, to suppress a cry of pain. She had heard the king's words; for her they had a deeper meaning. "He will love her, I know it, I feel it!" she said to herself as she returned after this eventful evening to Schonhausen. "Oh, why has God laid upon me this new trial, this new humiliation? Until now, no one thought the less of me because I was not loved by the king. The world said, 'The king loves no woman, he has no heart for love.' From this day I shall be despised and pitied. The king has found a heart. He knows now that he has not outlived his youth; he feels that he is young--that he is young in heart, young in love! Oh, my God! and I too am young, and love; and I must shroud my heart in resignation and gloom." While the queen was pouring out her complaints and prayers to God, the Swedish ambassador was confiding his wrath to his king. He wrote to his sovereign, and repeated to him the angry and abusive words of the little Princess Amelia, who was known at the court as the little April Fee. She was more changeable than April, and more stormy and imperious than Frederick himself. He painted skilfully the gentle and attractive bearing of the Princess Ulrica, and asked for permission to demand the hand of this gracious and noble princess for Adolph Frederick. After the ambassador had written his dispatches, and sent them by a courier to the Swedish ship lying in the sound, he said to himself, with a triumphant smile: "Ah, my little Princess Amelia, this is a royal punishment for royal impertinence. You were pleased to treat me with contempt, but you did not know that I could avenge myself by depriving you of a kingdom. Ah, if you had guessed my mission, how smilingly you would have greeted the Count Tessin!" The gentlemen diplomatists are sometimes outwitted. CHAPTER X. ECKHOF. The reader has learned, from the foregoing chapters, what a splendid role the French theatre and ballet were now playing at the court of Berlin. A superb house had been built for the Italian opera and the ballet, a stage had been prepared in the king's palace for the French comedies, and every representation was honored by the presence of the king, the royal family, and the court circle. The most celebrated singers of Italy, the most graceful Parisian dancers were now to be heard and seen in Berlin. These things assumed such vast importance, that the king himself appeared as a critic in the daily journals, and his articles were published in the foreign papers. While the king favored the strange actors with his presence and his grace, the German theatre, like a despised step-child, was given over to misery and contempt. Compelled to seek an asylum in low dark saloons, its actors had to be thankful for even the permission to exist, and to plead with Apollo and the Muses for aid and applause. The king and the so-called good society despised them altogether. But this step-child carried under her ashes and ragged garments the golden robes of her future greatness; her cunning stepsisters had cast her down into obscurity and want, but she was not extinguished; she could not be robbed of her future! Only a few propitious circumstances were necessary to enable her to shake the dust from her head, and bring her kingly crown to light. The king had given Schonemein permission to bring his company to Berlin; and by a happy chance, Schonemein had engaged the young and talented actor Eckhof for the season. Eckhof was destined to give renown to the German theatre; he was justly called the first and greatest actor in Germany. Alas, how much of misery, how much of humiliation, how many choking tears, how much suffering and care, how much hunger and thirst were then comprised in that one word, a "German actor!" None but a lost or despairing man, or an enthusiast, would enroll himself as a German actor; only when he had nothing more to lose, and was willing to burn his ships behind him, could he enter upon that thorny path. Religion and art have always had their martyrs, and truly the German actors were martyrs in the time of Frederick the Great. Blessings upon those who did not despair, and took up their cross patiently! The French comedy and the Italian opera flourished like the green bay-tree. The German actors took refuge in the saloon of the Council-house. The lighting up of the Royal Opera-house cost two hundred and seventy-seven florins every night. The misty light of sweltering oil lamps illuminated the poor saloon of the Councilhouse. The audience of the German theatre was composed of burghers, philosophers, poets, bankers, and clerks--the people of the middle classes, who wore no white plumes in their hats; they were indeed allowed to enter the opera-house, but through a side passage, and their boxes were entirely separated from those of the court circle. These people of the middle classes seemed obscure and unimportant, but they were educated and intelligent; even then they were a power; proud and independent, they could not be bribed by flattery, nor blinded by glitter and pomp. They judged the king as they judged the beggar, the philosopher as they did the artist, and they judged boldly and well. This public voice had declared that Eckhof was a great tragedian, who rivalled successfully the great French actor, Monsieur Dennis. This public voice, though but the voice of the people, found entrance everywhere, even in the saloons of the nobles and cabinets of princes. Berlin resounded with the name of Eckhof, who dared to rival the French actor, and with the name of Schonemein, who dared, every time a drama of Corneille or Racine, of Moliere or Voltaire, was given in the palace theatre, to represent the same in the Council-house on the following evening. This was a good idea. Those who had been so fortunate as to witness the performance at the palace, wished to compare the glittering spectacle with the poor caricature, as they were pleased to call it, in the Council-house. Those whose obscure position prevented them from entering the French theatre, wished at least to see the play which had enraptured the king and court; they must be content with a copy, somewhat like the hungry beggar who stands before the kitchen door, and refreshes himself by smelling the roast beef he cannot hope to taste. But there was still a third class who visited the German theatre, not in derision, not from curiosity, not from a desire to imitate the nobles in their amusements, but with the seemingly Utopian hope of building up the German drama. Amongst these were the scholars, who pronounced the dramas of Gottsched far superior to those of Corneille and Racine; there were the German patriots, who would not grant a smile to the best representation of "Le Malade Imaginaire," but declared "The Hypochondriac," by Guistorp, the wittiest drama in the world. In short, this large class of men ranged themselves in bold opposition to the favoritism shown to Frenchmen by Frederick the Great. These were the elements which composed the audience in the Council-house. One afternoon, just before the opening of the theatre, two young men were walking arm-in-arm in the castle court; with one of them we are already acquainted, Joseph Fredersdorf, the merry student of Halle, the brother of the private secretary--he who had been commissioned to seek the black ram, for the propitiation of the devil. In obedience to the command of the secretary, he, with ten other members of this unholy alliance, had been searching in every quarter for this sacrifice. Joseph Fredersdorf, indebted to fortune or his own adroitness, was the first to return from his wanderings, and he brought with him a black ram, on whose glossy coat the sharpest eye could not detect one white hair. Fredersdorf, and Baron Kleist, the husband of the lovely Louise von Schwerin, were truly happy, and paid willingly some hundred thalers for this coveted object. Indeed, they considered this a very small interest to pay for the large capital which they would soon realize. They were the principal leaders in the secret conspiracy for goldmaking, and many other most distinguished nobles, generals, and officers belonged to the society. Fredersdorf was resolved to fathom this mystery; he wished to buy himself free from his service to the king, and wed the woman he had long so passionately loved. Kleist was riotous and a spendthrift; he felt that gold alone would enable him to buy smiles and rapture from this worn-out and wearisome world. Kleist and his beautiful wife required money in large measure; she had been a faithful companion and aid--had stood by honestly and assisted in the waste of her own property; and now they were compelled to confine themselves to the small income of captain of the king's guard. Joseph laughed, chatted, and jested with his young companion, who walked by his side with modest and downcast eyes. Joseph sometimes put his hand merrily under the dimpled chins of the rosy servantgirls who passed them from time to time, or peeped rather impertinently under the silk hoods of the burgher maidens; his companion blushed and took no part in these bold pastimes. "Truly," said Joseph, "if I did not have in my pocket a letter from my former room-mate at Halle, introducing you as a manly, brave boy, and a future light in the world of science, I should suspect you were a disguised maiden; you blush like a girl, and are as timid as a lamb which has never left its mother's side." "I am a villager, a poor provincial," said the youth, in a somewhat maidenly voice. "The manners of your great city embarrass me. I admire but cannot imitate them. I have been always a recluse, a dusty book-worm." "A learned monster!" cried Joseph, mockingly, "who knows and understands every thing except the art of enjoying life. I acknowledge that you are greatly my superior, but I can instruct you in that science. You have been so strongly commended to me that I will at once commence to unfold to you the real, satisfying duties and pleasures of life." "I fear," said the youth. "your science is beyond my ability. I have no organ for it. My father is a celebrated physician in Quedlinburg; he would be greatly distressed if I should occupy myself with any thing else than philosophy and the arts. I myself have so little inclination and so little ability for the enjoyment of mirth and pleasure, that I dare not exchange the world of books for the world of men. I do not understand their speech, and their manners are strange to me." "But, without doubt, you have come to Berlin to learn something of these things?" "No, I have come to visit the medical college, and to speak with the learned and renowned Euler." "Folly and nonsense!" said Fredersdorf, laughing; "keep your dry pursuits for Halle, and give your time and attention to that which you cannot find there, gayety and amusement. I promise to be your counsellor and comrade. Let us begin our studies at once. Do you see that little theatre-bill fastened to the wall? Eckhof appears as Cato to-night." "Go to the theatre!" said Lupinus, shrinkingly. "How! I go to the theatre?" "And why not, friend?" said Joseph. "Perhaps you belong to the pietists, who look upon the stage as the mother of blasphemy and sin, and who rail at our noble king because he will not close these houses?" "No, I do not belong to the pietists," said the youth, with a sad smile, "and I try to serve God, by understanding and admiring His works: that is my religion." "Well, it seems to me that this faith does not forbid you to enter the theatre. If it pleases you to study God's master-work, I promise to show you this night on the stage the noblest exemplar. Eckhof plays this evening." "Who, then, is Eckhof?" Joseph looked at the young man with surprise, and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "You have, indeed, been greatly neglected, and it was high time you should come to me. You do not know, then, that Eckhof is the first tragedian who has dared to set aside the old and absurd dress and manners of the stage, and introduce real, living, feeling men, of like passions with ourselves, and who move and speak even as we do. Now we must certainly enter the theatre; look there, at that great crowd entering the dark and lowly entrance. Let us remove our hats reverentially; we stand before the temple of art." So saying, he drew the young man, who had no longer courage to resist, into the house. "This is Eckhof's benefit. You see the great tragedian has many admirers; it seems to me that half of Berlin has come to bring him tribute this evening." Lupinus sat silent and confused in the parterre, near Joseph. There was a row of seats slightly elevated and made of common plank, called loges; one of these nearest the stage was adorned by a golden eagle, from which some pitiful drapery was suspended; this was called the king's loge, but, I am constrained to say, it had never been visited by the king or any member of the royal family. The royal loge was indeed empty, but the great body of the house was fearfully crowded, and many an expression of pain was heard from those who were closely pressed and almost trampled upon. "It is fortunate for you that Eckhof appears as Cato tonight: it is his best role. Perhaps your learned soul may be somewhat reconciled to such vanities when you see a drama of Gottsched, and a hero of the old and classic time." "Yes, but will not your Eckhof make a vile caricature of the noble Roman?" sighed Lupinus. "You are a pedant, and I trust the Muses will revenge themselves upon you this night," said Joseph, angrily. "I prophesy that you will become this evening a wild enthusiast for Eckhof: that is always the punishment for those who come as despisers and doubters. If you were a girl, I should know that you would be passionately in love with Eckhof before you slept; you have taken the first step, by hating him." Joseph said this thoughtlessly, and did not remark the deep impression his words made upon the stranger. His face flushed, and his head sank upon his breast. Joseph saw nothing of this. At this moment the curtain rose and the piece began. A breathless silence reigned throughout the vast crowd; every eye was fixed upon the stage; and now, with a stately step and a Roman toga falling in artistic folds from his shoulders, Eckhof as Cato stood before them. Every thing about him was antique; his noble and proud bearing, his firm and measured step, his slow but easy movements, even the form of his head and the expression of his finely-cut features, were eminently classic. He was the complete and perfect picture of an old Roman; nothing was forgotten. The sandals, laced with red over the powerful and well-formed leg; the white under-garment and leathern girdle, the blue toga, the cut of his hair, every thing brought before you the noble Roman, the son of Liberty, imposing in his majesty and power. Eckhof was the first who had the courage to clothe his characters in the costume of the time they represented, to make them move and speak simply as men. Eckhof did that for the German stage which some years later Talma introduced on the French boards. Talma was only a copyist of Eckhof, but this fact was not acknowledged, because at that time the German stage had not won for itself the sympathy and consideration of other nations. As I have said, silence reigned, and from time to time the rapture of applause, which could not be altogether suppressed, was evidenced by thundering bravos. Then again all was still; every eye and every ear were open to the great actor, true to himself and true to nature; who, glowing with enthusiasm, had cast his whole soul into his part; who had forgotten the line separating imagination from reality; who had, indeed, ceased to be Eckhof, and felt and thought and spoke as Cato. At the close of an act, Eckhof was forced to come forward and show himself by the wild the stormy applause and loud cries of the audience. "Do you not find him beyond all praise?" said Fredersdorf. Lupinus gazed steadily at the stage; he had only soul, breath, hearing, for Eckhof. His old world had passed away like a misty dream--a new world surrounded him. The olden time, the olden time to which he had consecrated years of study and of thought, to which he had offered up his sleep and all the pleasures of youth, had now become a reality for him. He who stood upon the stage was Cato; that was the Roman forum; there were the proud temples, and the dwellinghouses consecrated by their household gods. There was, then, outside of the world of books and letters, another world of light and gladness! What was it, which made his heart beat and tremble so powerfully? why did his blood rush so madly through his veins? A dark veil had fallen from his face; all around him were life, light, gladness, and rapture. With trembling lips and silent tears he said to himself: "I will live; I will be young; I will turn to Eckhof; he shall counsel me, and I will follow his advice as I would a holy gospel.--Did you not say that you knew Cato?" said he, suddenly awaking from his dream and turning to his companion. "Cato?" said Fredersdorf. "Do you mean the drama, or that wearisome old fellow himself? or Eckhof, who plays the part of Cato?" "So it is Eckhof," said Lupinus, to himself; "he is called Eckhof?" The play was at an end; the curtain fell for the last time, and now the long-suppressed enthusiasm burst forth in wild and deafening applause. The young stranger was silent, his eyes were full of tears; and yet he was perhaps the happiest of them all, and these rapturous tears were a loftier tribute to the great actor than the loudest bravos. The people had passed a happy evening, and common cares and sorrows had been forgotten; but Lupinus felt as if his heart had risen from the dead: he was changed from old age to sunny youth; he had suddenly discovered in himself something new, something never suspected--a glowing, loving heart. "Well, now I am resolved, wholly resolved," said forced their way through the crowd. "I no longer to you your dry learning and philosophy; you are dusty books and your imposing cues. I will be an Joseph, as they hesitate; I give up welcome to your actor." "Ha! an actor?" said Lupinus, awaking from his dream and trembling violently. "Why are you shocked at my words? I suppose you despise me because of this decision; but what do I care? I will be an artiste; I shall not be disturbed by the turned-up noses and derisive shrugs of you wise ones. I will be a scholar of Eckhof; so despise me, my learned Lupinus--I give you permission." "I am not laughing," said Lupinus. "Each one must walk in that path at the end of which he hopes to find his ideal." "Yes, truly, and so I will go to Eckhof," said Fredersdorf, waving his hat triumphantly in the air. "Do you know where he dwells?" said the youth. "Certainly. We are standing now just before his door. See there in the third story, those two lighted windows? That is Eckhof's home." "What is the name of this street?" "What is that to you? Has my prophecy really come true, and are you in love with the great actor? Do not let go my arm; do not turn away from me angrily. The Post Strasse is a long way off from where you dwell; you will lose yourself. Let us go together. I will risk no more unseemly jests with you. Come!" "He lives in the Post Strasse; he is called Eckhof," said Lupinus to himself, as he took Joseph's arm and walked through the dark streets. "I must see Eckhof; he shall decide my fate." CHAPTER XI. A LIFE QUESTION. It was the morning after Eckhof's benefit. The usually quiet dwelling of the actor resounded with the ringing of glasses and merry songs after the toils and fatigues of the evening. He wished to afford to himself and his comrades a little distraction; to give to the hungry sons of the Muses and Graces a few hours of simple enjoyment. Eckhof's purse was full and he wished to divide its contents with his friends. "Drink and be merry," said he to his gay companions. "Let us forget for a few hours that we are poor, despised German actors. We will drink, and picture to ourselves that we belong to the cherished and celebrated artistes of the French stage, on whom the Germans so willingly shower gold, honor, and even love. Raise your glasses, and drink with me to the success of German art!" "We will drink also to Eckhof," cried one of the youthful company, raising his glass. "Yes, to the father of the now school of German acting." "You are that, Eckhof, and you are also our benefactor," said another. "We thank you, that for some months we have not suffered from hunger and thirst; that the good people of Berlin take an interest in the German stage, and treat us with some consideration. Let us, then, drink to our preserver, to the great Eckhof!" Every glass was raised, and their shouts rang out merrily. Eckhof alone was sad and troubled, and his great dreamy eyes gazed thoughtfully in the distance. His friends observed this, and questioned him as to the cause of his melancholy. "I am not melancholy, though a German actor has always good reason to be so; but I have some new plans which I wish to disclose to you. You greet me as your benefactor. Alas! how suffering, how pitiful must your condition be, if such a man as I am can have been useful to you! You are all artistes, and I say this to you from honest conviction, and not from contemptible flattery. You are greater in your art than I am, only you had not the courage to break through the old and absurd customs of your predecessors. That I have done this, that I have dared to leave the beaten paths, is the only service I have rendered. I have tried to banish from the stage the crazy fools who strutted from side to side, and waved their arms from right to left; who tried to play the orator by uttering their pathetic phrases in weird, solemn sounds from the throat, or trumpeted them through the nose. I have placed living men upon the boards, who by natural speech and action lend truth and reality to the scenes they wish to portray. You, comrades, have assisted me faithfully in this effort. We are in the right path, but we are far from the goal. Let us go forward, then, bravely and hopefully. You think yourselves happy now in Berlin; but I say to you that we dare not remain in Berlin. This vegetation, this bare permission to live, does not suffice, will not satisfy our honor. I think, with Caesar, it is better to be the first in a village than the second or third in a great city. We will leave Berlin; this cold, proud, imperious Berlin, which cherishes the stranger, but has no kind, cheering word for her own countrymen. Let us turn our backs upon these French worshippers, and go as missionaries for the German drama throughout our fatherland." A long pause followed this speech of Eckhof; every eye was thoughtful, every face was troubled. "You do not answer? I have not, then, convinced you?" "Shall we leave Berlin now," said the hero and lover of the little company, "even now, when they begin to show a little interest, a little enthusiasm for us?" "Alas, friend! the enthusiasm of the Berliners for us is like a fire of straw--it flashes and is extinguished; to-day, perhaps, they may applaud us, to-morrow we will be forgotten, because a learned sparrow or hound, a French dancer, or an Italian singer, occupies their attention. There is neither endurance nor constancy in the Berliners. Let us go hence." "It seems to me that we should make use of the good time while it lasts," said another. "At present, our daily bread is secured for ourselves and our families." "If you are not willing to endure suffering and want," said Eckhof, sadly, "you will never be true artistes. Poverty and necessity will be for a long time to come the only faithful companions of the German actor; and he who has not courage to take them to his arms, would do better to become an honest tailor or a shoemaker. If the prosperity of your family is your first consideration, why have you not contented yourselves with honest daily labor, with being virtuous fathers of families? The pursuit of art does not accord with these things; if you choose the one, you must, for a while at least, be separated from the other." "That will we do," cried Fredersdorf, who had just entered the room; "I, for my part, have already set you all a good example. I have separated from my family, in order to become the husband of Art, whose sighing and ardent lover I have long been; and now, if the noble Eckhof does not reject me as a scholar, I am wholly yours." Eckhof seized his hand, and said, with a soft smile, "I receive you joyfully; you have the true fire of inspiration. From my heart I say you are welcome." "I thank you for the word--and now let us be off. The German actor is in Germany no better than the Jew was to the Romans. Let us do as the Jews: we have also found our Moses, who will lead us to the promised land, where we shall find liberty, honor, and gold." "Yes," they cried, with one voice, "we will follow Eckhof, we will obey our master, we will leave Berlin and seek a city where we shall be truly honored." "I have found the city," said Eckhof; "we will go to Halle. The wise men who have consecrated their lives to knowledge are best fitted to appreciate and treasure the true artiste; we will unite with them, and our efforts will transform Halle into an Athens, where knowledge and art shall walk hand-in-hand in noble emulation." "Off, then, for Halle!" said Fredersdorf, waving his hat in the air, but his voice was less firm, and his eye was troubled. "Will the director, Schonemein, consent?" "Schonemein has resolved to go with us, provided we make no claim for salaries, but will share with him both gains and losses." "If the undertaking fails in Halle, we must starve, then," said a trembling voice. Eckhof said nothing; he crossed the room to his writing-table, and took out a well-filled purse. "I do not say that we shall succeed in Halle, that is, succeed as the merchants and Jews do; we go as missionaries, resolved to bear hunger and thirst, if need be, for the cause we love and believe in. Look, this purse contains what remains of my profits from the last two months and from my benefit last night. It is all I have; take it and divide it amongst you. It will, at least, suffice to support you all for one month." "Will you accept this?" said Joseph, with glowing cheeks. "No, we will not accept it; what we do we will do freely, and no man shall fetter us by his generosity or magnanimity, not even Eckhof." Eckhof was radiant with joy. "Hear, now--I have another proposition to make. You have refused my offer for yourselves, but you dare not refuse it for your children; take this money and divide it equally amongst your wives and children. With this gold you shall buy yourselves free for a while from your families." After a long and eloquent persuasion, Eckhof's offer was accepted, and divided fairly. He looked on with a kindly smile. "I now stand exactly as I did when I resolved two years ago to be an actor. Before that I was an honest clerk; from day to day I vegetated, and thanked God, when, after eight hours' hard work, I could enjoy a little fresh air and the evening sunshine, and declaim to the fields and groves my favorite lines from the great authors. It is probable I should still have been a poor clerk and a dreamer, if my good genius had not stood by me and given me a powerful blow, which awakened me from dreaming to active life. The justice of the peace, whose clerk I was, commanded me to serve behind his carriage as a footman; this aroused my anger and my self-respect, and I left him, determined rather to die of hunger than to submit to such humiliation. My good genius was again at hand, and gave me courage to follow the promptings of my heart, and become an actor. He who will be great has the strength to achieve greatness. Let us go onward, then, with bold hearts." He gave his hand to his friends and dismissed them, warning them to prepare for their journey. "You are determined to go to Halle?" said Frederedorf, who had remained behind for the last greeting. "We will go to Halle; it is the seat of the Muses, and belongs, therefore, to us." Joseph shook his head sadly. "I know Halle," said he. "You call it the seat of the Muses. I know it only as the seat of pedantry. You will soon know and confess this. There is nothing more narrowminded, jealous, arrogant, and conceited than a Halle professor. He sees no merit in any thing but himself and a few old dusty Greeks and Romans, and even these are only great because the professor of Halle has shown them the honor to explain and descant upon them. But, you are resolved--I would go with you to prison and to death; in short, I will follow you to Halle." "And now I am at last alone," said Eckhof; "now I must study my new role; now stand by me, ye gods, and inspire me with your strength; give me the right tone, the right emphasis to personate this rare and wonderful Hippolytus, with which I hope to win the stern professors of Halle!" Walking backward and forward, he began to declaim the proud and eloquent verses of Corneille; he was so thoroughly absorbed that he did not hear the oft-repeated knock upon the door; he did not even see that the door was softly opened, and the young Lupinus stood blushing upon the threshold. He stood still and listened with rapture to the pathetic words of the great actor; and as Eckhof recited the glowing and innocent confession of love made by Hippolytus, a burning blush suffused the cheek of the young student, and his eyes were filled with tears. He overcame his emotion, and advanced to Eckhof, who was now standing before the glass, studying the attitude which would best accord with this passionate declaration. "Sir," said he, with a low and trembling voice, "pardon me for disturbing you. I was told that I should find Eckhof in this room, and it is most important to me to see and consult with this great man. I know this is his dwelling; be kind enough to tell me if he is within." "This is his home, truly, but he is neither a great nor a wise man; only and simply Eckhof the actor." "I did not ask your opinion of the distinguished man whom I honor, but only where I can find him." "Tell me first what you want of Eckhof." "What I want of him, sir?" said the youth, thoughtfully; "I scarcely know myself. There is a mystery in my soul which I cannot fathom. Eckhof has age, wisdom, and experience--perhaps he can enlighten me. I have faith in his eyes and in his silver beard, and I can say freely to him what I dare not say to any other." Eckhof laughed merrily. "As to his white beard, you will find that in his wardrobe; his wisdom you will find in the books of the authors, to whose great thoughts he has only given voice; he is neither old, wise, nor experienced. In short--I, myself, am Eckhof." "You are Eckhof!" said Lupinus, turning deadly pale, and, stepping back a few paces, he stared with distended eyes at the actor, whose noble and intellectual face, glowing with youthful fire, was turned toward him. "I am Eckhof, and I hope you will forgive me for being a little younger, a little browner, and somewhat less wise than the great Cato, in which character you no doubt saw me last night. I dare hope that my confession will not shake your confidence in me; with my whole heart I beg you will tell me how I can be useful to you and what mystery you wish to have explained." "No, no! I cannot explain," cried the youth; "forgive me for having disturbed you. I have nothing more to say." Confused and ashamed, Lupinus left the room. The actor gazed after him wonderingly, convinced that he had been closeted with a madman. With trembling heart, scarcely knowing what he thought or did, the student reached his room and closed the door, and throwing himself upon his knees, he cried out in tones of anguish: "Oh, my God! I have seen Eckhof: he is young, he is glorious in beauty, unhappy that I am!" With his hands folded and still upon his knees, he gazed dreamily in the distance; then springing up suddenly, his eyes glowing with energy and passion, he cried: "I must go, I must go! I will return to Halle, to my books and my quiet room; it is lonely, but there I am at peace; there the world and the voice of Eckhof cannot enter. I must forget this wild awakening of my youth; my heart must sleep again and dream, and be buried at last under the dust of books. Unhappy that I am, I feel that the past is gone forever. I stand trembling on the borders of a new existence. I will go at once--perhaps there is yet time; perhaps I may yet escape the wretchedness which threatens me. Oh! in my books and studies I may forget all. I may no longer hear this voice, which is forever sounding in my enraptured ears, no longer see those fearful but wondrous eyes." With feverish haste and trembling hands he made up his little parcel. A few hours later the post-wagon rolled by Eckhof's dwelling. A young man with pale, haggard face and tearful eyes gazed up at his windows. "Farewell, Eckhof," murmured he; "I flee from you, but may God bless you! I go to Halle; there I shall never see you, my heart shall never thrill at the sound of your eloquent voice." Lupinus leaned sadly back in the carriage, comforting himself with the conviction that he was safe; but fate was too strong for him, and the danger from which he so bravely fled, followed him speedily. CHAPTER XII. SUPERSTITION AND PIETY. The goal was at last reached. The black ram for the propitiatory offering was found, and was now awaiting in Berlin the hour of sacrifice. With what eager impatience, with what throbbing pulses, did Fredersdorf wait for the evening! At last this sublime mystery would be explained, and rivers of gold would flow at his command. Happily, the king was not in Berlin--he had gone to Charlottenburg. Fredersdorf was free-lord of himself. "And after to-morrow, it will be ever the same," said he to himself joyfully. "To-morrow the world will belong to me! I will not envy the king his crown, the scholar his learning, or youth and beauty their bloom. I shall be more powerful, more honored, more beloved than them all. I shall possess an inexhaustible fountain of gold. Gold is the lord and king of the world. The king and the philosopher, youth, beauty, and grace, bow down before its shrine. Oh, what a life of gladness and rapture will be mine! I shall be at liberty. I shall wed the woman I adore. The sun is sinking; the moon will soon ride triumphantly in the heavens, and then--" A light rustling on the tapestry door interrupted him; and he turned anxiously toward this door, which led directly to the chamber of the king, and through which he alone could enter. It was indeed Frederick. He entered the room of his private secretary with a bright, gay smile. "I have come unexpectedly," said the king. His clear, piercing glance instantly remarked the cloud which lowered upon the brow of Fredersdorf. "But what will you have? The King and Fate, as Deus ex machina, appear without warning and confuse the calculations of insignificant mortals." "I have made no calculations, sire," said Fredersdorf, confused; "and the presence of my king can never disturb my peace." "So much the better," said Frederick, smiling. "Well, I have made my calculations, and you, Fredersdorf, have an important part to play. We have a great work on hand, and if you have set your heart upon being at liberty this evening, I regret it; the hope is a vain one. This evening you are the prisoner of your king." The king said this with so grave, so peculiar, and at the same time so kindly an expression, that Fredersdorf was involuntarily touched and softened, and he pressed his lips warmly upon the hand which Frederick held out to him. "We must work diligently," said the king. "The time of idleness is past, and also the time consecrated to the Muses. Soon I will lay my flute in its case, and draw my sword from its scabbard. It appears that my godmother, Maria Theresa, thinks it unseemly for a King of Prussia to pass his days elsewhere than in a tented field, or to hear other music than the sound of trumpet or the thunder of cannon calling loudly to battle. Well, if Austria will have war, she shall have it promptly. Never will Prussia yield to her imperious conditions, and never will the house of Hohenzollern subject herself to the house of Hapsburg. My godmother, the empress, can never forget that the Prince-Elector of Brandenburg once, at the table, held a wash-basin for the emperor. For this reason she always regards us as cavaliere servente to the house of Hapsburg. Now, by the help of England, Saxony, and Russia, she hopes to bring us under the old yoke. But she shall not succeed. She has made an alliance with England, Russia, and Saxony. I have united with France and Bavaria, for the protection of Charles the Seventh. This, you see, Fredersdorf, is war. Our life of fantasy and dreaming is over. I have given you a little dish of politics," said the king, after a pause. "I wish to show you that I have need of you, and that we have much to do. We must arrange my private accounts, we have many letters to write; and then we must select and prepare the rich presents to be given to the Princess Ulrica on her marriage. Fredersdorf, we cannot afford to be idle." "I shall be ready at all times to obey the commands of my king. I will work the entire night; but I pray your majesty to grant me a few hours this evening--I have most important business, which cannot be postponed." "Ah! without doubt, you wish to finish the epistle of Horace, of which we spoke a few days since. If I remember correctly, this epistle relates to the useless offering of a lamb or black ram. Well, I give up this translation for the present; we have no time for it; and I cannot possibly give you leave of absence this evening." "And yet I dare to repeat my request," said Fredersdorf, with passionate excitement. "Sire, my business cannot be postponed, and I beseech you to grant me a few hours." "If you will not yield to the earnest wish of your friend, you will be forced to submit to the command of your king," said Frederick, sternly. "I forbid you to leave your room this evening." "Have pity, sire, I entreat you! I wish but for two hours of liberty. I tell you my business is most important; the happiness of my life depends upon it." The king shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "The happiness of your life! How can this poor, short-sighted, vain race of mortals decide any question relating to 'the happiness of life'? You seek it to-day, perhaps, in riches; to-morrow in the arms of your beloved; and the next day you turn away from and despise both the one and the other. I cannot fulfil your wish; I have important work for you, and will not grant you one moment's absence." "Sire, I must--" "Not another word! you remain here; I command you not to leave this room!" "I will not obey this command," said Fredersdorf, completely beside himself with rage and despair. "Will your majesty dismiss me from your service, withdraw your favor, and banish me forever from your presence? I must and will have some hours of liberty this evening." The king's eyes flashed lightning, and his features assumed so threatening an expression, that Fredersdorf, though completely blinded by passion, trembled. Without a word in reply, the king stepped hastily to the door which led into the corridor. Two soldiers stood before the door. "You will see that no one leaves this room," said Frederick--"you will fire upon any one who opens the door." He turned and fixed his eyes steadily upon the pale face of the secretary. "I said to you that you were the prisoner of your king to-day. You would not understand my jest. I will force you to see that I am in earnest. The guards stand before this, door; the other door leads to my apartment, and I will close it. You shall not work with me to-day; you are not worthy of it. You are a bold rebel, deserving punishment, and 'having eyes see not.'" Fredersdorf had not the courage to reply. The king stepped hastily through the room and opened the tapestry door; as he stood upon the threshold, he turned once again. "Fredersdorf, the time will come when you will thank me for having been a stern king." He closed the door, placed the key in his pocket, and returned to his room, where Jordan awaited him. "And now, friend, the police may act promptly and rigorously; Fredersdorf will not be there, and I shall not find it necessary to punish him further. Alas! how difficult it is to turn a fool from his folly! Fredersdorf would learn to make gold through the sacrifice of a black ram; in order to do this, he joins himself to my adversaries, to the hypocrites and pietists; he goes to the socalled prayer-meetings of the godless, who call themselves, forsooth, the children of God! Ah! Jordan, how selfish, how pitiful is this small race of man! how little do they merit! I took Fredersdorf from obscurity and poverty. I not only took him into my service, I made him my confidant and my friend--I loved him sincerely. And what is my reward? He is ungrateful, and he hates me with a perfect hatred; he is now sitting in his room and cursing his king, who has done nothing more than protect him from the withering ridicule which his childish and mad pursuit was about to bring upon him. Jordan, Jordan! kings are always repaid with ingratitude." "Yes, sire; and God, our heavenly Father, meets with the same reward," said Jordan, with a painful smile. "God and the king are the two powers most misunderstood. In their bright radiance they stand too high above the sons of men: they demand of the king that he shall be all-wise, almighty, even as God is; they require of God that He shall judge and act as weak, short-sighted men do, not 'knowing the end from the beginning.'" The king did not reply; with his arms folded, he walked thoughtfully through the room. "Poor Fredersdorf," said he, softly, "I have slain his hobby-horse, and that is always an unpardonable offence to any man. I might, perhaps, have closed my eyes to the mad follies of these so-called pietists, if they had not drawn my poor secretary into the toils. For his sake I will give them a lesson. I will force him to see that they are hypocrites and charlatans. Happen what will, I have saved Fredersdorf from ridicule; if he curses me for this, I can bear it cheerfully." The king was right; Fredersdorf was insane with passion. He cursed the king, not only in his heart, but with his trembling lips; he called him a tyrant, a heartless egotist. He hated him, even as an ignorant, unreasoning child hates the kind hand which corrects and restrains. "They will discover this mystery; they will learn how to make gold, and I shall not be there," murmured Fredersdorf, gnashing his teeth; "who knows? perhaps they will not divulge to me this costly receipt! They will lie to me and deceive me. Ah! the moon is rising; she casts her pure, silver rays into this hated room, now become my prison. Now, even now, they are assembling; now the holy incantation begins, and I--I am not there! "He tore his hair, and beat his breast, and cried aloud. Fredersdorf was right. As the moon rose, the conspirators, who had been notified by Von Kleist, the husband of the beautiful Louise von Schwerin, began to assemble. The great saloon in which the gay and laughter-loving Louise had given her superb balls and soirees--in which her dancing feet had trampled upon her fortune and her happiness--was now changed into a solemn temple of worship, where the pious believers assembled to pray to God and to adjure the devil. The king had forbidden that the churches should be opened except on Sunday and the regular fete days. Some over-pious and fanatical preachers had dared to disobey this order. The assemblies had been broken up by force of arms, the people driven to their homes, and the churches closed. Both priests and people were threatened with severe punishment if they should dare to open the churches again during the week. [Footnote: Preuss's "Geschichte Friedriotia des Grossen."] The pietists, forgetting the Bible rule, to "give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's," refused obedience to the spirit of the command, and assembled together in the different houses of the faithful. Their worship consisted principally in stern resolves to remain obedient to the only true doctrine. To the proud fanatic this is, of course, the faith which he professes, and there is salvation in no other. With zealous speech they railed at the king as a heretic or unbeliever, and strengthened themselves in their disobedience to his commands by declaring it was well-pleasing in the sight of God. The pietists, who had in vain endeavored to retain the power and influence which they had enjoyed under Frederick William, whom they now declared to have been the holiest and wisest of kings, had become the bitterest enemies of Frederick the Great. The king called their piety hypocrisy, laughed at their rage, replied to their curses by witty words and biting sarcasm; and on one occasion, after listening to an impertinent request, he replied laconically: "The cursed priest don't know himself what he wants. Let him go to the devil!" [Footnote: Busching's "Character of Frederick the Great."] This so-called prayer-meeting was to take place to-day in the ballroom of the beautiful Louise, after the regular hour of worship. Only the elect and consecrated would remain behind to take part in the deeper mysteries, and be witness to the incantation by which the astrologist Pfannenschmidt would constrain his majesty the devil to appear. No woman was allowed to be present at this holy ordinance, and each one of the consecrated had sworn a solemn oath not to betray an act of the assembly. Von Kleist had taken the oath, and kept it faithfully. But there is a wise Persian proverb which says: "If you would change an obedient and submissive wife into a proud rebel, you have only to forbid something! If you wish to keep a secret from the wife of your bosom, slay yourself, or tear out your tongue; if you live, she will discover your secret, even though hidden in the bottom of your heart." Louise von Kleist had proved the truth of this proverb. She had discovered the secret which her husband wished to conceal from her. She had soon recovered from the fleeting love entertained at first for the husband chosen for her by the king. She had returned to the levity of her earlier days, and only waited for an opportunity to revenge herself upon her husband. Louise hated him because he had never been rich enough to gratify her extravagant taste and caprices. He had even restrained her in the use of her own means: they were always in want of money, and constantly railing bitterly at each other. For all this misery Louise wished to revenge herself upon her husband, as beautiful and coquettish women always wish to revenge themselves. She was more than ready to believe the words of that poet who says that "a woman's heart is always girlish and youthful enough for a new love." She wished to take special vengeance upon her husband for daring to keep a secret from her. So soon as she discovered the object of these secret meetings, she informed the king, and implored him to come to her assistance and rescue her husband from those crooked paths which had cost her her wedded happiness and her fortune. Frederick agreed at once to her proposition, not so much for her sake as because he rejoiced in the opportunity to free Fredersdorf from the mystic suppositions which had clouded his intellect, and convince him of the cunning and hypocrisy of the alchemist Pfannenschmidt. Every necessary preparation had been made by order of the king. The pious assembly had scarcely met, when Louise called the four policemen who were waiting in a neighboring house, and placed them in a small closet adjoining the ball-room, where every thing which took place could be both seen and heard. The conspirators had no suspicion. The meeting was larger than ever before. There were people of all classes, from the day laborer to the comfortable burgher, from the honorable officer under government to the highest noble. They prayed earnestly and fervently, and sang hymns to the honor and glory of God. Then one of the popular priests stepped into the pulpit and thundered forth one of those arrogant, narrow-minded, and violent discourses which the believers of those days indulged in. He declared all those lost, condemned to eternal torture, who did not believe as he believed; and all those elected and sanctified who adhered to his holy faith, and who, despising the command of the heretical king, met together for these forbidden services. All this, however, was but the preparation for the great solemnity prepared for the initiated, who were now waiting with loudly-beating hearts and breathless expectation for the grand result. And now another orator, the astrologer, the enlightened prophet of God, ascended the pulpit. With what pious words he warned his hearers to repentance! how eloquently he exhorted them to contemn the hollow and vain world, which God had only made lovely and attractive in order to tempt men to sin and try their powers of resistance! "Resist! resist!" he howled through his nose, "and persuade men to turn to you, and be saved even as we are saved--to become angels of God, even as we are God's holy angels." In order, however, to reach their exalted goal, they must make greater efforts, use larger means. Power and wealth were necessary to make the world happy and convert it to the true faith. The world must become wholly theirs; they must buy from the devil the gold which he has hid in the bowels of the earth, and with it allure men, and save their souls from perdition. "We, by the grace of God, have been empowered to subdue the devil, and to force him to give up his secret. To those who, like ourselves, are enlightened by the holy spirit of knowledge, the mysteries of the lower world must be made clear. It is also a noble and great work which we have before us; we must make gold, and with it we must purchase and convert the whole race to holiness!" When this pious rhapsody was concluded, he called the assembly to earnest prayer. They fell upon their knees, and dared to pray to God that He would give them strength to adjure the devil. It was not, however, exactly the plan of the astrologer to crown the efforts of the elect with success, and bring the devil virtually before them. As long as his majesty did not appear, the pious must believe and hope in their priest; must give him their love, their confidence, and their gold; must look upon him as their benefactor, who was to crown their future with glory and riches, and bring the world to their feet. In short, he knew it was impossible for him to introduce a devil who could disclose the great secret. The prayers and offerings of the past had failed, and their future sacrifices must also be in vain. And now, in the midst of solemn hymns, the ram was led to the altar-this rare offering which had cost so much weary wandering and so much precious gold. With pompous ceremony, and covered with a white veil, the black ram was led to the sacrifice. The holy priest Pfannenschmidt, clothed in gold-embroidered robes, stood with a silver knife in his hand, and a silver bowl to receive the blood of the victim. As he raised the knife, the faithful threw themselves upon their knees and prayed aloud, prayed to God to be with them and bless their efforts. The astrologer, glowing with piety and enthusiasm, was about to sink the knife into the throat of the poor trembling beast, when suddenly something unheard of, incredible, took place. A figure fearful to look upon sprang fiercely from behind the altar, and seized the arm of the priest. "Spare the offering, let the sacrifice go free!" he said, with a thundering voice. "You have called me, and I am here! I am the devil!" "The devil! it is truly the devil!" and, with timid glances, they looked up at the giant figure, clothed in crimson, his face completely shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, from which three crimson feathers waved majestically: these, with his terrible club-foot, all gave unmistakable evidence of the presence of Satan. They believed truly in him, these pious children of God; they remained upon their knees and stammered their prayers, scarcely knowing themselves if they were addressed to God or to the devil. There in the little cabinet stood Louise von Kleist, trembling with mirth, and with great effort suppressing an outburst of laughter. She looked with wicked and mocking eyes upon her husband, who lay shivering and deadly pale at the feet of the devil and the black ram. He fixed his pleading glances upon the fiery monster who was to him indeed the devil. Louise, however, fully understood this scene; she it was who had induced young Fredersdorf to assume this part, and had assisted him in his disguise. "This moment repays me, avenges me for all I have suffered by the side of this silly and extravagant fool," said Louise to herself. "Oh, I will mock him, I will martyr him with this devil's work. The whole world shall know of it, and, from this time forth, I shall be justified and pitied. No one will be surprised that I am not constant to my husband, that I cannot love him." Whilst the pious-elect still rested upon their knees in trembling adoration, the priest Pfannenschmidt had recovered from his surprise and alarm. He, who did not believe in the devil, although he daily addressed him, knew that the monster before him was an unseemly jest or a malicious interruption. He must, therefore, tear off his mask and expose him to the faithful. With passionate energy he stretched out both his arms toward him. "Away with you, you son of Baal! Fly, fly, before I unmask you! You are not what you appear. You are no true devil!" "How! you deny me, your lord and master?" cried the intruder, raising his hand covered with a crimson glove, against the priest. "You have long called for me. You have robbed these, my children, of their gold in order to propitiate me, and now that I am come, you will not confess me before men! Perhaps you fear that these pious believers will no longer lavish their attentions and their gold upon you, and suffer you to lead them by the nose. Go, go! you are not my high priest. I listened to your entreaties, and I came, but only to prove to my children that you are a deceiver, and to free them from your yoke. Away, you blasphemer of God and of the devil! Neither God nor the devil accepts your service; away with you!" Saying this, he seized the astrologer with a powerful arm, and dragged him toward the altar. But Pfannenschmidt was not the man to submit to such indignities. With a wild cry of rage, he rushed upon his adversary; and now began a scene which neither words nor colors could portray. The pious worshippers raised themselves from their knees and stared for a moment at this curious spectacle; and then, according as they believed in the devil or the priest, sprang forward to take part in the contest. In the midst of this wild tumult the policemen appeared, to arrest those who were present, in the name of the king; to break up the assembly, and put an end to the noise and tumult. Louise, meanwhile, laughing boisterously, observed this whole scene from the cabinet; she saw the police seize the raging astrologer, who uttered curses, loud and deep, against the unbelieving king, who dared to treat the pious and prayerful as culprits, and to arrest the servant and priest of the Lord. Louise saw these counts and barons, these officers and secretaries, who had been the brave adherents of the astrologer, slipping away with shame and confusion of face. She saw her own husband mocked and ridiculed by the police, who handed him an order from the king, written by the royal hand, commanding him to consider himself as under arrest in his own house. As Louise heard this order read, her laughter was hushed and her brow was clouded. "Truly," said she, "that is a degree of consideration which looks like malice in the king. To make my husband a prisoner in his own house is to punish me fearfully, by condemning me steadily to his hateful society. My God, how cruel, how wicked is the king! My husband is a prisoner here! that is to banish my beautiful, my beloved Salimberri from my presence. Oh, when shall we meet again, my love, my adorer?" BOOK II. CHAPTER I. THE TWO SISTERS. "I have triumphed! I have reached the goal!" said Princess Ulrica, with a proud smile, as she laid her hymn-book aside, and removed from her head her long white veil. "This important step is taken; yet one more grand ceremony, and I will be the Princess Royal of Sweden--after that, a queen! They have not succeeded in setting me aside. Amelia will not be married before me, thus bringing upon me the contempt and ridicule of the mocking world. All my plans have succeeded. In place of shrouding my head in the funereal veil of an abbess, to which my brother had condemned me, I shall soon wear the festive myrtle-wreath, and ere long a crown will adorn my brow." Ulrica threw herself upon the divan, in order to indulge quietly in these proud and happy dreams of the future, when the door was hastily thrown open, and the Princess Amelia, with a pale and angry face, entered the room. She cast one of those glances of flame, with which she, in common with the king, was wont to crush her adversaries, upon the splendid toilet of her sister, and a wild and scornful laugh burst from her lips. "I have not, then, been deceived." she cried; "it is not a fairy tale to which I have listened. You come from the chapel?" "I come from the chapel? yes," said Ulrica, meeting the angry of her sister with a firm and steady look. Resolved to breast coming storm with proud composure, she folded her arms across bosom, as if she would protect herself from Amelia's flashing "I come from the chapel--what further?" glance the her eyes. "What further?" cried Amelia, stamping fiercely on the floor. "Ah, you will play the harmless and the innocent! What took you to the chapel?" Ulrica looked up steadily and smilingly; then said, in a quiet and indifferent tone: "I have taken the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, according to the Lutheran form of worship." Amelia shuddered as if she felt the sting of a poisonous serpent. "That signifies that you are an apostate; that signifies that you have shamefully outwitted and betrayed me; that means--" "That signifies," said Ulrica, interrupting her, "that I am a less pious Christian than you are; that you, my noble young sister, are a more innocent and unselfish maiden than the Princess Ulrica." "Words, words! base, hypocritical words!" cried Amelia. "You first inspired me with the thought which led to my childish and contradictory behavior, and which for some days made me the jest of the court. You are a false friend, a faithless sister! I stood in your path, and you put me aside. I understand now your perfidious counsels, your smooth, deceitful encouragement to my opposition against the proposition of the Swedish ambassador. I, forsooth, must be childish, coarse, and rude, in order that your gentle and girlish grace, your amiable courtesy, might shine with added lustre. I was your foil, which made the jewel of your beauty resplendent. Oh! it is shameful to be so misused, so outwitted by my sister!" With streaming eyes, Amelia sank upon a chair, and hid her face with her trembling little hands. "Foolish child!" said Ulrica, "you accuse me fiercely, but you know that you came to me and implored me to find a means whereby you would be relieved from this hateful marriage with the Prince Royal of Sweden." "You should have reasoned with me, you should have encouraged me to give up my foolish opposition. You should have reminded me that I was a princess, and therefore condemned to have no heart." "You said nothing to me of your heart; you spoke only of your religion. Had you told me that your heart rebelled against this marriage with the Crown Prince of Sweden, then, upon my knees, with all the strength of a sister's love, I would have implored you to accept his hand, to shroud your heart in your robe of purple, and take refuge on your throne from the danger which threatens a young princess if she allows her heart to speak." Amelia let her hands fall from her face, and looked up at her sister, whose great earnest eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of triumph and derision. "I did not say that my heart had spoken," she cried, sobbing and trembling; "I only said that we poor princesses were not allowed to have hearts." "No heart for one; but a great large heart, great enough for all!" cried Ulrica. "You accuse me, Amelia, but you forget that I did not intrude upon your confidence. You came to me voluntarily, and disclosed your abhorrence of this marriage; then only did I counsel you, as I would wish to be advised under the same circumstances. In a word, I counselled you to obey your conscience, your own convictions of duty." "Your advice was wonderfully in unison with your own plans; your deceitful words were dictated by selfishness," cried Amelia, bitterly. "I would not have adopted the course which I advised you to pursue, because my character and my feeling are wholly different from yours. My conscience is less tender, less trembling than yours. To become a Lutheran does not appear to me a crime, not even a fault, more particularly as this change is not the result of fickleness or inconstancy, but for an important political object." "And your object was to become Queen of Sweden?" "Why should I deny it? I accept this crown which you cast from you with contempt. I am ambitious. You were too proud to offer up the smallest part of your religious faith in order to mount the throne of Sweden. I do not fear to be banished from heaven, because, in order to become a queen, I changed the outward form of my religion; my inward faith is unchanged: if you repent your conduct--if you have modified your views--" "No, no!" said Amelia, hastily, "I do not repent. My grief and my despair are not because of this pitiful crown, but because of my faithless and deceitful sister who gave me evil counsel to promote her own interests, and while she seemed to love, betrayed me. Go, go! place a crown upon your proud head; you take up that which I despise and trample upon. I do not repent. I have no regrets. But, hark! in becoming a queen, you cease to be my sister. Never will I forget that through falsehood and treachery you won this crown. Go! be Queen of Sweden. Let the whole world bow the knee before you. I despise you. You have shrouded your pitiful heart in your royal robes. Farewell!" She sprang to the door with flashing eyes and throbbing breast, but Ulrica followed and laid her hand upon her shoulder. "Let us not part in anger, my sister," said she, softly--"let us--" Amelia would not listen; with an angry movement she dashed the hand from her shoulder and fled from the room. Alone in her boudoir, she paced the room in stormy rage, wild passion throbbed in every pulse. With the insane fury of the Hohenzollerns, she almost cursed her sister, who had so bitterly deceived, so shamefully betrayed her. In outward appearance, as well as in character, the Princess Amelia greatly resembled her royal brother: like him, she was by nature trusting and confiding; but, once deceived, despair and doubt took possession of her. A deadly mildew destroyed the love which she had cherished, not only for her betrayer, but her confidence and trust in all around her. Great and magnanimous herself, she now felt that the rich fountain of her love and her innocent, girlish credulity were choked within her heart. With trembling lips, she said aloud and firmly: "I will never more have a friend. I do not believe in friendship. Women are all false, all cunning, all selfish. My heart is closed to them, and their deceitful smiles and plausible words can never more betray me. Oh, my God, my God! must I then be always solitary, always alone? must I--" Suddenly she paused, and a rich crimson blush overspread her face. What was it which interrupted her sorrowful words? Why did she fix her eyes upon the door so eagerly? Why did she listen so earnestly to that voice calling her name from the corridor. "Pollnitz, it is Pollnitz!" she whispered to herself, and she trembled fearfully. "I must speak with the Princess Amelia," cried the master of ceremonies. "But that is impossible," replied another voice; "her royal highness has closed the door, and will receive no one." "Her royal highness will open the door and allow me to enter as soon as you announce me. I come upon a most important mission. The lifehappiness of more than one woman depends upon my errand." "My God!" said Amelia, turning deadly pale, "Pollnitz may betray me if I refuse to open the door." So saying, she sprang forward and drew back the bolt. "Look, now, Mademoiselle von Marwitz," cried Pollnitz, as he bowed profoundly, "was I not right? Our dear princess was graciously pleased to open the door so soon as she heard my voice. Remark that, mademoiselle, and look upon me in future as a most important person, who is not only accorded les grandes but les petites entrees." The Princess Amelia was but little inclined to enter into the jests of the master of ceremonies. "I heard," said she, in a harsh tone, "that you demanded importunately to see me, and you went so far as to declare that the happiness of many men depended upon this interview." "Pardon me, your highness, I only said that the happiness of more than one woman depended upon it; and you will graciously admit that I have spoken the truth when you learn the occasion which brings me here." "Well, let us hear," said Amelia, "and woe to you if it is not a grave and important affair!" "Grave indeed: it concerns the toilets for a ball, and you must confess that the happiness of more than one woman hangs upon this question." "In truth, you are right, and if you came as milliner or dressmaker, Mademoiselle von Marwitz did wrong not to announce you immediately." "Now, ladies, there is nothing less important on hand than a masked ball. The king has commanded that, besides the masked ball which is to take place in the opera-house, and to which the public are invited, another shall be arranged here in the castle on the day before the betrothal of the Princess Ulrica." "And when is that ceremony to take place?" said Amelia. "Has not your royal highness been informed? Ah, I forgot--the king has kept this a secret, and to no one but the queen-mother has it been officially announced. Yes, yes, the Princess Ulrica is to marry this little Prince of Holstein, who will, however, be King of Sweden. This solemn ceremony takes place in four days; so we have but three days before the masquerade, and we must work night and day to prepare the necessary costumes--his majesty wishes it to be a superb fete. Quadrilles are arranged, the king has selected the partners, and I am here at his command, to say to your royal highness that you will take part in these quadrilles. You will dance a quadrille, in the costume of Francis the First, with the Margravine of Baireuth and the Duchess of Brunswick." "And who is to be my partner?" said Amelia, anxiously. "The Margrave von Schwedt." "Ah! my irresistible cousin. I see there the hand of my malicious brother; he knows how dull and wearisome I consider the poor margrave." The princess turned away displeased, and walked up and down the room. "Did you not say that I, also, would take part in the quadrille?" said Mademoiselle von Marwitz. "Certainly, mademoiselle; you will dance in Russian costume." "And who will be my partner?" Pollnitz laughed heartily. "One would think that the most important question was not as to the ball toilet, but as to the partner; that he, in short, was as much a life-question as the color and cut of your robe, or the fashion of your coiffure. So you demand the name of your partner? Ah, mademoiselle, you will be more than content. The partner whom the king has selected for you is one of our youngest, handsomest, most amiable and talented cavaliers; a youth whom Alcibiades would not have been indignant at being compared with, and whom Diana would have preferred, perhaps, to the dreaming and beautiful Endymion, had she found him sleeping. And mark you, you will not only dance with this pearl of creation, but in the next few days you must see and speak with him frequently. It is necessary that you should consult together over the choice and color of your costumes, and about the dances. If your royal highness will allow it, he must come daily to arrange these important points. Alas! why am I not a young maiden? Why can I not enjoy the felicity of loving this Adonis? Why can I not exchange this poor, burnt-out heart for one that glows and palpitates?" "You are a fool, and know nothing about a maiden's heart! In your ecstasy for this Ganymede, who is probably an old crippled monster, you make rare confusion. You force the young girl to play the part of the ardent lover, and give to your monster the character of a cool, vain fop." "Monster? My God! she said monster!" cried Pollnitz, pathetically. "Fall upon your knees, mademoiselle, and pray fervently to your good fortune to forgive you; you have sinned greatly against it, I assure you. You will confess this when I have told you the name of your partner." "Name him, then, at last." "Not before Princess Amelia is gracious enough to promise me that she will watch over and shield you; that she will never allow you a single tete-a-tete with your dangerous partner." "Ah, you will make me the duenna of my maid of honor," said Amelia, laughing. "I shall be the chaperon of my good Marwitz, and shield her from the weakness of her own heart." "If your royal highness declines to give this promise, Mademoiselle Marwitz shall have another partner. I cannot answer to my conscience if she is left alone, unobserved and unprotected, with the most beautiful of the beautiful." "Be merciful, princess, and say yes. For you see well that this terrible Pollnitz will make me a martyr to curiosity. Consent, gracious princess, and then I may perhaps hear the name of my partner." "Well, then," said Amelia, smiling, "I consent to play Mentor to my maid of honor." "Your royal highness promises then, solemnly, to be present at every conference between Mademoiselle von Marwitz and her irresistible partner?" "I promise; be quick! Marwitz will die of curiosity, if you do not tell the name of this wonder." "Well, now, that I have, so far as it is in my power, guarded the heart of this young girl from disaster, and placed it under the protecting eye of our noble princess, I venture to name my paragon. He is the young lieutenant-Baron von Trenck, the favorite of the king and the court." Very different was the impression made by this name upon the two ladies. The eager countenance of Mademoiselle von Marwitz expressed cool displeasure; while the princess, blushing and confused, turned aside to conceal the happy smile which played upon her full, rosy lips. Pollnitz, who had seen all this, wished to give the princess time to collect herself. He turned to Mademoiselle Marwitz and said: "I see, to my amazement, that our lovely maid of honor is not so enraptured as I had hoped. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! you are a wonderful actress, but you cannot deceive me. You wish to seem disappointed and indifferent, in order to induce our gracious princess to withdraw her promise to me, and to think it unnecessary to be present at your interviews with Trenck. This acting is in vain. The princess has given her word, and she will most surely keep it." "Certainly," said Amelia, smiling, "I have no alternative. Queens and princesses, kings and princes, are bound by their promises, even as common men, and their honor demands that they fulfil their contracts. I will keep my word. But enough of jesting for the present. Let us speak now of the solemn realities of life, namely, of our toilets. Baron, give me your model engraving, and make known your views. Call my chambermaid, mademoiselle, and my dressmakers; we will hold a solemn conference." CHAPTER II. THE TEMPTER. As Mademoiselle von Marwitz left the room, Pollnitz took a sealed note from his pocket and handed it hastily to the princess. She concealed it in the pocket of her dress, and continued to gaze indifferently upon a painting of Watteau, which hung upon the wall. "Not one word! Still! Not one word!" whispered Pollnitz. "You are resolved to drive my young friend to despair. You will not grant him one gracious word?" The princess turned away her blushing face, drew a note from her bosom, and, without a glance or word in reply, she handed it to the master of ceremonies, ashamed and confused, as a young girl always is, when she enters upon her first love romance, or commits her first imprudence. Pollnitz kissed her hand with a lover's rapture. "He will be the most blessed of mortals," said he, "and yet this is so small a favor! It lies in the power of your royal highness to grant him heavenly felicity. You can fulfil one wish which his trembling lips have never dared to speak; which only God and the eyes of one faithful friend have seen written in his heart." "What is this wish?" said the princess, in so low and trembling a whisper, that Pollnitz rather guessed than heard her words. "I believe that he would pay with his life for the happiness of sitting one hour at your feet and gazing upon you." "Well, you have prepared for him this opportunity; you have so adroitly arranged your plans, that I cannot avoid meeting him." "Ah, princess, how despondent would he be, if he could hear these cold and cruel words! I must comfort him by this appearance of favor if I cannot obtain for him a real happiness. Your royal highness is very cold, very stern toward my poor friend. My God! he asks only of your grace, that which the humblest of your brother's subjects dare demand of him--an audience--that is all." Amelia fixed her burning eyes upon Pollnitz. "Apage, Satanas!" she whispered, with a weary smile. "You do me too much honor," said Pollnitz. "Unhappily I am not the devil, who is, without doubt, next to God, the most powerful ruler of this earth. I am convinced that three-fourths of our race belong to him. I am, alas! but a poor, weak mortal, and my words have not the power to move the heart of your highness to pity." "My God! Pollnitz, why all this eloquence and intercession?" cried Amelia. "Do I not allow him to write to me all that he thinks and feels? Am I not traitress enough to read all his letters, and pardon him for his love? What more can he dare hope for? Is it not enough that he loves a princess, and tells her so? Not enough--" She ceased suddenly; her eyes, which shrank from meeting the bold, reproachful, and ironical glance of the baron, had wandered restlessly about the room and fell now upon the picture of Watteau; upon the loving, happy pair, who were tenderly embracing under the oaks in the centre of that enchanting landscape. This group, upon which the eye of the princess accidentally rested, was an eloquent and decisive answer to her question--an answer made to the eyes, if not the ears of Amelia--and her heart trembled. Pollnitz had followed her glances, and understood her blushes and her confusion. He stepped to the picture and pointed to the tender lovers. "Gracious princess, demand of these blessed ones, if a man who loves passionately has nothing more to implore of his mistress than the permission to write her letters?" Amelia trembled. She fixed her eyes with an expression of absolute terror upon Pollnitz, who with his fox smile and immovable composure gazed steadily in her face. He had no pity for her girlish confusion, for her modest and maidenly alarm. With gay, mocking, and frivolous jests, he resolved to overcome her fears. He painted in glowing colors the anguish and despair of her young lover; he assured her that she could grant him a meeting in her rooms without danger from curious eyes or ears. Did not the room of the princess open upon this little dark corridor, in which no guard was ever placed, and from which a small, neglected stairway led to the lower stage of the castle? This stairway opened into an unoccupied room, the low windows of which looked out upon the garden of Monbijou. Nothing, then, was necessary but to withdraw the bar from these windows during the day; they could then be noiselessly opened by night, and the room of the princess safely reached. The princess was silent. By no look or smile, no contraction of the brow or expression of displeasure, did she show her emotion, but she listened to these vile and dangerous words; she let the poison of the tempter enter her heart; she had neither the strength nor will to reject his counsel, or banish him from her presence; she had only the power to be silent, and to conceal from Pollnitz that her better self was overcome. "I shall soon reach the goal," said Pollnitz, clapping his hands merrily after leaving the princess. "Yes, yes! the heart of the little Princess Amelia is subdued, and her love is like a ripe fruit-ready to be plucked by the first eager hand. And this, my proud and cruel King Frederick, will be my revenge. I will return shame for shame. If the good people in the streets rejoice to hear the humiliation and shame put upon the Baron von Pollnitz, cried aloud at the corners, I think they will enjoy no less the scandal about the little Princess Amelia. This will not, to be sure, be trumpeted through the streets; but the voice of Slander is powerful, and her lightest whispers are eagerly received." Pollnitz gave himself up for a while to these wicked and cruel thoughts, and he looked like a demon rejoicing in the anguish of his victims. He soon smoothed his brow, however, and assumed his accustomed gay and unembarrassed manner. "But before I revenge myself, I must be paid," said he, with an internal chuckle. "I shall be the chosen confidant in this adventure, and my name is not Pollnitz if I do not realize a large profit. Oh, King Frederick, King Frederick! I think the little Amelia will pay but small attention to your command and your menace. She will lend the poor Pollnitz gold; yes, gold, much gold! and I--I will pay her by my silence." Giving himself up to these happy thoughts, the master of ceremonies sought the young lieutenant, in order to hand him the letter of the princess. "The fortress is ready to surrender," cried he; "advance and storm it, and you will enter the open door of the heart as conqueror. I have prepared the way for you to see the princess every day: make use of your opportunities like a brave, handsome, young, and loving cavalier. I predict you will soon be a general, or a prince, or something great and envied." "A general, a prince, or a high traitor, who must lay his head upon the block and expiate his guilt with his life," said Trench thoughtfully. "Let it be so. In order to become this high traitor, I must first be the happiest, the most enviable of men. I shall not think that too dearly paid for by my heart's blood. Oh, Amelia, Amelia! I love thee boundlessly; thou art my happiness, my salvation, my hope; thou--" "Enough, enough!" said Pollnitz, laughing and placing his hands upon his ears. "These are well-known, well-used, and much-abused phrases, which have been repeated in all languages since the time of Adam, and which after all are only lovely and fantastic lies. Act, my young friend, but say nothing; you know that walls have ears. The table upon which you write your letters, and the portfolio in which you place the letters of the princess, to be guarded to all eternity, both have prying eyes. Prudence, prudence! burn the letters of the princess, and write your own with sympathetic ink or in cipher, so that no man can read them, and none but God and the devil may know your dangerous secret." Trenck did not hear one word of this; he was too happy, too impassioned, too young, to listen to the words of warning and caution of the old roue. He read again and again, and with everincreasing rapture, the letter of the princess; he pressed it to his throbbing heart and glowing lips, and fixed his loving eyes upon those characters which her hand had written and her heart had dictated. Pollnitz looked at him with a subdued smile, and enjoyed his raptures, even as the fox enjoys the graceful flappings of the wings, the gentle movements of the dove, when he knows that she cannot escape him, and grants her a few moments of happiness before he springs upon and strangles her. "I wager that you know that letter by heart," said he, as he slowly lighted a match in order to kindle his cigar; "am I not right? do you not know it by heart?" "Every word is written in letters of flame upon my heart." With a sudden movement, the baron snatched the paper from the young man and held it in the flames, "Stop! stop!" cried Frederick von Trenck, and he tried to tear the letter from him. Pollnitz kept him off with one arm and waved the burning paper over his head. "My God! what have you done?" cried the young man. "I have made a sacrifice to the god of silence," said he solemnly; "I have burnt this paper lest it might be used to light the scaffold upon which you may one day burn as a high traitor. Thank me, young man. I have perhaps saved you from discovery and from death." CHAPTER III. THE WEDDING FESTIVAL OF THE PRINCESS ULRICA. Truly this perfidious friend had, for one day, guarded the secret of the young lovers from discovery; but, the poison, which Pollnitz in his worldly cunning prepared for them, had entered into their hearts. For some days they met under strong restraint; only by stolen glances and sighs, by a momentary pressure of the hand, or a few slightly murmured words, could they give expression to their rapture and their passion. The presence of another held their hearts and lips in bondage. Pollnitz knew full well that there was no surer means to induce a young girl to grant her lover an interview than to force them to meet before strange witnesses, to bring every word and look into captivity, to condemn them to silence and seeming indifference. The glowing heart bounds against these iron bands; it longs to cast off the yoke of silence, and to breathe unfettered as the wanton air. Princess Amelia had borne two days of this martyrdom, and her courage failed. She was resolved to grant him a private interview as soon as he dared ask for it. She wished to see this handsome face, now clouded by melancholy, illuminated by the sunshine of happiness; those sad eyes "should look up clear, and the sorrowful lips should smile; she would make her lover happy!" She thought only of this; it was her only wish. There were many sad hours of pain and anguish, sad hours in which she saw her danger, and wished to escape. In her despair and agony she was almost ready to cast herself at the feet of her mother, to confess all, and seek this sure protection against her own girlish weakness; but the voice of love in her heart held her back from this step; she closed her eyes to the abyss which was before her and pressed panting onward to the brink. If Amelia had had a friend, a sister whom she could love and trust, she might have been saved; but her rank made a true friend impossible; being a princess, she was isolated. Her only friend and sister had alienated her heart, through the intrigues by which she had won the crown of Sweden. Perhaps these costly and magnificent wedding festivities which would have been prepared for her, had she not refused a husband worthy of her birth, aroused her anger, and in her rage and her despair she entered upon dangerous paths, and fell into the cruel snares of Pollnitz. She said to herself: "Yes, all this honor and glory was my own, but my weak heart and my perfidious sister wrenched them from my grasp. Fate offered me a way of escape, but my sister cast me into the abyss in which I now stand; upon her rests the responsibility. Upon her head be my tears, my despair, my misery, and my shame. Ulrica prevented me from being a queen; well, then, I will be simply a young girl, who loves and who offers up all to her beloved, her pride, her rank, and the unstained greatness of her ancestors. For Ulrica be honor, pomp, and power; for me the mystery of love, and a girl's silent happiness. Who can say which of us is most to be envied?" These were indeed happy, sunny days, which were prepared for the bride of Adolph Frederick of Holstein, the Crown Prince of Sweden. Fete succeeded to fete. The whole land took part in the happiness of the royal family. All the provinces and cities sent deputations to congratulate the king, and bring rich gifts to the princess; she who had been always cast into the shade by the more noble and bewildering beauty of her younger sister, had now become the centre of attraction in all these superb festivities which followed each other in quick succession. It was in honor of the Princess Ulrica that the king gave a masked ball in the opera-house, to which the whole city was invited; for her, on the evening of her betrothal, every street in Berlin was brilliantly illuminated with wax-lights, not by command of the king, but as a free-will offering of the people; for her the queen, at Schonhausen, gave a superb ball; for her the Swedish ambassador arranged a fete, whose fabulous pomp and extravagant luxury were supposed to indicate the splendor which awaited her in her new home. Lastly, this ball at the royal palace, to which not only the nobles, but many of the wealthy burghers were invited, was intended as a special compliment to Ulrica. More than three thousand persons moved gayly through these royal saloons, odorous with the perfume of flowers, glittering with waxlights, the glimmer of diamonds, and rich gold and silver embroideries--nothing was to be seen but ravishing toilets and happy faces. All the beauty, youth, rank, fame, and worth of Berlin were assembled at the palace; and behind these lovely ladies and glittering cavaliers, the wondering, gaping crowd, of common men, moved slowly onward, dumb with amazement and delight. The king had commanded that no well-dressed person should be denied entrance to the castle. Those who had cards of invitation were the guests of the king, and wandered freely through the saloons. Those who came without cards had to content themselves behind the silken ropes stretched across one side of the rooms; by means of this rope an almost invisible and yet an insurmountable barrier was interposed between the people and the court circle. It was difficult to preserve the rules and customs of courtly etiquette in such a vast assembly, and more difficult still to see that every man was received and served as the guest of a king, and suitable to his own personal merit. Crowds of lackeys flew through the rooms bearing silver plateaux filled with the richest viands, the most costly fruits, and the rarest wines. Tables were loaded with the luxuries of every clime and season, and the clang of glasses and the sweet sound of happy laughter were heard in every direction. The king expressed a proud confidence in his good people of Berlin, and declined the services of the police. He commissioned some officers of his life-guard to act as his substitute and play the host, attending to the wants and pleasures of all. Supper was prepared in the picture-gallery for the court circle. But what means this wild laughter which echoes suddenly through the vast crowd and reaches the ear of the king, who looks up surprised and questioning to his master of ceremonies, and orders him to investigate the tumult? In a few moments Pollnitz returned, accompanied by a young officer, whose tall and graceful figure, and whose handsome face, glowing with youth, pride, and energy, attracted the attention of the noblest ladies, and won a smile of admiration from the queen-mother. "Sire," said Pollnitz, "a mask in the guise of a thief, and in the zealous pursuit of his calling, has robbed one of the officers who were commanded by your majesty to guard the public peace and property. Look, your majesty, at our young lieutenant, Von Trenck: in the midst of the crowd, his rich, gold-embroidered scarf has been adroitly removed; in his zeal for your service, he forgot himself, and the merry gnome,--whom Trenck should have kept in order, has made our officer the target for his sleight of hand. This jest, sire, caused the loud laughter which you heard." The eyes of the king rested with an expression of kindliness and admiration upon the young man, and the Princess Amelia felt her heart tremble with joy and hope. A rich crimson suffused her cheeks; it made her almost happy to see that her lover was appreciated by her exalted brother and king. "I have watched and wondered at him during the whole evening," said the king, merrily; "his glance, like the eye of Providence, pierces the most distant and most obscure corner, and sees all that occurs. That he who sees all else has forgotten himself, proves that he is not vain, and that he forgets his own interests in the discharge of his public duties. I will remember this and reward him, not in the gay saloon, but on the battle-field, where, I am sure, his scarf will not be taken from him." Frederick gave his hand to the young officer, who pressed it warmly to his lips; then turning to the queen-mother, he said: "Madame, I know that this young man has been commended to you, allow me also to bespeak your favor in his behalf; will your majesty have the grace to instruct him in all the qualities which should adorn a noble cavalier? I will make him a warrior, and then we shall possess a nobleman beyond praise, if not beyond comparison." The king, rising from the table, left his seat and laid his hand kindly upon Trenck's shoulder. "He is tall enough," said Frederick laughing; "for that he may thank Providence; let him not be satisfied with that, but strive to be great, and for that he may thank himself." He nodded graciously to Trenck, gave his arm to the queen-mother, and led her into the ball-room. CHAPTER IV. BEHIND THE CURTAIN. The crowd and heat of the dancing-saloon were intolerable. All wished to see the quadrille in which the two princesses, the loveliest women of the court, and the most gallant cavaliers were to appear. The music also was a special object of interest, as it was composed by the king. The first quadrille closed in the midst of tumultuous applause, restrained by no courtly etiquette. The partners for the second quadrille advanced to the gay and inspiring sound of pipes and drums. The Princess Amelia had withdrawn from the crowd into a window recess. She was breathless and exhausted from the dance and the excitement of the last few days. She required a few moments of rest, of refreshment, and meditation. She drew the heavy silk curtains carefully together, and seated herself upon the little tabouret which stood in the recess. This quiet retreat, this isolation from the thoughtless crowd, brought peace to her soul. It was happiness to close her weary eyes, and indulge in sweet dreams to the sound of this glorious music; to feel herself shut off from the laughing, heartless crowd. She leaned her lovely head upon the cushion, not to sleep but to dream. She thought of her sister, who would soon place a crown upon her head; who had sold herself for this crown to a man whom she had never seen, and of whom she knew nothing, but that he was heir to a throne. Amelia shuddered at the thought that Ulrica had sacrificed her religion to this man, whom she knew not, and had promised at God's altar to love and be faithful to him. In the purity and innocence of her girlish heart she considered this a crime, a sacrilege against love, truth, and faith. "I will never follow Ulrica's example," she whispered to herself. "I will never sell myself. I will obey the dictates of my heart and give myself to the man I love." As she said this, a crimson glow overspread her cheeks, and she opened her eyes wide, as if she hoped to see the man she loved before her, and wished him to read in her steady glance the sweet confirmation of the words she had so lightly whispered. "No, no! I will never marry without love. I love, and as there can be but one true love in a true life, I shall never marry--then--" She ceased and bowed her head upon her bosom, her trembling lips refused to speak the hope and dream of her heart, to give words to the wild, passionate thoughts which burned like lava in her breast, and, like the wild rush of many waters, drowned her reason. She thought that in the eloquence of her great love she might touch the heart of the king, and in the magnanimity of his soul he might allow her to be happy, to place a simple myrtle-wreath upon her brow. She repeated the friendly and admiring words which the king had spoken to her lover. She saw again those wondrous eyes resting with interest and admiration upon the splendid form of the young baron. A happy, playful smile was on her lip. "The king himself finds him handsome and attractive; he cannot then wonder that his sister shares his opinion. He will think it natural that I love him--that-" A wild storm of applause in the saloon interrupted the current of her thoughts. She drew the curtains slightly apart, and gazed into the room. The second quadrille was ended, and the dancers were now sinking upon the tabourets, almost breathless from fatigue. The princess could not only see, but she could hear. Two ladies stood just in front of the curtains behind which she was concealed, engaged in earnest conversation; they spoke of Frederick von Trenck; they were enraptured with his athletic form and glowing eyes. "He has the face of a Ganymede and the figure of a Hercules," said one. "I think him as beautiful as the Apollo Belvedere," said the other; "and then his expression is so pure and innocent. I envy the woman who will be his first love." "You think, then, that he has never loved?" "I am sure of it. The passion and fire of his heart are yet concealed under the veil of youth. He is unmoved by a woman's tender smiles and her speaking and promising glances. He does not understand their meaning." "Have you tried these powerful weapons?" "I have, and I confess wholly in vain; but I have not given up the contest, and I shall renew the attack until--" The ladies now moved slowly away, and the princess heard no more, but she knew their voices; they were Madame von Brandt and Louise von Kleist, whom the king often called the "loveliest of the lovely." Louise von Kleist, the irresistible coquette, who was always surrounded by worshippers and adorers, confessed to her friend that all her tender glances had been unavailing; that she had in vain attempted to melt the ice-rind of his heart. "But she will renew her efforts," cried Amelia, and her heart trembled with its first throb of jealousy. "Oh, I know Louise von Kleist! She will pursue him with her tenderness, her glances of love, and bold encouragement, until he admires, falls at her feet a willing victim. But no, no, I cannot suffer that. She shall not rob me of my only happiness--the golden dream of my young life. He belongs to me, he is mine by the mighty power of passion, he is bound to me by a thousand holy oaths. I am his first love. I am that happy woman whom he adores, and who is envied by the beauteous Louise von Schwerin. He is mine and he shall be mine, in spite of the whole world. I love him, and I give myself to him." And now she once more looked through the curtains and shrank back in sweet surprise. Right before her stood Trenck--the Apollo of Louise von Kleist, the Hercules and the Ganymede of Madame von Brandt, the beloved of the Princess Amelia--Trenck stood with folded arms immovable, and gazed piercingly in the crowd of maskers. Perhaps he sought for Amelia; perhaps he was sorrowful because she had withdrawn herself. Suddenly he heard a soft, low voice whispering: "Do not move, do not turn--remain standing as you are; but if you hear and understand me, bow your head." Frederick von Trenck bowed his head. But the princess could not see the rapturous expression which illuminated his face; she could not know that his breath almost failed him; she could not hear the stormy, tumultuous beating of his heart. "Do you know who speaks? if you recognize me, incline your head." The music sounded loud and clear, and the dancing feet, the gay jest, and merry laughter of five hundred persona gave confidence and security to the lovers, Frederick was not content with this silent sign. He turned toward the recess and said in low tones: "I know the voice of my angel, and I would fall upon my knees and worship her, but it would bring danger and separation." "Still! say no more," whispered the voice; and Trenck knew by its trembling tones, that the maiden was inspired by the same ardent passion which glowed in every fibre of his being. That still small voice sounded in his ears like the notes of an organ: "Say no more, but listen. To-morrow the Princess Ulrica departs for Sweden, and the king goes to Potsdam; you will accompany him. Have you a swift horse that knows the way from Potsdam to Berlin, and can find it by night?" "I have a swift horse, and for me and my horse there is no night." "Four nights from this you will find the window which you know open, and the door which leads to the small stair, only closed. Come at the hour of eleven, and you will receive a compensation for the scarf you have lost this evening. Hush--no word; look not around, move onward indifferently; turn not your head. Farewell! in four days--at eleven--go!" "I had to prepare a coat of mail for him, in order that he might be invulnerable," whispered Amelia tremblingly; exhausted and remorseful, she sank back upon the tabouret. "The beautiful Kleist shall not ravish my beloved from me. He loves me--me alone; and he shall no longer complain of my cruelty. I dare not be cruel! I dare not make him unhappy, for she might comfort him. He shall love nothing but me, only me! If Louise von Kleist pursues him with her arts, I will murder her--that is all!" CHAPTER V. A SHAME-FACED KING. The king laid his flute aside, and walked restlessly and sullenly about his room. His brow was clouded, and he had in vain sought distraction in his faithful friend, the flute. Its soft, melodious voice brought no relief; the cloud was in his heart, and made him the slave of melancholy. Perhaps it was the pain of separation from his sister which oppressed his spirit. The evening before, the princess had taken leave of the Berliners at the opera-house, that is, she had shown herself to them for the last time. While the prima donna was singing her most enchanting melodies, the travelling carriage of Ulrica drove to the door. The king wished to spare himself the agony of a formal parting, and had ordered that she should enter her carriage at the close of the opera, and depart, without saying farewell. The people knew this. They were utterly indifferent to the beautiful opera of "Rodelinda," and fixed their eyes steadily upon the king's loge. They thus took a silent and affectionate leave of their young princess, who appeared before them for the last time, in all the splendor of her youth and beauty, and the dignity of her proud and royal bearing. An unwonted silence reigned throughout the house; all eyes were turned to the box where the princess sat between the two queens. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and the young Prince Ferdinand rushed, with open arms, to his sister. "My dear, dear Ulrica!" he cried, weeping and sobbing painfully, "must it then be so? Do I indeed see you for the last time?" With childish eagerness he embraced his sister, and leaned his head upon her bosom. The princess could no longer control herself; she mingled her tears with those of her brother, and drawing him softly out of view, she whispered weeping and trembling words of tenderness; she implored him not to forget her, and promised to love him always. The queen-mother stood near. She had forgotten that she was a queen, and remembered only that she was a mother about to lose her child forever; the thought of royal dignity and courtly etiquette was for some moments banished from her proud heart; she saw her children heart-broken and weeping before her, and she wept with them. [Footnote: Schneider's "History of the Opera and the Royal OperaHouse."] The people saw this. Never had the most gracious smile, the most condescending word of her majesty, won their hearts so completely as these tears of the mother. Every mother felt for this woman, who, though a queen, suffered a mother's anguish; and every maiden wept with this young girl, who, although entering upon a splendid future, shed hot tears over the happy past and the beloved home. When the men saw their wives and children weeping, and the prince not ashamed of his tears, they also wept, from sympathy and love to the royal house. In place of the gay jest and merry laughter wont to prevail between the acts, scarcely suppressed sobs were the only sounds to be heard. The glorious singer Salimberri was unapplauded. The Barbarina danced, but the accustomed bravos were hushed. Was it the remembrance of this touching scene which moved the king so profoundly? Did this eternal separation from his beloved sister weigh upon his heart? The king himself knew not, or he would not acknowledge to himself what emotion produced this wild unrest. After laying his flute aside, he took up Livy, which lay always upon his writing-table, and tried to read a chapter; but the letters danced before his eyes, and his thoughts wandered far away from the old Roman. He threw the book peevishly aside, and, folding his arms, walked rapidly backward and forward. "Ah me! ah me! I wish this were the day of battle!" he murmured. "To-day I should be surely victorious! I am in a fierce and desperate mood. The wild roar of conflict would be welcome as a sweet home song in a strange land, and the shedding of blood would be medicinal, and relieve my oppressed brain. What is it which has drawn this veil over my spirit? What mighty and mysterious power has stretched her hand over me? With what bounds am I held a helpless captive? I feel, but I cannot see them, and cannot tear them apart. No, no! I will be lord of myself. I will be no silent dreamer. I will live a true life. I will work, and be a faithful ruler, if I cannot be a free and happy man." He rang the bell, and ordered the ministers to assemble for a cabinet council. "I will work, and forget every thing else," he said, with a sad smile, and he entered his cabinet with this proud resolve. This time the king deceived himself. The most earnest occupation did not drive the cloud from his brow: in fact, it became more lowering. "I cannot endure this," he said, after walking backward and forward thoughtfully. "I will put a stop to it. As I am not a Ulysses, I do not see why I should bind my eyes, and stop my ears with wax, in order not to see this bewildering siren, and hear her intoxicating song. In this sorrowful and pitiful world, is it not a happiness to meet with an enchantress, to bow down to the magic of her charms, and for a small half hour to dream of bliss? All other men are mad: why should I alone be reasonable? Come, then, spirit of love and bliss, heavenly insanity, take possession of my struggling soul. Let old age be wise and cool, I am young and warm. For a little while I will play the fool, and forget my miserable dignity." Frederick called his servant, and sent for General Rothenberg, then took his flute and began to play softly. When the general entered, the king nodded to him, but quietly finished his adagio; then laid the flute aside, and gave his hand to his friend. "You must be Pylades, my friend, and banish the despondency which oppresses the heart and head of thy poor Orestes." "I will be all that your majesty allows or commands me to be," said the general, laughing; "but I think the queen-mother would be little pleased to hear your majesty compare yourself to Orestes." "Ah, you allude to Clytemnestra's faithless love-story, with which, truly, my exalted and virtuous mother cannot be associated. Well, my comparison is a little lame, but my despondency is real--deeply seated as my friendship for you." "How! your majesty is melancholy? I understand this mood of my king," said Rothenberg. "It only takes possession of you the day before some great deed, and only then because the night before the day of triumph seems too long. Your majesty confesses that you are sad. I conclude, therefore, that we will soon have war, and soon rejoice in the victories of our king." "Perhaps you are right," said the king, smiling. "I do not love war, but it is sometimes a necessary evil; and if I cannot relieve my godmother, Maria Theresa, of this mortal malady of pride and superciliousness without a general blood-letting, I must even play the physician and open a vein. The alliance with France is concluded; Charles the Seventh goes to Frankfort for coronation; the French ambassador accompanies him, and my army stands ready for battle, ready to protect the emperor against Austria. We will soon have war, friend, and I hope we will soon have a victory to celebrate. In a few weeks we will advance. Oh, Rothenberg! when I speak of battle, I feel that I am young, that my heart is not of stone--it bounds and beats as if it would break down its prison walls, and found a new home of glory and fame." "The heart of my king will be ever young; it is full of trust and kindliness." Frederick shook his head thoughtfully. "Do not believe that, Rothenberg; the hands that labor become hard and callous, and so is it with the heart. Mine has labored and suffered; it will turn at last to stone. Then I shall be condemned. The world will forget that it is responsible; they will speak only of my hard heart, and say nothing of the anguish and the deceptions which have turned me to stone. But what of that? Let these foolish two-legged creatures, who proudly proclaim that they are made in the image of God, say what they please of me; they cannot deprive me of my fame and my immortality. He who possesses that has received his reward, and dare utter no complaint. Truly Erostratus and Schinderhannes are celebrated, and Eulenspiegle is better known and beloved by the people than Socrates." "This proves that Wisdom herself must take the trouble to make herself popular," said Rothenberg. "True fame is only obtained by popularity. Alexander the Great and Caesar were popular, and their names were therefore in the mouths of the people. This was their inheritance, handed down from generation to generation, from father to son. So will it be with King Frederick the Second. He is not only the king and the hero, but he is the man of the people. His fame will not be written alone on the tablets of history by the Muses; the people will write it on the pure, white, vacant leaves of their Bibles; the children and grandchildren will read it; and, centuries hence, the curious searchers into history will consider this as fame, and exalt the name of Frederick the Great." "God grant it may be so!" said the king solemnly. "You know that I am ambitious. I believe that this passion is the most enduring, and that its burning thirst is never quenched. As crown prince, I was ever humiliated by the thought that the love, consideration, and respect shown to me was no tribute to my worth, but was offered to a prince, the son of a powerful king. With what admiration, with what enthusiasm did I look at Voltaire! he needed no high birth, no title, to be considered, honored, and envied by the whole world. I, however, must have rank, title, princely revenues, and a royal genealogical tree, in order to fix the eyes of men upon me. Ah, how often did I remind myself of the history of that great prince, who, surrounded by his enemies, and about to surrender, saw his servants and friends despairing and weeping around him! He smiled upon them, and uttered these few but expressive words: 'I feel by your tears that I am still a king.' I swore then to be like that noble man, to owe my fame, not to my royal mantle, but to myself. I have fulfilled but a small portion of my oath. I hope that my godmother, Maria Theresa, and the Russian empress, will soon afford me more enlarged opportunities. Our enemies are indeed our best friends; they enrage and inspire us." "In so saying, sire, you condemn us all, we who are the most faithful, submissive, and enthusiastic friends of your highness." "You are also useful to me," said the king. "You, for example, your cheerful, loving face does me good whenever I look upon it. You keep my heart young and fresh, and teach me to laugh, which pleasant art I am constantly forgetting in the midst of these wearisome and hypocritical men. I never laugh so merrily as when I am with you at your table, where I have the high privilege of laying aside my royalty, and being a simple, happy man like yourself. I rejoice in the prospect of this evening, and I am impatient as a young maiden before her first ball. This evening, if I remember correctly, I am invited by General von Rothenberg to a petit souper." "Your majesty was kind enough to promise me that you would come." "Do you know, Rothenberg, I really believe that the expectation of this fete has made the hours of the day so long and wearisome. Now, tell me, who are we to have? who takes part in our gayety?" "Those who were selected by your majesty: Chazot and Algarotti, Jordan and Bielfeld." "Did I select the company?" said the king, thoughtfully; "then I wonder that--" He stopped, and, looking down, turned away silently. "What causes your majesty's wonder?" said the general. "I am surprised that I did not ask you to give us Rhine wine this evening," said the king, with a sly smile. "Rhine wine! why, your majesty has often told me that it was a slow poison, and produced death." "Yes, that is true, but what will you have? There are many things in this incomprehensible world which are poisonous, and which, for that reason, are the more alluring. This is peculiarly so with women. He does well who avoids them; they bewilder our reason and make our hearts sick, but we do not flee from them. We pursue them, and the poison which they infuse in our veins is sweet; we quaff it rapturously, though death is in the cup." "In this, however, your majesty is wiser than all other men: you alone have the power to turn away from or withstand them." "Who knows? perhaps that is sheer cowardice," said the king; he turned away confused, and beat with his fingers upon the windowglass. "I called the Rhine wine poison, because of its strength. I think now that it alone deserves to be called wine--it is the only wine which has bloom." Frederick was again silent, and beat a march upon the window. The general looked at him anxiously and thoughtfully; suddenly his countenance cleared, and a half-suppressed smile played upon his lips. "I will allow myself to add a conclusive word to those of my king, that is, a moral to his fable. Your majesty says Rhine wine is the only wine which deserves the name, because it alone has bloom. So I will call that society only society which is graced and adorned by women. Women are the bloom of society. Do you not agree with me, sire?" "If I agree to that proposition, it amounts to a request that you will invite women to our fete this evening--will it not?" said the king, still thrumming on the window. "And with what rapture would I fulfil your wish, but I fear it would be difficult to induce the ladies to come to the house of a young bachelor as I am!" "Ah, bah! I have determined during the next winter to give these little suppers very often. I will have a private table, and women shall be present." "Yes, but your majesty is married." "They would come if I were a bachelor. The Countess Carnas, Frau von Brandt, the Kleist, and the Morien, are too witty and too intellectual to be restrained by narrow-minded prejudice." "Does your majesty wish that I should invite these ladies?" said the general; "they will come, without doubt, if your majesty commands it. Shall I invite them?" The king hesitated a moment to reply. "Perhaps they would not come willingly," said he; "you are unmarried, and they might be afraid of their husbands' anger." "I must, then, invite ladies who are not married," said Rothenberg, whose face was now radiant with delight; "but I do not know one unmarried lady of the higher circles who carries her freedom from prejudice so far as to dare attend a bachelor's supper." "Must we always confine our invitations to the higher circles?" said the king, beating his parade march still more violently upon the window. Rothenberg watched him with the eye of a sportsman, who sees the wild deer brought to bay. "If your majesty will condescend to set etiquette aside, I will make a proposition." "Etiquette is nonsense and folly, and shall not do the honors by our petits soupers; pleasure only presides." "Then I propose that we invite some of the ladies from the theatre-is your majesty content?" "Fully! but which of the ladies?" said the king. "That is your majesty's affair," said Rothenberg, smiling. "You have selected the gentlemen, will it please you to name the ladies?" "Well, then," said the king, hesitating, "what say you to Cochois, Astrea, and the little Petrea?" "Sire, they will be all most welcome; but I pray you to allow me to add one name to your list, the name of a woman who is more lovely, more gracious, more intellectual, more alluring, than all the prima donnas of the world; who has the power to intoxicate all men, not excepting emperors and kings, and make them her willing slaves. Dare I name her, sire?" "Certainly." "The Signora Barbarina." The king turned his head hastily, and his burning eyes rested questioningly upon the face of Rothenberg, who met his glance with a merry look. Frederick was silent; and the general, making a profound bow, said solemnly: "I pray your majesty to allow me to invite Mesdames Cochois, Astrea, and Petrea, also the Signora Barbarina, to our petit souper." "Four prima donnas at once!" said the king, laughing; "that would be dangerous; we would, perhaps, have the interesting spectacle of seeing them tear out each other's eyes. No, no! to enjoy the glories of the sun, there must be no rival suns in the horizon; we will invite but one enchantress, and as you are the host, you have the undoubted right to select her. Let it be then the Signora Barbarina." [Footnote: Rodenbeck: "Journal of Frederick the Great."] "Your majesty graciously permits me to invite the Signora Barbarina?" said Rothenberg, looking the king steadily in the face; a rich blush suffused the cheeks of Frederick. Suddenly he laughed aloud, and laying his arm around the neck of his friend, he looked in his radiant face with an expression of confidence and love. "You are a provoking scamp," said Frederick. "You understood me from the beginning, and left me hanging, like Absalom, upon the tree. That was cruel, Rothenberg." "Cruel, but well deserved, sire. Why would you not make known your wishes clearly? Why leave me to guess them?" "Why? My God! it is sometimes so agreeable and convenient to have your wishes guessed. The murder is out. You will invite the beautiful Barbarina. You can also invite another gentleman, an artist, in order that the lovely Italian may not feel so lonely amongst us barbarians." "What artist, sire?" "The painter Pesne; go yourself to invite him. It might be well for him to bring paper and pencil--he will assuredly have an irresistible desire to make a sketch of this beautiful nymph." "Command him to do so, sire, and then to make a life-size picture from the sketch." "Ah! so you wish a portrait of the Barbarina?" "Yes, sire; but not for myself." "For whom, then?" "To have the pleasure of presenting it to my king." "And why?" "Because I am vain enough to believe that, as my present, the picture would have some value in your eyes," said Rothenberg, mockingly. "What cares my king for a portrait of the Barbarina? Nothing, sans doute. But when this picture is not only painted by the great Pesne, but is also the gift of a dear, faithful friend, I wager it will be highly appreciated by your majesty, and you will perhaps be gracious enough to hang it in your room." "You! you!" said the king, pointing his finger threateningly at Rothenberg, "I am afraid of you. I believe you listen to and comprehend my most secret thoughts, and form your petition according to my wishes. I will, like a good-natured, easy fool, grant this request. Go and invite the Barbarina and the painter Pesne, and commission him to paint a life-size picture of the fair one. [Footnote: This splendid picture of Barbarina hung for a long time in the king's cabinet, and is still to be seen in the Royal Palace at Berlin.] Pesne must have several sketches, and I will choose from amongst them." "I thank your majesty," cried the general; "and now have the goodness to dismiss me--I must make my preparations." As Rothenberg stood upon the threshold, the king called him. "You have guessed my thoughts, and now I will prove to you that I read yours. You think I am in love." "In love? What! I dare to think that?" said the general; and folding his hands he raised his eyes as if in prayer. "Shall I dare to have such an unholy thought in connection with my anointed king?" The king laughed heartily. "As to my sanctity, I think the holy Antonius will not proclaim me as his brother. But I am not exactly in love." He stepped to the window, upon the sill of which a Japanese rose stood in rich bloom; he plucked one of the lovely flowers, and handing it to the general, he said: "Look, now! is it not enchantingly beautiful? Think you, that because I am a king, I have no heart, no thirst for beauty? Go! but remember that, though a king, I have the eyes and the passions of other men. I, too, am intoxicated by the perfume of flowers and the beauty of women." CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS. The night was dark and still; so dark in the garden of Monbijou, that the keenest eye could not detect the forms of the two men who slipped stealthily among the trees; so still, that the slightest contact of their clothing with the motionless leaves, and the slightest footstep in the sand could be heard. But, happily, there was none to listen; unchallenged and unseen, the two muffled figures entered the avenue, at the end of which stood the little palace, the summer residence of the queen-mother. Here they rested for a moment, and cast a searching glance at the building, which stood also dark and silent before them. "No light in the windows of the queen-mother," whispered one; "all asleep." "Yes, all asleep, we have nothing to fear; let us go onward." The last speaker made a few hasty steps forward, but his companion seized him hastily by the arm, and held him hack. "You forget, my young Hotspur, that we must wait for the signal. Still! still! do not stamp so impatiently with your feet; you need not shake yourself like a young lion. He who goes upon such adventures must, above all things, be self-possessed, cautious, and cool. Believe me, I have had a long range of experience, and in this species of love adventure I think I might possibly rival the famous King Charles the Second, of England." "But here there is no question of love adventure, Baron Pollnitz," said his companion impatiently, almost fiercely. "Not of love adventure, Baron Trenck! well, may I dare to ask what is the question?" "A true--an eternal love!" "Ah! a true, an eternal love," repeated Pollnitz, with a dry, mocking laugh. "All honor to this true love, which, with all the reasons for its justification, and all the pathos of its heavenly source, glides stealthily to the royal palace, and hides itself under the shadow of the silent night. My good young sentimentalist, remember I am not a novice like yourself; I am an old fogy, and call things by their right names. Every passion is a true and eternal love, and every loved one is an angel of virtue, beauty, and purity, until we weary of the adventure, and seek a new distraction." "You are a hopeless infidel," said Trenck, angrily; "truly he who has changed his faith as often as you have, has no religion--not even the religion of love. But look! a light is shown, and the window is opened; that is the signal." "You are right, that is the signal. Let us go," whispered Pollnitz; and he stepped hastily after the young officer. And now they stood before the window on the ground floor, where the light had been seen for a moment. The window was half open. "We have arrived," said Trenck, breathing heavily; "now, dear Pollnitz, farewell; it cannot certainly be your intention to go farther. The princess commissioned you to accompany me to the castle, but she did not intend you should enter with me. You must understand this. You boast that you are rich in experience, and will therefore readily comprehend that the presence of a third party is abhorrent to lovers. I know that you are too amiable to make your friends wretched. Farewell, Baron Pollnitz." Trenck was in the act of springing into the window, but the strong arm of the master of ceremonies held him back. "Let me enter first," said he, "and give me a little assistance. Your sophistical exposition of the words of our princess is entirely thrown away. She said to me, 'At eleven o'clock I will expect you and the Baron von Trenck in my room.' That is certainly explicit--as it appears to me, and needs no explanation. Lend me your arm." With a heavy sigh, Trenck gave the required assistance, and then sprang lightly into the room. "Give me your hand, and follow cautiously," said Pollnitz. "I know every step of the way, and can guard you against all possible accidents. I have tried this path often in former years, particularly when Peter the Great and his wife, with twenty ladies of her suite, occupied this wing of the castle." "Hush!" said Trenck; "we have reached the top--onward, silently. "Give me your hand, I will lead you." Carefully, silently, and on tip-toe, they passed through the dark corridor, and reached the door, through which a light shimmered. They tapped lightly upon the door, which was immediately opened. The confidential chambermaid of the princess came forward to meet them, and nodded to them silently to follow her; they passed through several rooms; at last she paused, and said, earnestly: "This is the boudoir of the princess; enter--you are expected." With a hasty movement, Trenck opened the door--this door which separated him from his first love, his only hope of happiness. He entered that dimly-lighted room, toward which his weary, longing eyes had been often turned almost hopelessly. His heart beat stormily, his breathing was irregular, he thought he might die of rapture; he feared that in the wild agitation of the moment he might utter a cry, indicative as much of suffering as of joy. There, upon the divan, sat the Princess Amelia. The hanging lamp lighted her face, which was fair and colorless. She tried to rise and advance to meet him, but she had no power; she extended both her hands, and murmured a few unintelligible words. Frederick von Trenck's heart read her covered her hands with his kisses and knees, and murmured words of rapture, joy--words which filled the trembling meaning; he rushed forward and his tears; he fell upon his of glowing thanks, of blessed heart of Amelia with delight. All this fell upon the cold but listening ears of the master of ceremonies, and seemed to him as sounding brass and the tinkling cymbal. He hid discreetly and modestly withdrawn to the back part of the room; but he looked on like a worldling, with a mocking smile at the rapture of the two lovers. He soon found, however, that the role which he was condemned to play had its ridiculous and humiliating aspect, and he resolved to bear it no longer. He came forward, and with his usual cool impertinence he approached the princess, who greeted him with a crimson blush and a silent bow. "Pardon me, your royal highness, if I dare to ask you to decide a question which has arisen between my friend Trenck and myself. He did not wish to allow me to accompany him farther than the castle window. I declared that I was authorized by your royal highness to enter with him this holiest of holies. Perhaps, however, I was in error, and have carried my zeal in your service too far. I pray you, therefore, to decide. Shall I go or stay?" The princess had by this time entirely recovered her composure. "Remain," said she, with a ravishing smile, and giving her hand to the baron. "You were our confidant from the beginning, and I desire you to be wholly so. I wish you to be fully convinced that our love, though compelled for a while to seek darkness and obscurity, need not shun the eye of a friend. And who knows if we may not one day need your testimony? I do not deceive myself. I know that this night my good and evil genius are struggling over my future--that misfortune and shame have already perhaps stretched their wings over my head; but I will not yield to them without a struggle. It may be that one day I shall require your aid. Remain, therefore." Pollnitz bowed silently. The princess fixed her glance upon her lover, who, with a clouded brow and sad mien, stood near. She understood him, and a smile played upon her full, red lip. "Remain, Von Pollnitz, but allow us to step for a moment upon the balcony. It is a wondrous night. What we two have to say to each other, only heaven, with its shining stars, dare hear; I believe they only can understand our speech." "I thank you! oh, I thank you!" whispered Trenck, pressing the hand of Amelia to his lips. "Your royal highness, then, graciously allowed me to come here," said Pollnitz, with a complaining voice, "in order to give me up entirely to my own thoughts, and force me to play the part of a Trappist. I shall, if I understand rightly my privileges, like the lion in the fairy tale, guard the door of that paradise in which my young friend revels in his first sunny dream of bliss. Your royal highness must confess that this is cruel work; but I am ready to undertake it, and place myself, like the angel with the flaming sword, before the door, ready to slay any serpent who dares undertake to enter this elysium." The princess pointed to a table upon which game, fruit, and Spanish wine had been placed. "You will find there distraction and perhaps consolation, and I hope you will avail yourself of it. Farewell, baron; we place ourselves under your protection; guard us well." She opened the door and stepped with her lover upon the balcony. Pollnitz looked after them contemptuously. "Poor child! she is afraid of herself; she requires a duenna, and that she should have chosen exactly me for that purpose was a wonderful idea. Alas! my case is indeed pitiful; I am selected to play the part of a duenna. No one remembers that I have ears to hear and teeth to bite. I am supposed to see, nothing more. But what shall I see, what can I see in this dark night, which the god of love has so clouded over in compassion to this innocent and tender pair of doves? This was a rich, a truly romantic and girlish idea to grant her lover a rendezvous, it is true, under God's free heaven, but upon a balcony of three feet in length, with no seat to repose upon after the powerful emotions of a burning declaration of love. Well, for my part I find it more comfortable to rest upon this divan and enjoy my evening meal, while these two dreamers commune with the night-birds and the stars." He threw himself upon the seat, seized his knife and fork, and indulged himself in the grouse and truffles which had been prepared for him. CHAPTER VII. ON THE BALCONY. Without, upon the balcony, stood the two lovers. With their arms clasped around each other, they gazed up at the dark heavens--too deeply moved for utterance. They spoke to each other in the exalted language of lovers (understood only by the angels), whose words are blushes, sighs, glances, and tender pressures of the hand. In the beginning this was their only language. Both shrank from interrupting this sweet communion of souls by earthly material speech. Suddenly their glances fell from heaven earthward. They sought another heaven, and other and dearer stars. Their eyes, accustomed to the darkness, met; their blushes and their happy smiles, though not seen, were understood and felt, and at the same moment they softly called each other's names. This was their first language, soon succeeded by passionate and glowing protestations on his part; by blushing, trembling confessions on hers. They spoke and looked like all the millions of lovers who have found themselves alone in this old world of ours. The same old story, yet ever new. The conduct, hopes, and fears of these young lovers could not be judged by common rules. Theirs was a love which could not hope for happiness or continuance; for which there was no perfumed oasis, no blooming myrtle-wreath to crown its dark and stormy path. They might be sure that the farther they advanced, the more trackless and arid would be the desert opening before them. Tears and robes of mourning would constitute their festal adorning. "Why has Destiny placed you so high above me that I cannot hope to reach you? can never climb the ladder which leads to heaven and to happiness?" said Trenck, as he knelt before the princess. She played thoughtfully with his long dark hair, and a burning tear rolled slowly over her cheek and fell upon his brow. That was her only answer. Trenck shuddered. He dashed the tear from his face with trembling horror. "Oh, Amelia! you weep; you have no word of consolation, of encouragement, of hope for me?" "No word, my friend; I have no hope, no consolation. I know that a dark and stormy future awaits us. I know that this cloudy night, under whose shadow we for the first time join our hands will endure forever; that for us the sun will never shine. I know that the moment our glances first met, my protecting angel veiled her face and, weeping, left me. I know that it would have been wiser and better to give your heart, with its treasures, to a poor beggar-girl on the street, than to consecrate it to the sister of a king--to the poor Princess Amelia." "Stop, stop!" cried Trenck, still on his knees, and bowing his head almost to the earth. "Your words pierce my heart like poisoned daggers, and yet I feel that they are truth itself. Yes, I was indeed a bold traitor, in that I dared to raise my eyes to you; I was a blasphemer, in that I, the unconsecrated, forced myself into the holy temple of your heart; upon its altar the vestal flame of your pure and innocent thoughts burned clearly, until my hot and stormy sighs brought unrest and wild disorder. But I repent. There is yet time. You are bound to me by no vow, no solemn oath. Oh, Amelia! lay this scarcely-opened flower of our first young love by the withered violet-wreaths of your childhood, with which even now you sometimes play and smile upon in quiet and peaceful hours; to which you whisper: 'You were once beautiful and fragrant; you made me happy--but that is past.' Oh, Amelia! yet is there time; give me up; spurn me from you. Call your servants and point me out to them as a madman, who has dared to glide into your room; whose passion has made him blind and wild. Give me over to justice and to the scaffold. Only save yourself from my love, which is so cowardly, so egotistic, so hard-hearted; it has no strength in itself to choose banishment or death. Oh, Amelia! cast me away from your presence; trample me under your feet. I will die without one reproach, without one complaint. I will think that my death was necessary to save you from shame, from the torture of a long and dreary existence. All this is still in your power. I have no claim upon you; you are not mine; you have listened to my oaths, but you have not replied to them; you are free. Spurn me, then, you are bound by no vow." Amelia raised her arm slowly and solemnly toward heaven. "I love you! May God hear me and accept my oath! I love you, and I swear to be yours; to be true and faithful; never to wed any other man!" "Oh, most unhappy woman! oh, greatly Throwing his arms around her neck he "Amelia, Amelia! these are not tears from wretchedness, from anguish, for to be pitied!" cried Trenck. laid his head upon her bosom. of rapture, of bliss. I weep your dear sake. Ah, no! I will not accept your oath. I have not heard your words--those heavenly words which would have filled my heart with light and gladness, had they not contained your fatal condemnation. Oh, my beloved! you swear that you love me? That is, to sacrifice all the high privileges of your rank; the power and splendor which would surround a husband of equal birth--a throne, a royal crown. Beware! when I once accept your love, then you are mine; then I will never release you; not to the king--not even to God. You will be mine through all time and all eternity; nothing shall tear you from my arms, not even your own wish, your own prayers. Oh, Amelia! do you see that I am a madman, insane from rapture and despair! Should you not flee from a maniac? Perhaps his arm, imbued with giant strength, seeking to hold you ever to his heart, might crush you. Fly, then; spurn me from you; go to your room; go, and say to this mocking courtier, to whom nothing is holy, not even our love, who is surprised, at nothing--go and say to him: 'Trenck was a madman; I summoned him for pity; I hoped by mildness and forbearance to heal him. I have succeeded; he is gone. Go, now, and watch over your friend.' I will not contradict your words; so soon as you cross the threshold of the door, I will spring from the balcony. I will be careful; I will not stumble; I will not dash my head against the stones; I will not be found dead under your window; no trace of blood shall mark my desperate path. My wounds are fatal, but they shall bleed inwardly; only upon the battle-field will I lie down to die. Amid the roar of cannon I shall not be heard; I dare call your name with the last sigh which bursts from my icy lips; my last words of love will mingle with the convulsive groans of the dying. Flee, then! flee from wretchedness and despair. May God bless you and make you happy!" Trenck drew aside reverentially, that she might pass him; but she moved not--her eyes were misty with tears, tears of love, of heavenly peace. Amelia laid her soft hand upon his shoulder. Her eyes, which were fixed upon his face, had a wondrous glow. Love and high resolve were written there. "Two of the brightest stars in yonder heavens did wander in our sphere." Trenck looked upon her, and saw and felt that we are indeed made in the image of God. "I seek no safety in flight. I remain by your side; I love you, I love you! This is no trembling, sighing, blushing, sentimental love of a young maiden. I offer you the love of a bold, proud woman, who looks shame and death in the face. In the fire of my anguish, my love has become purified and hardened; in this flame it has forgotten its girlish blushes, and is unbending and unconquerable. I have baptized it with my tears; I have taken it to my heart, as a mother takes her new-born child whose existence is her condemnation, her dishonor, her shame; whom she loves boundlessly, and blesses even while weeping over it! I also weep, and I feel that condemnation and shame are my portion. I also bless my love; I think myself happy and enviable. God has blessed me; He has sent one pure, burning ray of His celestial existence into my heart, and taught me how to love unchangeably, immortally." "Oh, Amelia, why cannot I die now?" cried Trenck, falling powerless at her feet. She stooped and raised him up with a strong hand. "Rise," she said; "we must stand erect, side by side, firm and cool. When you kneel before me, I fear that you see in me a princess, the sister of a king. I am simply your beloved, the woman who adores you. Look you, Trenck, I do not say 'the young girl;' in my interior life I am no longer that. This fearful battle with myself has made me old and cautious. A young girl is trembling and cowardly. I am firm and brave; a young girl blushes when she confesses her love; I do not confess, I declare and glory in my passion. A young girl shudders when she thinks of dishonor and misery, of the power and rage and menaces of her family; when with prophetic eye she sees a herald clad in mourning announcing her dark fate. I shudder not. I am no weak maiden; I am a woman who loves without limit, unchangeably, eternally." She threw her arms around him, and a long and blessed pause ensued. Lightly whispered the wind in the tops of the lofty poplars and oaks of the garden; unnumbered stars came out in their soft splendor and looked down upon this slumbering world. Many slept, forgetful alike of their joys and their griefs; some, rejoicing in unhoped-for happiness, looked up with grateful and loving hearts; others, with convulsive wringings of the hands and wild cries of anguish, called upon Heaven for aid. What know the stars of this? they flash and glimmer alike upon the happy and the despairing. The earth and sky have no tears, no sympathy for earthly passions. Amelia released herself from the arms of her lover and fixed her eyes upon the heavens. Suddenly a star fell, marking its downward and rapid flight with a line of silver; in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, it was extinguished. "An evil omen!" cried she, pointing upward. With a mysterious sympathy, Trenck had looked up at the same moment. "The heavens will not deceive us, Amelia; they warn us, but this warning comes too late. You are mine, you have sworn that you love me; I have accepted your vows. May God also have heard them, and may He be gracious to us! Is it not written that Faith can remove mountains? that she is more powerful than the mightiest kings of the earth; stronger than death--that conquerors and heroes fall before her? Let us, then, have faith in our love; let us be strong in hope, in patience, in constancy." "My brother says we shall soon have war. Will you not win a wreath of laurel upon the battle-field? who can know but the king may value it as highly, may consider it as glorious, as a princely crown? All my sisters are married to princes; perhaps my royal brother may pardon me for loving a hero whose brow is bound by a laurel-wreath alone." "Swear to me, Amelia, to wait--to be patient, to give me time to reach this goal, which you paint in such heavenly colors." "I swear!" "You will never be the wife of another?" "I will never be the wife of another." "Be it prince or king; even if your brother commands it?" "Be it prince or king; even if my brother commands it, I will never obey him." "God, my God! you have heard our vows." While speaking, he took Amelia's head in his hands softly and bowed it down as if it were a holy sacrifice which he offered up to Heaven. "You have heard her oath: O God, punish her, crush her in your wrath, if she prove false!" "I will be faithful to the end. May God punish me if I fail!" "And now, beloved, you are mine eternally. Let me press our betrothal kiss upon your sweet lips; you are my bride, my wife. Tremble not now, turn not away from my arms; you have no other refuge, no other strong fortress than my heart, but it is a rock on which you can safely build; its foundation is strong, it can hold and sustain you. If the storm is too fierce, we can plunge together into the wild, raging sea, and be buried in the deep. Oh, my bride, let me kiss your lips; you are sanctified and holy in my eyes till the glorious day in which life or death shall unite us." "No, you shall not kiss me; I embrace you, my beloved," and she pressed her soft full lips, which no untruthful, immodest word had ever desecrated, to his. It was a kiss holy, innocent, and pure as a maiden's prayer. "And now, my beloved, farewell," said Amelia, after a long pause, in which their lips had been silent, but their hearts had spoken to each other and to God. "Go," she said; "night melts into morn, the day breaks!" "My day declines, my night comes on apace," sighed Trenck. "When do we meet again?" Amelia looked up, smilingly, to the heavens. "Ask the stars and the calendar when the heavens are dark, and the moon hides her fair face; then I expect you--the window will be open and the door unbarred." "The moon has ever been thought to be the friend of lovers," said Trenck, pressing the hand of the princess to his heart; "but I hate her with a perfect hatred, she robs me of my happiness." "And now, let us return to Baron Pollnitz, who is, without doubt, impatient." "Why must he always accompany me, Amelia? why will you not allow me to come alone?" "Why? I scarcely know myself. It seems to me we are safer when watched over by the eye of a friend; perhaps I am unduly anxious; a warning voice whispers me that it is better so. Pollnitz has become the confidant of our love, let us trust him fully; let him know that, though traitors and meriting punishment in the sight of men, we are not guilty in the sight of God, and have no cause to blush or look down. Pollnitz must always accompany you." "Ah, Amelia!" sighed Trenck; "you have not forgotten that you are a princess. Love has not wholly conquered you. You command. It is not so with me. I submit, I obey, and I am silent. Be it as you will: Pollnitz shall always accompany me--only promise me to come ever upon the balcony." "I promise! and now, beloved, let us say farewell to God, to the heavens, to the soft stars, and the dark night, which has spread her mantle over us and allowed us to be happy." "Farewell, farewell, my happiness, my love, my pride, my hope, my future! Oh, Amelia, why cannot I go this moment into battle, and pluck high honors which will make me more worthy of you?" They embraced for the last time, and then stepped into the room. Pollnitz still sat on the divan before the table. Only a poor remnant of the feast remained; his tongue had been forced to silence in this lonely room, but he had been agreeably occupied with the game, fruits, jellies, and wine which were placed before him; he had stretched himself comfortably upon the sofa, and was quietly enjoying the blessed feeling of a healthy and undisturbed digestion. At last he had fallen asleep, or seemed so; it was some moments before Trenck succeeded in forcing him to open his eyes. "You are very cruel, young friend," said he, rising up; "you have disturbed me in the midst of a wondrous and rapturous dream." "Might I inquire into this dream?" said the princess. "Ah, your royal highness, I dreamed of the only thing which would ever surprise or enrapture me in this comical and good-for-nothing world. I dreamed I had no creditors, and heaps of gold." "And your dream differs widely from the reality?" "Yes, my gracious princess, just the opposite is true. I have unnumbered creditors, and no gold." "Poor Pollnitz! how do you propose to free yourself from this painful embarrassment?" "Ah, your royal highness, I shall never attempt it! I am more than content when I can find some soothing palliatives for this chronic disease, and, at least, find as many louis d'ors in my pocket as I have creditors to threaten me." "And is that now your happy state?" "No, princess, I have only twelve louis d'ors." "And how many creditors?" "Two-and-thirty." "So twenty louis d'ors are wanting to satisfy your longing?" "Yes, unhappily." The princess walked to her table and took from it a little roll of gold, which she handed to the master of ceremonies. "Take it," said she, smiling; "yesterday I received my pin-money for the month, and I rejoice that I am in a condition to balance your creditors and your louis d'ors at this time." Pollnitz took the gold without a blush, and kissed the hand of the princess gallantly. "Ah! I have but one cause of repentance," sighed he. "Well, what is that?" "That I did not greatly increase the number of my creditors. My God! who could have guessed the magnanimous intentions of my royal princess?" CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST CLOUD. Drunk with happiness, revelling in the recollection of this first interview with his lovely and exalted mistress, Frederick von Trenck rode slowly through the lonely highways toward Potsdam. It was not necessary for him to pay any attention to the road, as his horse knew every foot of the way. Trenck laid his bridle carelessly upon the neck of the noble animal, and gave himself up entirely to meditation. Suddenly night waned, the vapors melted, light appeared in the east, and the first purple glow was succeeded by a clear, soft blue. The larks sang out their joyous morning song in the heavens, not yet disturbed by the noise and dust of the day. Trenck heard not the song of the lark, he saw not the rising sun, which, with his golden rays, illuminated the landscape, and changed the dew-drops in the cups of the flowers into shimmering diamonds and rubies; he was dreaming, dreaming. The sweet and wondrous happiness of the last few hours intoxicated his soul; he recalled every word, every smile, every pressure of the hand of his beloved, and a crimson blush suffused his cheek, a sweet tremor oppressed his heart, as he remembered that she had been clasped in his arms; that he had kissed the pure, soft, girlish lips, whose breath was fresher and more odorous than the glorious morning air which fanned his cheeks and played with his long dark hair. With a radiant smile and proudly erected head, he recalled the promise of the princess. She had given him reason to hope; she believed in the possibility of their union. And why, indeed, might not this be possible? Had not his career in the last few months been so brilliant as to excite the envy of his comrades? was he not recognized as the special favorite of the king? Scarcely six months had passed since he arrived in Berlin; a young, poor, and unknown student, he was commended to the king by his protector, the Count von Lottum, who earnestly petitioned his majesty to receive him into his life-guard. The king, charmed by his handsome and martial figure, by his cultivated intellect and wonderful memory, had made him cornet in his cavalry guard, and a few weeks later he was promoted to a lieutenancy. Though but eighteen years of age, he had the distinguished honor to be chosen by the king to exercise two regiments of Silesian cavalry, and Frederick himself had expressed his content, not only in gracious but affectionate words. [Footnote: "Memoires de Frederic Baron von Trenck," traduits par Lui-meme su l'original allemande.] It is well known that the smile of a prince is like the golden rays of the sun: it lends light and glory to every object upon which it rests, and attracts the curious gaze of men. The handsome young lieutenant, basking in the rays of royal favor, was naturally an object of remark and the most distinguished attentions to the circle of the court. More than once the king had been seen to lay his arm confidingly upon the shoulder of Trenck, and converse with him long and smilingly; more than once had the proud and almost unapproachable queen-mother accorded the young officer a gracious salutation; more than once had the princesses at the fetes of the last winter selected him as their partner, and all those young and lovely girls of the court declared that there was no better dancer, no more attentive cavalier, no more agreeable companion than Frederick von Trenck--than this youthful, witty, merry officer, who surpassed all his comrades, not, only in his height and the splendor of his form, but in talent and amiability. It was therefore to be expected that this proud aristocracy would seek to draw the favorite of the king and of the ladies into their circle. Frederick von Trenck was of too sound and healthy a nature, he had too much strength of character, to be made vain or supercilious by these attentions. He soon, however, accustomed himself to them as his right; and he was scarcely surprised when the king, after his promotion, sent him two splendid horses from his own stable, and a thousand thalers, [Footnote: Ibid.] at that time a considerable sum of money. This general adulation inspired naturally bold wishes and ambitious dreams, and led him to look upon the impossible and unheard of as possible and attainable. Frederick von Trenck was not vain or imperious, but he was proud and ambitious; he had a great object in view, and all his powers were consecrated to that end; in his hopeful, sunny hours, he did not doubt of success; he was ever diligent, ever watchful, ever ready to embrace an opportunity; ever expecting some giant work, which would, in its fruition, bring him riches and honor, fame and greatness. He felt that he had strength to win a world and lay it bound at his feet; and if the king had commanded him to undertake the twelve labors of Hercules, he would not have shrunk from the ordeal. Convinced that a glorious future awaited him, he prepared himself for it. No hour found him idle. When his comrades, wearied by the fatiguing service and the oftrepeated exercises and preparations for war, retired to rest, Trenck was earnestly engaged in some grave study, some scientific work, seated at his writing-table surrounded with books, maps, and drawings. The young lieutenant was preparing himself to be a general, or a conquering hero, by his talents and his great deeds; to subdue the world and its prejudices; to bridge over with laurels and trophies the gulf which separated him from the princess. Was he not already on the way? Did not the future beckon to him with glorious promise? Must not he, who at eighteen years of age had attained that for which many not less endowed had given their whole lives in vain--he, the flattered cavalier, the scholar, and the officer of the king's guard--be set apart, elected to some exalted fate? These were the thoughts which occupied the young man, and which made him forgetful of all other things, even the danger with which the slow movements of his horse and the ever-rising sun threatened him. It was the custom of the king to attend the early morning parade, and the commander, Captain Jaschinsky, did not belong to Trenck's friends; he envied him for his rapid promotion; it angered him that Trenck had, at a bound, reached that position to which he had wearily crept forward through long years of service. It would have made him happy to see this young man, who advanced so proudly and triumphantly upon the path of honor and distinction, cast down from the giddy height of royal favor, and trampled in the lust of forgetfulness. He watched his young lieutenant with the smiling cunning of a base soul, resolved to punish harshly the smallest neglect of duty. And now he had found his opportunity. A sergeant, who was a spy for the captain, informed him that Trenck's corporal had told him his master had ridden forth late in the night and had not yet returned. The sergeant had watched the door of the house in which Trenck resided, and was convinced that he was still absent. This intelligence filled the heart of Captain Jaschinsky with joy; he concealed it, however, under the mask of indifference; he declared that he did not believe this story of Trenck's absence. The young man knew full well that no officer was allowed to leave Potsdam, even for an hour, without permission, particularly during the night. In order, as he said, to convince the sergeant of the untruth of this statement, he sent him with some trifling commission to Lieutenant von Trenck. The sergeant returned triumphantly; the baron was not at home, and his servant was most anxious about him, The captain shrugged his shoulders silently. The clock struck eight; he seized his hat, and hastened to the parade. The whole line was formed; every officer stood by his regiment, except the lieutenant of the second company. The captain saw this at a glance, and a wicked smile for one moment played upon his face. He rode with zealous haste to the front of his regiment and saluted the king, who descended the steps of the castle, accompanied by his generals and adjutants. At this moment, to the right wing of the regiment, there was a slight disturbance, which did not escape the listening ear of the captain. He turned his head, and saw that Trenck had joined his company, and that his horse was panting and bathed in sweat. The captain's brow was clouded; the young officer seemed to have escaped the threatened danger. The king had seen nothing. Trenck was in his place, and it would be useless to bring a charge against him. The king, however, had seen all; his keen eye had observed Trenck's rapid approach, and his glowing, heated countenance; and as he rode to the front, he drew in his horse directly before Trenck. "How comes it that your horse is fatigued and sweating? I must suppose he is fresh from the stable, and his master just from his bed. It appears, however, that he has been delayed there; I see that he has just arrived upon the parade-ground." The officer murmured a few incomprehensible words. "Will you answer me?" said the king; "is your horse just from the stable--are you directly from your bed?" Frederick von Trenck's head had been bowed humbly upon his breast, he now raised it boldly up; he was resolved; his fierce eyes met those of the king. "No, your majesty," said he, with a cool, composed mien, "my horse is not from the stable--I am not from my bed." There was a pause, an anxious, breathless pause. Every eye was fixed observantly upon the king, whose severity in military discipline was known and feared. "Do you know," said the king at last, "that I command my officers to be punctual at parade?" "Yes, sire." "Do you know that it is positively forbidden to leave Potsdam without permission?" "Yes, your majesty." "Well, then, since this was known to you, where have you been? You confess that you do not come from your dwelling?" "Sire, I was on the chase, and loitered too long. I know I am guilty of a great misdemeanor, and I expect my pardon only from the grace of my king." The king smiled, and his glance was mild and kindly. "You expect also, as it appears, under any circumstances, a pardon? Well, this time you shall not be disappointed. I am well pleased that you have been bold enough to speak the truth. I love truthful people; they are always brave. This time you shall go unpunished, but beware of the second offence. I warn you." Alas! what power had even a king's warning over the passionate love of a youth of eighteen? Trenck soon forgot the danger from which he had escaped; and even if remembered, it would not have restrained him. It was again a cloudy, dark night, and he knew that the princess expected him. As he stood again upon the balcony, guarded by the watchful master of ceremonies; as he listened to the sweet music of Amelia's voice and comprehended the holy and precious character of her girlish and tender nature; as he sat at her feet, pouring out the rich treasures of his love and happiness, and felt her trembling small white hand upon his brow; as he dreamed with her of a blessed and radiant future, in which not only God and the night but the king and the whole world might know and recognize their love--how could he remember that the king had ordered the parade at seven in the morning, and that it was even now impossible for him to reach Potsdam at that hour? The parade was over when he reached his quarters. A guard stood before his door, and led him instantly before the king. Frederick was alone in his cabinet. He silently dismissed his adjutant and the guard, then walked for some time backward and forward through the room, without seeming to observe Trenck, who stood with pale but resolved countenance before the door. Trenck followed every movement of the king with a steady glance. "If he cashiers me, I will shoot myself," he said in a low tone. "If he puts me to the torture, in order to learn the secret of my love, I can bear it and be silent." But there was another possibility upon which, in the desperation of his soul, Trenck had not thought. What should he do if the king approached him mildly and sorrowfully, and, with the gentle, persuasive words of a kind friend, besought him to explain this mystery? This was exactly the course adopted by the king. He stepped forward to the poor, pale, almost breathless youth, and looked him steadily in the eyes. His glance was not threatening and scornful, as Trenck had expected, but sad and reproachful. "Why have you again secretly left Potsdam?" said the king. "Where do you find the proud courage to disobey my commands? Captain Jaschinsky has brought serious charges against you. He tells me that you often leave Potsdam secretly. Do you know that, if punished according to the law, you must be cashiered?" "Yes, I know, sire. I also know that I will not outlive this shame." A scornful glance shot from the king's eye. "Do you intend to make me anxious? Is that a menace?" "Pardon, sire. It is not in my power to make you anxious, and I do not dare to menace. Of what importance to your majesty is this atom, this unknown and insignificant youth, who is only seen when irradiated by the sunshine of your eye? I am nothing, and less than nothing, to your majesty; you are every thing to me. I will not, I cannot live if your highness withdraws your favor from me, and robs me of the possibility of winning a name and position for myself. That was my meaning, sire." "You are, then, ambitious, and thirst for fame?" "Your majesty, I would gladly sell one-half of my life to the devil if he would insure me rank and glory for the other half, and after death an immortality of fame. Oh, how gladly would I make this contract!" "If such ambition fires your soul, how can you be so foolish, so inconsiderate, as to bring degradation and shame upon yourself by carelessness in duty? He who is not prompt and orderly in small things, will neglect the most important duties. Where were you last night?" "Sire, I was on the chase." The king looked at him with angry, piercing eyes. Trenck had not the courage to bear this. He blushed and looked down. "You have told me an untruth," said the king. "Think again. Where were you last night?" "Sire, I was on the chase." "You repeat that?" "Your majesty, I repeat that." "Will you solemnly declare that this is true?" Trenck was silent. "Will you declare that this is true?" repeated the king. The young officer looked up, and this time he had the courage to meet the flaming eye of the king. "No, sire, I will not affirm it." "You confess, then, that you have told me an untruth?" "Yes, your majesty." "Do you know that that is a new and grave offence?" "Yes, your majesty, but I cannot act otherwise." "You will not, then, tell me the truth?" "I cannot." "Not if your obstinacy will lead to your being immediately cashiered, and to your imprisonment in the fortress?" "Not then, your majesty. I cannot act differently." "Trenck, Trenck, be on your guard! Remember that you speak to your lord and king, who has a right to demand the truth." "Your majesty may punish me, it is your right, and your duty, and I must bear it," said Trenck, trembling and ghastly pale, but firm and confident in himself. The king moved off for a few moments, then stood again before his lieutenant. "You will report to your captain, and ask for your discharge." Trenck replied not. Perhaps it was not in his power. Two great tears ran slowly down his cheeks, and he did not restrain them. He wept for his youth, his happiness, his honor, and his fame. "Go!" repeated the king. The young man bowed low. "I thank you for gracious punishment," he said; then turned and opened the door. The eyes of the king had followed him with marked interest. "Trenck!" cried he; and, as he turned and waited silently upon the threshold for the new command, the king stepped forward hastily and held out his hand. "I am content with you! You have gone astray, but the anguish of soul you have just now endured is a sufficient punishment. I forgive you." A wild cry of joy burst from the pale lips of the youth. He bowed low over the king's hand, and pressed it with passionate earnestness to his lips. "Your majesty gives me my life again! I thank you! oh, I thank you!" The king smiled. "And yet your life must have but little worth for you, if you would sign it away so readily. Once more I have forgiven you, but I warn you for the future. Be on your guard, monsieur, or the lightning will fall and consume you." [Footnote: The king's own words. See Trenck's "Memoires."] And now the king's eye was threatening, and his voice terrible in anger. "You have guarded your secret," he said; "you did not betray it, even when threatened with punishment worse than death. Your honor, as a cavalier, demanded that; and I am not surprised that you hold it sacred. But there is yet another kind of honor, which you have this day tarnished--I mean obedience to your king and general. I forgive you for this; and now I must speak to you as a friend, and not as a king. You are wandering in dangerous paths, young man. Turn now, while there is yet time; turn before the abyss opens which will swallow you up! No man can serve two masters, or strive successfully after two objects. He who wills something, must will it wholly; must give his undivided heart and strength to its attainment; must sacrifice every thing else to the one great aim! You are striving for love and fame at the same time, and you will forfeit both. Love makes a man soft and yielding. He who leaves a mistress behind him cannot go bravely and defiantly into battle, though women despise men who are not gallant and laurel-crowned. Strive then, Trenck, first to become a hero; then it will be time to play the lover. Pluck your laurels first, and then gather the myrtle-wreath. If this counsel does not suit you, then give up your ambition, and the path to fame which you have chosen. Lay aside your sword; though I can promise you that soon, and with honor, you may hope to use it. But lay it aside, and take up the pen or the hammer; build yourself a nest; take a wife, and thank God for the gift of a child every twelve months; and pray that the sound of battle may be heard only in the distance, and the steps of soldiers may not disturb your fields and gardens. That is also a future, and there are those who are content with it; whose ears are closed to the beat of drums and the sound of alarm-bells which now resound throughout Europe. Choose, then, young man. Will you be a soldier, and with God's help a hero? or will you go again 'upon the chase?'" "I will be a soldier," cried Trenck, completely carried away. "I will win fame, honor, and distinction upon the battle-field, and above all I will gain the approbation and consideration of my king. My name shall be known and honored by the world." "That is a mighty aim," said the king, smiling, "and it requires the dedication of a life. You must offer up many things, and above all other things 'the chase.' I do not know what you have sought, and I do not wish to know. I counsel you though, as a friend, to give up the pursuit. I have placed the two alternatives before you, and you have made your choice--you will be a brave soldier. Now, then, from this time onward, I will be inexorable against even your smallest neglect of duty. In this way only can I make of you what you resolve to be--a gallant and stainless officer. I will tell your captain to watch you and report every fault; I will myself observe and scrutinize your conduct, and woe to you if I find you again walking in crooked paths! I will be stern and immovable. Now, monsieur, you are warned, and cannot complain if a wild tempest bursts over your head; the guilt and responsibility will be yours. Not another word! Adieu!" Long after Trenck had left the room, the king stood thoughtfully looking toward the door through which the tall, graceful figure of the young officer had disappeared. "A heart of steel, a head of iron," said the king to himself. "He will be very happy, or very wretched. For such natures there is no middle way. Alas! I fear it had been better for him if I had dismissed him, and--" Frederick did not complete his sentence; he sighed deeply, and his brow was clouded. He stepped to his writingtable and took up a large sealed envelope, opened and read it carefully. A sad smile played upon his lips. "Poor Amelia!" said he-"poor sister! They have chosen you to be assistant Abbess of Quedlinburg. A miserable alternative for the Swedish throne, which was in your power! Well, I will sign this paper." He took the pen and hastily wrote his name upon the diploma. "If she is resolved never to marry, she will be one day Abbess of Quedlinburg--that is something. Aurora of Konigsmark was content with that, but only after she had reached the height of earthly grandeur." Frederick was completely unmanned by these painful thoughts. He raised his eyes to heaven, and said in a low tone: "Poor human heart! why has Fate made you so soft, when you must become stone in order to support the disappointments and anguish of life?" He stood bowed down for a long time, in deep thought; then suddenly rising proudly erect, he exclaimed: "Away with such cares! I have no time to play the considerate and amiable father to my family. My kingly duty and service call me with trumpet tones." CHAPTER IX. THE COUNCIL OF WAR. Frederick stepped from the room into the adjoining saloon, where his ministers and generals were assembled for a council of war. His expression was calm and clear, and an imposing fire and earnestness lighted up his eyes. He was again the king, and the conqueror, and his voice rang out martially: "The days of comfort and repose are over; we have reasoned and diplomatized too long; we must now move and strike. I am surfeited with this contest of pen and ink. I am weary of Austrian cunning and intrigue. In these weighty and important matters I will not act alone upon my own convictions; I will listen to your opinions and receive your counsel: I will not declare war until you say that an honorable peace is no longer possible. I will unsheath the sword only when the honor of my throne and of my people demands it, and even then with a heavy heart; for I know what burdens and bitter woes it will bring upon my poor land. Let us therefore carefully read, weigh, and understand the paper which lies upon the table, and fulfil the duties which it lays upon us." Frederick stepped to the table and seated himself. The generals, the old Dessauer, Ziethen, Winterfeld, and the king's favorite, Rothenberg, with the ministers and councillor of state, placed themselves silently around the table. The eyes of all these experienced men, accustomed to battle and to victory, were steadily fixed upon the king. His youthful countenance alone was clear and bright; not a shadow was seen upon his brow. There was a pause--a stillness like that which precedes a tempest. Every one felt the importance of the moment. All these wise and great men knew that the young man who stood in their midst, with such proud and calm composure and assurance, held in his hands at this moment the fate of Europe; that the scales would fall on that side to which his sword was consecrated. The king raised his head, and his eyes wandered searchingly from one to the other of the earnest faces which surrounded him. "You know, messieurs," said Frederick, "that Maria Theresa, who calls herself Empress of Germany and of Rome, still makes war against our ally Charles the Seventh. Her general, Karl von Lothringen, has triumphed over the Bavarian and French army at Semnach: and Bavaria, left, by the flight of the emperor, without a leader, has been compelled to submit to Maria Theresa, Queen of Hungary. She has allied herself with England, Hanover, and Saxony. And these allied powers have been victorious over the army of our ally, King Louis of France, commanded by Marshal Noailles. These successes have made our enemies imperious. They have demanded much; they have resolved to obtain all. Apparently they are the most powerful. Holland has offered money and ships; Sardinia and Saxony have just signed the treaty made at Worms by England, Austria, and Holland. So they have troops, gold, and powerful allies. We have nothing but our honor, our swords, and our good cause. We are the allies of a land poor in itself, and, what is still worse, governed by a weak and faint-hearted emperor; and of France, whose king is the plaything of courtiers and mistresses. Our adversaries know their strength, and are acquainted with our weakness. Look, messieurs, at this letter of George of England to our godmother, Maria Theresa of Hungary; an accident placed it in our hands, or, if you will, a Providence, which, without doubt, watches over the prosperity of Prussia. Read it, messieurs." He handed General Rothenberg brow and scarcely suppressed Winterfeld. The king studied dark and stormy it appeared, a paper, which he read with frowning scorn, and then passed it on to the face of every reader, and, the more the more gay and happy was the expression of his countenance. He received the letter again with a friendly smile from the hands of his minister, and pointing to it with his finger, he said: "Have you well considered these lines where the king says, 'Madame, what is good to take, is also good to return'? What think you of these words, Prince von Anhalt?" "I think," said the silver-haired old warrior, "that we will prove to the English king what Frederick of Prussia once holds cannot be rescued from him." "You think, then, that our hands are strong enough to hold our possessions?" "Yes, your majesty." "And you, gentlemen?" "We share the opinion of the prince." "You have expressed precisely my own views," cried Frederick, with delight. "If this is your conclusion, messieurs. I rejoice to lay before you another document. It was above all other things the desire of my heart, as long as it was possible, to preserve the peace of Germany. I have sacrificed my personal inclination and my ambition to this aim. I have united the German princes for the protection of Charles the Seventh. The Frankfort union should be a lever to restore freedom to Germany, dignity to the emperor, and peace to Europe. But no success has crowned this union; discord prevails amongst them. A part of our allies have left us, under the pretext that France will not pay the promised gold. Charles the Seventh is flying from place to place, and our poor land is groaning under the burdens of a crippling and exhausting war. We must put an end to this. In such dire need and necessity it is better to die an honorable death than to bear disgrace, to live like beggars by the grace of our enemies. I have not the insolence and courage of cowardice so to live. I will die or conquer! I will wash out these scornful words of the King of England with blood. Silesia, my Silesia, which I have conquered, and which is mine by right, I will hold against all the efforts of the Hungarian queen. Look, now, at this document; it is a treaty which I have closed with France against Austria, and for the protection of the Emperor Charles. And now, here is another paper. It is a manifesto which Maria Theresa has scattered throughout all Silesia, in which she declares that she no longer considers herself bound by the treaty of Breslau, but claims Silesia and Glatz as her own. Consequently she commands the Silesians to withdraw from the protection of Prussia, and give their allegiance to their rightful inheritor." "That is an open breach of contract," said one of the generals. "That is contrary to all justice and the rights of the people," cried another. "That is Austrian politics," said the king, smiling. "They hold to a solemn contract, which was detrimental to them, only so long as necessity compels it; so soon as an opportunity offers to their advantage, they prove faithless. They do not care to be considered honorable, they only desire to be feared, and above all, they will bear no equals and no rivals in Germany. Maria Theresa feels herself strong enough to take back this Silesia I won from her, and a peace contract is not sacred in her eyes. Austria was and is naturally the enemy of Prussia, and will never forgive us because our father, by the power of his genius, made himself a king. Austria would gladly see the King of Prussia buried in the little Elector of Brandenburg, and make herself rich with our possessions. Will we suffer that, messieurs!" "Never!" said the generals, and the fire of battle flashed in their eyes. "The Queen of Hungary has commanded her troops to enter Glatz. Shall we wait till this offence is repeated?" "If the Austrian troops have made us a visit, politeness requires that we should return the call," said Ziethen, with a dry laugh. "If the Queen of Hungary has sent a manifesto to Silesia, we must, above all other things, answer this manifesto," said the councillor of state. "Maria Theresa is so bold and insolent because Bellona is a woman, consequently her sister; but we will prove to her that Dame Bellona will rather ally herself with gallant men than with sentimental women," said General Rothenberg. "Now, messieurs, what say you? shall we have peace or war?" "War, war!" cried they all in one breath, and with one movement. The king raised himself from his chair, and his eagle eye was dazzling. "The decisive word is spoken," said he, solemnly. "Let it be as you say! We will have war! Prepare yourselves, then, generals, to return the visit of Austria. Ziethen tells us that this is a courtly duty. Our councillor will write the answer to Maria Theresa's manifesto. The Austrians have visited us in Glatz, we will return their call in Prague. Kothenberg thinks that Dame Bellona would incline to our arms rather than to those of the queen, so we will seek to win her by tender embraces. I think the goddess would favor our Prince of Anhalt, they have often fought side by side. Up, then, prince, to battle and to love's sweet courtesies with your old Mistress Bellona! Up, my friends, one and all! the days of peace are over. We will have war, and may God grant His blessing to our just cause!" CHAPTER X. THE CLOISTER OF CAMENS. It was a still, lovely morning. The sun gilded the lofty, giant mountain and irradiated its snow-crowned top with shifting and manycolored light; it appeared like a giant lily, luminous and odorous. The air was so clear and pure, that even in the far distance this range of mountains looked grand and sublime. The spectator was deluded by the hope of reaching their green and smiling summits in a few moments. In their majestic and sunny beauty they seemed to beckon and to lure you on. Even those who had been for a long time accustomed to this enchanting region would have been impressed today with its exalted beauty. Grand old Nature is a woman, and has her feminine peculiarities; she rejoices in her beaux jours, even as other women. The landscape spread out at the feet of those two monks now walking in silent contemplation on the platform before the Cloister of Camens, had truly to-day her beau jour, and sparkled and glittered in undisturbed repose. "How beautiful is the world!" said one, folding his hands piously, and gazing up into the valley; "created by wisdom and love, adapted to our necessities and enjoyments, to a life well-pleasing to God. Look now, brother, at the imposing majesty of that mountain, and at the lovely, smiling valley which lies at its feet. There, in the little village of Camens, this busy world is in motion, and from the city of Frankenstein I distinguish the sound of the bells calling to early morning prayer." "That is, perhaps, the alarm-bell," said the second monk; "the wind is against us; we could not hear the sound of the small bells. I fear that is the alarm-bell." "Why should the Frankensteiners sound the alarm-bell, Brother Tobias?" said his companion, with a soft, incredulous smile. "Why, Brother Anastasius, because the Austrians have possibly sent their advance guard to Frankenstein. The Frankensteiners have sworn allegiance to the King of Prussia, and probably desire to keep this oath; they sound the alarm, therefore, to call the lusty burghers to arms." "And do you truly believe that the Austrians are so near us, Brother Tobias?" "I do not believe--I know it. Before three days General Count Wallis will enter our cloister with his staff, and, in the name of Maria Theresa, command us to take the oath." "You can never forget that we were once Austrians, Brother Tobias. Your eyes sparkle when you think that the Austrians are coming, and you forget that his excellency the Abbot Stusche is, with his whole heart, devoted to the King of Prussia, and that he will never again subject himself to Austrian rule." "He will be forced to it, Brother Anastasius. The star of the Prussian king has declined; his war triumphs are at an end; God has turned away His face from him, because he is not a true Christian; he is, indeed, a heathen and an infidel." "Still, still, Brother Tobias! if the abbot heard you, he would punish you with twenty pater-nosters, and you know very well that praying is not the business of your choice." "It is true; I am fonder of war and politics. I can never forget that in my youth I was a brave soldier, and have more than once shed my blood for Austria. You will understand now why I am an Austrian. I declare to you, I would cheerfully say thirty pater-nosters every day, if we could be once more subject to Austria." "Well, happily, there is no hope of that." "Happily, there is great hope of it. You know nothing about it. You read your holy prayers, you study your learned books, and take but little interest in the outward world. I know all, hear all, take part in all. I study politics and the world's history, as diligently as you study the old Fathers." "Well, Brother Tobias, instruct me a little in your studies. You are right; I care but little for these things, and I am heartily glad of it. It grieves me to hear of the wrath and contentions of men. God sent us into the world to live in peace and love with one another." "If that be so, why has God permitted us to discover gunpowder?" said Brother Tobias, whistling merrily. "I say to you that by the power of gunpowder and the naked sword Silesia will soon be in possession of the faithful believer Maria Theresa. Is it not manifest that God is with her? The devil in the beginning, with the help of the Prussian king and his wild army, did seem more powerful than God himself! Only think that the gates of Breslau were opened by a box on the ear! that the year before, Prague was taken almost without a blow! It seemed indeed like child's play. Frederick was in possession of almost the whole of Bohemia, but like a besieged and suffering garrison he was obliged to creep away. God sent an enemy against him who is more powerful than all mortal foes, his army was perishing with hunger. There is no difference between the bravest soldier and the little maiden when they fall into the hands of this adversary. Hunger drove the victorious King of Prussia out of Bohemia; hunger made him abandon Silesia and seek refuge in Berlin. [Footnote: Preuss's "History of Frederick the Great."] Oh, I assure you, we will soon cease to be Prussians. While King Frederick is refreshing and amusing himself in Berlin, the Austrians have entered Glatz, and bring us greetings from our gracious queen, Maria Theresa." "If the King of Prussia hears of these greetings, he will answer them by cannon-balls." "Did I not tell you that Frederick of Prussia was idling away in Berlin, and recovering from his disastrous campaign in Bohemia? The Austrians will have taken possession of all Upper Silesia before the king and his soldiers have satisfied their hunger, I tell you, in a few days they will be with us." "God forbid!" said Brother Anastasius; "then will the torch of war burn anew, and misfortune and misery will reign again throughout Silesia." "Yes, that is true. I will tell you another piece of news, which I heard yesterday in Frankenstein; it is said that the King of Prussia has quietly left Berlin and gone himself into Silesia to look after the Austrians. Would it not be charming if Frederick should make our cloister a visit, just as General Count Wallis and his troops entered Camens?" "And you would call that charming?" said Brother Anastasius, with a reproachful look. "Yes, most assuredly; the king would be taken prisoner, and the war would be at an end. You may rest assured the Austrians would not give the king his liberty till he had yielded up Silesia for ransom." "May God be gracious, and guard us from war and pestilence!" murmured Brother Anastasius, folding his hands piously in prayer. The thrice-repeated stroke of the bell in the cloister interrupted his devotions, and the full, round face of Brother Tobias glowed with pleasing anticipations. "They ring for breakfast, Brother Anastasius," said he; "let us hasten before Brother Baptist, who is ever the first at the table, appropriates the best morsels and lays them on his plate. Come, come, brother; after breakfast we will go into the garden and water our flowers. We have a lovely day and ample time--it will be three hours before mass." "Come, then, brother, and may your dangerous prophecies and expectations not be fulfilled!" The two monks stepped into the cloister, and a deep and unbroken silence reigned around, interrupted only by the sweet songs of the birds and the light movements of their wings. The building was in the noble style of the middle ages, and stood out in grand and harmonious proportions against the deep blue of the horizon. It was, without doubt, to observe the beauty and grandeur of this structure, that two travellers who had toiled slowly up the path leading from the village of Camens, now paused and looked with wondering glances at the cloister. "There must be a splendid view from the tower," said the oldest and smaller of the travellers to his tall and slender companion, who was gazing with rapture at the enchanting landscape. "It must indeed be a glorious prospect," he replied with a respectful bow. "It affords a splendid opportunity to look far and wide over the land, and to see if the Austrian troops are really on the march," said the other, with a stern and somewhat hasty tone. "Let us enter and ascend the tower." The youth bowed silently, and followed, at some little distance, the hasty steps of his companion. They reached the platform, and stood for a moment to recover breath. "We have reached the summit--if we were only safely down again." "We can certainly descend; the question is, under what circumstances?" "You mean, whether free or as prisoners? Well, I see no danger; we are completely disguised, and no one knows me here. The Abbot Amandus is dead, and the new abbot is unknown to me. Let us make haste; ring the bell." The youth was in the act of obeying, when suddenly a voice cried out: "Don't sound the bell--I will come myself and open the door." A man had been standing at the upper story, by an open window, and heard the conversation of the two travellers. He drew in his head hastily and disappeared. "It seems I am not so unknown as I supposed," said the smaller of the two gentlemen, with a quiet smile. "Who knows whether these monks are reliable and true?" whispered the other. "You certainly would not doubt these exalted servants of God? I, for my part, shall believe in their sincerity till they convince me of the contrary. Ah! the door is opened." The small door was indeed open, and a monk came out, and hastily drew near to the two travellers. "I am the Abbot Tobias Stusche; I am also a man wholly devoted to the King of Prussia, though he does not know me." The abbot laid such a peculiar expression upon these last words, that the strangers were forced to remark them. "Do you not know the King of Prussia?" said the elder, fixing his eagle eye upon the kindly and friendly face of the abbot. "I know the king when he does not wish to be incognito," said the abbot, with a smile. "If the king were here, would you counsel him to remain incognito?" "I would counsel that; some among my monks are Austrian in sympathy, and I hear the Austrians are at hand." "My object is to look out from your tower after the Austrians. Let us enter; show us the way." The abbot said nothing, but entered the cloister hastily, and cast a searching glance in every direction. "They are all yet in the refectory, and the windows open upon the gardens. But no--there is Brother Anastasius." It was truly Brother Anastasius, who stood at the window, and regarded them with astonished and sympathetic glances. The abbot nodded to him and laid his forefinger lightly upon his lips; he then hastily crossed the threshold of the little door. The stranger laid his hand upon the shoulder of the abbot, and said sternly, "Did you not give a sign to this monk?" "Yes, the sign of silence," answered the abbot; and turning back, he looked calmly upon the strangers. "Let us go onward." And with a firm step they entered the cloister. CHAPTER XI. THE KING AND THE ABBOT. Silently they passed through the lofty halls and corridors, which resounded with the steps of the strangers, and reached the rooms appropriated to the abbot. As they entered and the door closed behind them, shutting them off from the seeing and listening world, the face of the abbot assumed an expression of the most profound reverence and emotion. He crossed his hands over his breast, and bowing profoundly, he said: "Will your majesty allow me from the depths of my soul to welcome you? In the rooms of the Abbot Tobias Stusche, King Frederick need not preserve his incognito. Blessed be your entrance into my house, and may your departure also be blessed!" The king smiled. "This blessed conclusion, I suppose, depends entirely upon your excellency. I really cannot say what danger threatens us. It certainly was not my intention to wander here; to stretch out my reconnoissance to such a distance. But what would you, sir abbot? I am not only a king and soldier, but I am a man, with eye and heart open to the beauties of nature, and I worship God in His works of creation. Your cloister enticed me with its beauty. In place of mounting my horse and riding back from Frankenstein, I was lured hither to admire your building and enjoy the splendid prospect from your tower. Allow me to rest awhile; give me a glass of wine, and then we will mount the tower." There was so much of calm, bold courage, so much of proud selfconsciousness in the bearing of the king, that the poor, anxious abbot could not find courage to express his apprehensions. He turned and looked imploringly at the companion of the king, who was no other than the young officer of the life-guard, Frederick von Trenck. The youth seemed to share fully the careless indifference of his royal master; his face was smiling, and he did not seem to understand the meaning looks of the abbot. "Will your majesty allow me, and me alone, to have the honor of serving you?" said his excellency. "I am jealous of the great happiness which Providence has accorded me, and I will not divide it with another, not even with my monks." Frederick laughed heartily. "Confess, your excellency, that you dare not trust your monks. You do not know that they are as good Prussians as I have happily found you to be? Go, then, if it is agreeable to you, and with your own pious hands bring me a glass of wine, I need not say good wine--you cloistered men understand that." Frederick leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and conversed cheerfully, even merrily, with his young adjutant and the worthy abbot, who hastened here and there, and drew from closets and hiding-places wine, fruit, and other rich viands. The cloistered stillness, the unbroken quiet which surrounded him, were pleasing to the king; his features were illuminated with that soft and at the same time imposing smile which played but seldom upon his lips, but which, like the sun, when it appeared, filled all hearts with light and gladness. Several hours passed--hours which the king did not seem to observe, but the heart of the poor abbot was trembling with apprehension. "And now," said the king, "I am rested, refreshed, and strengthened. Will your excellency conduct me to the tower? then I will return to Frankenstein." "There is happily a way to the tower for my use alone," said the abbot, "where we are certain to be met by no one. I demand pardon, sire, the way is dark and winding, and we must mount many small steps." "Well, abbot, it resembles the way to eternal life; from the power of darkness to light; from the path of sin and folly to that of knowledge and true wisdom. I will seek after this knowledge from your tower, worthy abbot. Have you my field-glass, Trenck?" The adjutant bowed, silently; they passed through the corridor and mounted the steps, reaching at last the platform at the top of the tower. A wondrous prospect burst upon their view; the horizon seemed bounded by majestic mountains of porphyry--this third element or place of deposit of the enchanting primeval earth, out of which mighty but formless mass our living, breathing, and beautiful world sprang into creation, and the stars sang together for joy. In the midst of these mountains stood the "Giant," with his snow-crowned point, like the great finger of God, reaching up into the heavens, and contrasting strangely with the lofty but round green summits of the range, now gilded by the morning sun, and sparkling in changing rays of light. The king looked upon this picture with rapture; an expression of prayer and praise was written upon his face. But with the proud reserve which ever belongs to those who, by exalted rank or genius, are isolated from other men, with the shrinking of a great soul, the king would allow no one to witness his emotion. He wished to be alone, alone with Nature and Nature's God; he dismissed the abbot and his adjutant, and commanded them to wait in the rooms below for him. And now, convinced that no one saw or heard him, the king gave himself up wholly to the exalted and pious feelings which agitated his soul. With glistening eyes he gazed upon the enchanting landscape, which glowed and shimmered in the dazzling sunshine. "God, God!" said he, in low tones; "who can doubt that He is, and that He is from everlasting to everlasting? Who, that looks upon the beauty, the harmony, and order of creation, can doubt of His wisdom, and that His goodness is over all His works? [Footnote: The king's own words. "OEuvres posthumes," page 162.] O my God, I worship you in your works of creation and providence, and I bow my head in adoration at the footstool of your divine Majesty. Why cannot men be content with this great, mysterious, exalted, and ever-enduring church, with which God has surrounded them? Why can they not worship in Nature's great cathedral? Why do they confine themselves to churches of brick and mortar, the work of men's hands, and listen to their hypocritical priests, rather than listen to and worship God in His beautiful world? They cry out against me and call me an infidel, but my heart is full of love and faith in my Creator, and I worship Him, not in priestly words, but in the depths of my soul." And now Frederick cast a smiling greeting to the lovely phenomena which lay at his feet. His thoughts had been with God, and his glance upward; but now his eyes wandered over the perfumed and blooming valley which lay in the depths between the mountains; he numbered the little cities and villages, with their red roofs and graceful church-spires; he admired the straw-thatched huts upon whose highest points the stork had built her nest, and stood by it in observant and majestic composure. "This is all mine; I won it with my spear and bow. It is mine, and I will never yield it up. I will prove to Maria Theresa that what was good to take was not good to restore. No, no! Silesia is mine; my honor, my pride, and my fame demand it. I will never give it up. I will defend it with rivers of blood, yes, with my own heart's blood!" He took his glass and looked again over the luxurious valley; he started and fixed his glass steadily upon one point. In the midst of the smiling meadows through which the highway wound like a graceful stream, he saw a curious, glittering, moving mass. At the first glance it looked like a crowd of creeping ants; it soon, however, assumed larger proportions, and, at last, approaching ever nearer, the forms of men could be distinctly seen, and now he recognized a column of marching soldiers. "Austrians," said the king, with calm composure. He turned his glass in the other direction, where a road led into the valley; this path was also filled with soldiers, who, by rapid marches, were approaching the cloister. "Without doubt they know that I am here," said the king; "they have learned this in the village, and have come to take me prisoner. Eh bien, nous verrons." So saying, Frederick put his glass in his pocket, descended the steps, and with cool indifference entered the room of the abbot. "Messieurs," said he, laughing merrily, as he looked at the goodnatured and unsuspicious faces of the worthy abbot and the young officer, "we must decide upon some plan of defence, for the Austrians draw near on every side of the cloister." "Oh, my prophetic soul!" murmured the abbot, folding his hands in prayer. Trenck rushed to the window and looked searchingly abroad. At this moment a loud knock was heard upon the door, and an anxious voice called to the abbot. "All is lost, the Austrians are already here!" cried Tobias Stusche, wringing his hands despairingly. "No!" said the king, "they cannot yet have reached the cloister, and that is not the voice of a soldier who commands, but that of a monk who prays, and is almost dead with terror; let us open the door." "O my God, your majesty! would you betray yourself?" cried Stusche, and forgetting all etiquette, he rushed to the king, laid his hand upon his arm and held him back. "No," said the king, "I will not betray myself, neither will I conceal myself. I will meet my fate with my face to the foe." "Open, open, for God's sake!" cried the voice without. "He prays in God's name," said the king. "I will open the door." He crossed the room and drew back the bolt. And now, the pale and anxious face of Brother Anastasius appeared. He entered hastily, closed and fastened the door. "Pardon," said he, trembling and breathless--"pardon that I have dared to enter. The danger is great; the Austrians surround the cloister." "Are they already here?" said the king. "No; but they have sent a courier, who commands us immediately to open all the doors and give entrance to the soldiers of Maria Theresa." "Have they given a reason for this command?" "Yes; they say they know assuredly that the King of Prussia is concealed here, and they come to search the cloister." "Have you not said to them, that we are not only the servants of God, but the servants of the King of Prussia? Have you not said to them that the doors of our cloister can only open to Prussian troops?" "Yes, your excellency. I told the soldier all this, but he laughed, and said the pandours of Colonel von Trenck knew how to obtain an entrance." "Ah! it is Trenck, with his pandours," cried the king, casting a searching glance at Frederick von Trenck, who stood opposite, with pale and tightly-compressed lips; he met the eye of the king boldly, however, and looked him steadily in the face. "Is Colonel Trenck your relation?" said the king, hastily. "Yes, your majesty; he is my father's brother's son," said the young man, proudly. "Ah! I see you have a clear conscience," said the king, laying his hand smilingly upon the youth's shoulder. "But, tell me, worthy abbot, do you know any way to rescue us from this mouse-trap?" Tobias did not reply immediately; he stood thoughtfully with his arms folded, then raised his head quickly, as if he had come to some bold conclusion; energy and purpose were written in his face. "Will your majesty make use of the means which I dare to offer you?" "Yes, if they are not unworthy. I owe it to my people not to lay upon them the burden of my ransom." "Then I hope, with God's help, to serve your majesty." He turned to the monk, and said, with a proud, commanding tone: "Brother Anastasius, listen to my commands. Go immediately to Messner, order him in my name to call all the brothers to high mass in the choir of the church; threaten him with my wrath and the severest punishment, if he dares to speak to one of the brethren. I will prove my monks, and see if they recognize that obedience is the first duty in a cloister." "While Messner assembles the priests, shall the bell sound for mass?" "Hasten, Brother Anastasius; in ten minutes we must be all in the church." "And you expect to save me by celebrating high mass?" said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders. "Yes, sire, I expect it. Will your majesty graciously accompany me to my dressing-room?" CHAPTER XII THE UNKNOWN ABBOT The bell continued to sound, and its silver tones echoed in the lofty halls and corridors, through which the priests, in their superb vestments and holy orders, passed onward to the church. Surprise and wonder were written upon every face; curious questions were burning upon every lip, restrained, however, by the strong habit of obedience. The abbot had commanded that not one word should be exchanged between the brethren. The abbot must be obeyed, though the monks might die of curiosity. Silently they entered the church. And now the bell ceased to toll, and the grand old organ filled the church with a rich stream of harmony. Suddenly the notes were soft and touching, and the strong, full voices of men rose high above them. While the organ swelled, and the church resounded with songs of prayer and praise, the Abbot Tobias Stusche entered the great door. But this time he was not, as usual, alone. Another abbot, in the richly-embroidered habiliments of a fete day, stood by his side. No one had ever seen this abbot. He was wholly unknown. Every eye was turned upon him; every one was struck with the commanding and noble countenance, with the imposing brow and luminous eye, which cast searching and threatening glances in every direction. All felt that something strange, unheard of, was passing in their midst. They knew this stranger, glowing with youth, beauty, and majesty, was no common priest, no humble brother. The command to strict silence had been given, and implicit obedience is the first duty of the cloister. So they were silent, sang, and prayed; while Tobias Stusche, with the strange abbot, swept slowly and solemnly through the aisles up to the altar. They both fell upon their knees and folded their hands in silent prayer. Again the organ swelled, and the voices of the choristers rose up in adoration and praise; but every eye and every thought were fixed upon the strange abbot kneeling before the high altar, and wrestling with God in prayer. And now the organ was silent, and the low prayers began. The monks murmured mechanically the accustomed words; nothing was heard but sighs of penitence and trembling petitions, which seemed to fade and die away amongst the lofty pillars of the cathedral. Suddenly a loud noise was heard without, the sound of pistols and threatening voices demanding admittance. No one regarded this. The church doors were violently thrown open, and wild, rude forms, sunbrowned and threatening faces appeared. For one moment noisy tumult and outcry filled the church, but it was silenced by the holy service, now celebrated by these kneeling, praying monks, who held their beads in their hands, and gave no glance, in token of interest or consciousness, toward the wild men who had so insolently interrupted the worship of God. The soldiers bowed their heads humbly upon their breasts, and prayed for pardon and grace. This holy duty being fulfilled, they remembered their worldly calling, and commenced to search the church for the King of Prussia, whom they believed to be hidden there. The clang of spurs and heavy steps resounded through the aisles, and completely drowned the prayers and sighs of the monks, who, kneeling upon their stools, seemed to have no eye or thought for any thing but the solemn service in which they were engaged. The pandours, in their dark, artistic costumes, with the red mantle fastened to their shoulders, swarmed through the church, and with flashing eyes and scarcely suppressed curses searched in every niche and behind every pillar for Frederick of Prussia. How often did these wild forms pass by the two abbots, who were still kneeling, immovable in rapturous meditation, before the high altar! How often did their swords strike upon the floor behind them, and even fasten in the vestment of the strange abbot, who, with closed eyes and head bowed down upon his breast, had no knowledge of their presence! The prayers had continued much longer than usual, and yet the abbot did not pronounce the benediction! And now he did indeed give a sign, but not the one expected. He rose from his knees, but did not leave the church; with his companion, he mounted the steps to the altar, to draw near to the holy crucifix and bless the host. He nodded to the choir, and again the organ and the choristers filled the church with melody. This was something so extraordinary that the monks turned pale, and questioned their consciences anxiously. Had they not committed some great crime, for which their stern abbot was resolved to punish them with everlasting prayer and penitence? The pandours knew nothing of this double mass. They had now searched the whole church, and as the king was not to be found, they rushed out in order to search the cells, and, indeed, every corner of the cloister. The service still continued; the unknown abbot stood before the high altar, while Abbot Stusche took the host and held it up before the kneeling monks. At this moment a wild cry of triumph was heard without; then curses and loud laughter. The monks were bowed down before the host, and did not seem to hear the tumult. They sang and prayed, and now the outcry and noise of strife was hushed, and nothing was heard but the faint and dying tones of the organ. The pandours had left the cloister; they had found the adutant of the king and borne him off as a rich spoil to their commander, Colonel von Trenck. The soldiers were gone, it was therefore not necessary to continue the worship of God. Tobias Stusche repeated a pater-noster, gave his hand to the unknown abbot, and they turned to leave the church. As they slowly and majestically swept through the aisles, the monks bowed their heads in reverence; the organ breathed its last grand accord, and the glorious sun threw a beckoning love-greeting through the lofty windows of painted glass. It was a striking and solemn scene, and the unknown abbot seemed strangely impressed. He paused at the door and turned once more, and his glance wandered slowly over the church. One hour later the heavy state-coach of the Abbot of Clostenberg rolled down from Camens. In the coach sat Tobias Stusche with the unknown abbot. They took the road to Frankenstein. Not far from the gate the carriage stopped, and to the amazement of the coachman, no abbot, but a soldier clad in the well-known Prussian uniform, descended. After leaving the coach, he turned again and bowed to the worthy Abbot Stusche. "I will never forget this bold and noble act of your excellency," said the king, giving his hand to the abbot. "You and your cloister may at all times count upon my special favor. But for your aid, I should this day have been betrayed into a most unworthy and shameful imprisonment. The first rich abbey which is vacant I will give to you, and then in all future time I will confirm the choice of abbot, which the monks themselves shall make." [Footnote: In gratitude for this service, the king gave the rich Abbey of Sentua to Stusche, and kept up with him always the kindest intercourse. There are letters still preserved written by the king himself to the abbot, filled with expressions of heart-felt kindness and favor. Frederick sent him from Meissen a beautiful set of porcelain, and splendid stuff for pontifical robes, and rare champagne wine. While in Breslau, he invited him twice to visit him. Soon after the close of the Seven Years' War, Stusche died. The king sent a royal present to the cloister with a request that on the birthday of the abbot a solemn mass should be celebrated. Some years later, Frederick stopped at Camens, and told the abbot to commission the first monk who died to bear his loving greeting to the good Abbot Stusche in Paradise.-(See Rodenbeck.)] "O my God!" exclaimed the abbot, "how rarely must your majesty have met with honest and faithful men, if you reward so richly a simple and most natural act of love!" "Faithful hearts are rare," said the king. "I have met this blueeyed daughter of Heaven but seldom upon my path, and it is perhaps for this reason that her grandeur and her beauty are so enchanting to me. Farewell, sir abbot, and greet the brother Anastasius for me." "Will not your majesty allow me to accompany you to the city?" "No, it is better that I go on foot. In a quarter of an hour, I shall be there; my carriage and my guard await me, and I wish no one to be acquainted with the adventures of this day. It remains a secret between us for the present." Frederick greeted him once more, and then stepped lightly onward toward the city. The coach of the abbot returned slowly to the cloister. The king had advanced but a short distance, when the sound of an approaching horse met his car. He stood still and looked down the highway. This time the Austrian uniform did not meet his eye; he recognized in the distance the Prussian colors, and as the horse approached nearer, he marked the uniform of a young officer of his life-guard. Before Frederick found time for surprise, the rider had reached him, checked his horse with a strong hand, sprang from the saddle, bowed profoundly before the king, and reached him the reins. "Will not your majesty do me the favor to mount my horse?" said Trenck, calm and unembarrassed, and without alluding by word or smile to the adventure of the day. The king looked at him searchingly. "From whence come you?" said he sternly. "From Glatz, where the pandours carried me as a prisoner, and delivered me to Colonel Trenck." "You were then a prisoner, and were released without ransom?" "Colonel Trenck laughed merrily when his pandours delivered me to him, and declared I was the King of Prussia." "Colonel Trenck knows you?" "Sire, I saw him often in my father's house." "Go on: he recognized you, then?" "He knew me, and said laughingly, he had sent to take Frederick, King of Prussia, and not Frederick von Trenck, prisoner. I was free, I might go where I wished, and as I could not go on foot, he presented me with one of his best horses; and now I am here, will not your majesty do me the honor to mount this horse?" "I mount no Austrian horse," said the king in a harsh tone. The young officer fixed his glance for one moment, with an expression of regret upon the proud and noble animal, who with dilating nostrils, flashing eyes, and impatient stamping of the fore-feet, stood by his side, arching gracefully his finely-formed and muscular throat. But this expression of regret soon vanished. He let go the bridle and bowing to the king he said, "I am at your majesty's command." The king glanced backward at the noble steed, who, slender and graceful and swift as a gazelle, was in a moment so far distant as to be no larger than a flying eagle. He then advanced toward Frankenstein: both were silent; neither gave another thought to the gallant horse, who, riderless and guided by instinct alone, was far on the way to Glatz. Once before they reached the city, the king turned and fixed his eyes upon the open, youthful, and handsome face of Trenck. "I believe it would be better for you if this colonel of pandours were not your relation," said the king thoughtfully; "there can no good come to you from this source, but only evil." Frederick von Trenck turned pale. "Does your majesty command that I shall change my name?" "No," said the king after a moment's reflection. "The name is a holy inheritance which is handed down from our fathers, and it should not be lightly cast away. But be careful, be careful in every particular. Understand my words, and think upon my warning, Baron von Trenck." CHAPTER XIII. THE LEVEE OF A DANCER. In Behren Street, which was at that time one of the most recherche and beautiful streets of Berlin, order and quiet generally reigned. To-day, however, an extraordinary activity prevailed in this aristocratic locality; splendid equipages and gallant riders, followed by their attendants, dashed by; all seemed to have the same object; all drew up before the large and elegant mansion which had for some time been the centre of attraction to all the courtly cavaliers of the Prussian capital. Some of the royal princes, the young Duke of Wurtemberg, counts, ambassadors, and generals, were to-day entreating an audience. Who dwelt in this house? What distinguished person was honored by all these marks of consideration? Why was every face thoughtful and earnest? Was this a funeral, and was this general gloom the expression of the heart's despair at the thought of the loved and lost? Perhaps the case was not quite so hopeless. It might be that a prince or other eminent person was dangerously ill! "It must be a man," as no woman was seen in this grand cavalcade. But how account for those rare and perfumed flowers? Does a man visit his sick friend with bouquets of roses and violets and orange-blossoms? with rare and costly southern fruits in baskets of gold and silver? This would indeed be a strange custom! But no! In this house dwelt neither prince nor statesman, only a woman. How strange that only men were there to manifest their sympathy! In this pitiful and dreary world a woman who has made a name for herself by her own beauty and talent is never acknowledged by other women. Those who owe their rank to their fathers and husbands, are proud of this accidental favor of fate; they consider themselves as the chosen accomplices and judges of morals and virtue, and cast out from their circles all those who dare to elevate themselves above mediocrity. In this house dwelt an artiste-the worshipped prima donna, the Signora Barbarina! Barbarina! ah! that was an adored and a hated name. The women spoke of her with frowning brows and contemptuous laughter, the men with flashing eyes and boundless enthusiasm; the one despised and abhorred her, even as the other exalted and adored her. And truly both had cause: the women hated her because she stole from them the eyes and hearts of their lovers and husbands; the men worshipped her as a blossom of beauty, a fairy wonder, a consecrated divinity. These two parties were as zealous as the advocates of the white and red rose. The women fought under the banner of the faded, withered white rose; the men gathered around the flag of her glowing sister, the enchanting Barbarina. This was no equal contest, no doubtful result. The red rose must conquer. At the head of her army stood the greatest of warriors. The king was at the same time Barbarina's general and subject. The white rose must yield, she had no leader. Possibly Elizabeth Christine desired to lead the army of martyrs; possibly the same rage and scorn swelled in her heart which spoiled the peace of other women. But her modest and trembling lips betrayed nothing of the secret storms of her bosom; her soft and gentle smile veiled her shrouded wishes and the hopes there buried in her heart. One could scarcely believe that this timid, pious queen could worship an earthly object, or yield herself one moment to the bare passion of hate. Truly Elizabeth Christine hated no one, not even Barbarina--this woman who had given the last blow to her tortured heart, and added the passion of jealousy to her despised love. Elizabeth Christine was indeed jealous, but not in the common way; she felt no scorn, she uttered no reproach; silent tears and earnest prayers for strength were her only speech. The king had given her no occasion to complain of his love for Barbarina; she did not know that he had ever approached her, even spoken to her; she knew, however, with what looks and smiles of rapture he gazed upon her, and she would joyfully have given her life for one such glance or smile. That, however, which was not known to Elizabeth, was fully understood by the whole court. It was known that more than once the Barbarina had supped with the king at the house of General Rothenberg; it was known that the king, every time the Barbarina danced, was behind the curtain, and that, he had commanded the court painter, Pesne, to paint her portrait, life size, for him. Was not this enough to exalt the signora in the eyes of every courtier and every diplomatist to the first rank of beauty and power? Would they not, indeed, have hastened to acknowledge her claims, even had she not been the loveliest and most enchanting creature? She was indeed a queen, a powerful enchantress. Men struggled for one smile, one glance; they bowed down to all her caprices and humors; worship, submission, and obedience were the tribute brought by all. Her house was besieged with visits and petitions as if it were the palace of a fairy queen. Barbarina had her court circle, her levees, her retinue. [Footnote: Schneider, "History of the Opera and Opera-Houses in Berlin."] All her subjects rendered her a glad and voluntary service, and received no other compensation than a gay smile or friendly word. All this splendor, consideration, and worship, of which she was the shining centre, seemed to make no impression upon the heart of the proud and self-reliant artiste; she was accustomed to it, and moved on in silent majesty; her whole life had been a triumphant march. Like a summer morning glittering in the dew and sunshine, she had had her little griefs and tears, but they resembled the dew-drops in the flower-cups, shining for a moment like costly diamonds, then kissed away by the sun. Barbarina wept when the king separated her from her lover, Lord Stuart, and forced her to fulfil her contract and come to Berlin. She wept no more. Was it because she was too proud? or had the sun of royal favor kissed away her tears? Barbarina's tears had ceased to flow, but she smiled rarely. She had the grace and imposing beauty of the Roman, and never forgot that she was a daughter of that proud nation who had ruled the world, and, even though disenthroned, preserved her majesty and renown. Barbarina was a glowing, passionate woman, and passion adorns itself with flashing eyes, with a clear and touching pallor and crimson lips, but never with the innocent smile and harmless jest. She was never heard and rarely seen to laugh. Laughter was not in harmony with her proud beauty, but smiles illuminated and glorified it. She was imperial to look upon; but, filled with all sweet charity and gentle grace, womanly and tender; with a full consciousness of her power, she was humble and yielding. In the midst of her humility she was proud, and sure of success and victory; one moment she was the glowing, ardent, and yielding woman; the next the proud, genial, imposing artiste. Such was Barbarina; an incomprehensible riddle, unsearchable, unfathomable as the sea--ever changing, but great in every aspect. Barbarina had appeared the evening before, but her dance had been interrupted by a sudden indisposition exactly at the moment when the king appeared in the opera-house. No one knew that the king had returned from his mysterious journey to Silesia; every one believed him to be absent, and the ballet had been arranged without any reference to him. Frederick arrived unexpectedly, and changing his travelling-dress hastened to the opera, no doubt to greet the two queens and his sisters. Barbarina was seized with indisposition at the moment of the king's entrance. She floated smilingly and airily over the stage; her small feet seemed borne by the Loves and Graces. Suddenly she faltered, the smile vanished from her lips, and the slight blush from her cheek, and with a cry of pain she sank insensible upon the floor. The curtain fell, and an intermission of a quarter of an hour was announced. The king, who was conversing with the queen-mother, appeared to take but little interest in this interruption, but Baron Swartz approached and announced that Signora Barbarina was ill and could not appear again during the evening. Frederick gave such an angry exclamation, that the queen-mother looked up astonished and questioning. Elizabeth Christine sighed and turned pale. She comprehended the emotion of her husband; guided by the instinct of jealousy, she read the king's alarm and disappointment, which he tried in vain to hide under the mask of scorn. "It appears to me," said the king, "that the signora is again indulging in one of her proud and sullen moods, and refuses to dance because I have returned. I will not submit to this caprice; I will myself command her to dance." He bowed to the two queens, stepped behind the curtain, and advanced to the boudoir of the signora. The door was fastened within. The king stood hesitating for a moment; he heard the sound of weeping and sobbing--the signora was in bitter pain or sorrow. "She is truly ill," said he. "She has cramp," suggested Baron Swartz, who had followed the king. Frederick turned hastily. "Is that dangerous" he asked, in a tone which betrayed his alarm and agitation. "Not dangerous, sire, but the physician who was with her has declared that absolute quiet was necessary. Will your majesty command that another dancer shall take her place?" "No," said Frederick; "the pas which belongs to Barbarina shall be danced by no other. Salimberri and Astrea shall sing an aria and the house be dismissed. Go to their majesties and say to them I pray they will excuse me; I only came to greet them, and, being much fatigued by my journey, I will now retire." Bowing to the baron, the king left the opera-house and entered the palace. But in the silence of the night, when all others slept, the soft tones of his flute melted on the air. Barbarina was ill. For this reason her house was besieged; for this reason every face was clouded. Her adorers were there begging to see her, and thus find comfort and encouragement; each one wished to prove his sympathy by some marked attention. They hoped that these glorious and costly fruits might win for them a smile of gratitude. The reception-room of Barbarina was like a royal conservatory, only the life-giving and dazzling sun was hidden from view. Barbarina was in her boudoir, and all these gallant cavaliers waited in vain for her appearance. It was the hour of her levee, the hour when her door was open to all who had enjoyed the honor of being presented to her. The courtiers stood in groups and conversed in light whispers over the on-dits of the day, and turning their eyes from time to time to the portiere of purple velvet which separated them from the boudoir of the signora; from that point must the sun rise to illuminate this dusky room. But Barbarina came not. She lay upon a white silk divan, dressed in the most ravishing negligee of white muslin, covered with rare and costly lace. She was dreaming with open eyes, and arms crossed upon her breast. Those flashing eyes were soft and misty; a melancholy expression trembled upon her lips. Barbarina was alone. Why should she not dream, and lay aside for a while her gracious smiles and fiery glance? Of what were those unfathomable eyes dreaming? what signified those sighs which burst from her full crimson lips? Did she know herself, or did she wish to know? Did she comprehend the weakness of her own proud heart, or had she veiled it from herself, ashamed to read what was written there? At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered--one of those insignificant, gentle, yielding creatures, generally found amongst the attendants of an artiste--a tete de souffrance, on whom they exhaust their humor, their scorn, and their passion; the humble companion, kept in the background when blessed with the society of distinguished and wealthy adorers. The companion of Barbarina did not suffer, however, from this hard fate. She was Barbarina's sister, and had followed her from tender love to the cold north. The signora loved her sister fondly; she was the companion of her joys and sorrows; she had no secrets from her, and knew that an open ear and judicious counsel were always to be found with her little sister Marietta. Barabrina lay, still dreaming, upon the divan. Possibly she did not know that Marietta stood by her side, and laid her hand upon her shoulder. "Sorella," said she, "get up; many gentlemen are in the saloon, waiting for you." "Let them wait. I will see no one to-day." "It is the hour when you are accustomed to receive, Sorella, and if you do not come they will think you are still unwell." "Well, let them think so." "They will not only think so, Sorella; they will say so, and make malicious comments." "What comments?" said Barbarina, raising herself up; "what comments, Marietta?" "It was indeed unfortunate that your sickness came upon you just as the king appeared," said Marietta. Barbarina's eyes flashed. "Do you think they will put those things together?" said she. "They will say, perhaps, that Barbarina fainted at the unexpected appearance of the king; that the joy of seeing him overcame her; is that your meaning, Marietta?" "Yes, that is my meaning," said Marietta, in a low tone. Barbarina sprang from the divan, trembling and pallid. "They will mock at and scorn me," she cried, raising her arms to heaven as if to call down the lightning to her aid; "they will say I love this cold king!" "They will say that, Sorella," replied Marietta. Barbarina seized her hand. "But you, sister! you will not say this; you know that I have sworn to hate him with an everlasting hatred. You know that I have put an evil spell upon him with my tears; that I never can forgive him for the suffering and agony he prepared for me. Think, think, Marietta, how much I have wept, how much I have endured! My life was like a lustrous May morning, a fairy tale of starry splendor; roses and pearls were in my path: he has obscured my stars, and changed my pearls to tears. Woe to him! woe to him! I have sworn to hate him eternally, and Barbarina keeps her oath." "Yes, you have sworn to hate him, sister, but the world is ignorant of your oath and its cause; their eyes are blinded, and they strangely mistake your hate for love. They see that your glance is clearer, brighter, when the king is by, and they know not that it is hate which flashes from your eyes; they hear that your voice lightly trembles when you speak to him, they do not know that the hatred in your heart deprives you of self-control; they see that you dance with more enchanting grace in the king's presence, they do not understand that these are instruments of revenge--that you wish to crush him by the mighty power of genius, grace, and beauty." "Yes, yes! just so," said Barbarina, breathing painfully; "you alone know me, you alone read my heart! I hate, I abhor this cold, cruel king, and he richly deserves my hate! He may be wise and great, but his heart is ice. It is true, he is handsome and exalted; genius is marked on his noble brow; his smile is magical, and irradiates his face; his eyes, those great, inexplicable eyes, are blue as the heavens and unfathomable as the sea. When I look into them, I seem to read the mysteries of the great deep, and the raptures of heaven. His voice, when he pleads, is like consecrated music; when he commands, it is the voice of God in thunder. He is great above all other men; he is a hero, a man, and a king!" "And yet you hate him?" said Marietta, with a mocking smile. Barbarina trembled. Marietta's question checked her glowing enthusiasm; it rang in her ears like the name-call in the "Somnambulist," and roused her to consciousness. "Yes," said she, in a low tone, "I hate him, and I will ever hate him! If I loved him, I should be the most wretched of women--I should despise and curse myself. He has no heart; he cannot love; and shame and dishonor rest upon the woman who loves and is not beloved. Frederick loves nothing but his Prussia, his fame, and his greatness. And the world says, that 'the Barbarina loves him.' You see that is impossible, that can never be. I would rather die than love this man without a heart." "The world is incredulous," said Marietta; "they cannot look into your heart, and you must be silent as to your hatred. You dare not say that you fainted yesterday from scorn and rage at the sudden appearance of the king." "Think you they will believe that joy overcame me?" cried Barbarina, in wild frenzy, "They shall not believe it; it shall not be!" She sprang like an enraged lioness and grasped a little stiletto which lay upon her toilet-table, and which she had brought as a relic from her beautiful fatherland. "I will not be mocked at and despised," cried she, proudly, dashing off her gold-embroidered white satin slipper, and raising her foot. "Oh! Barbarina, what will you do?" cried Marietta, as she saw her take up the stiletto. "This," said she, significantly, sticking the point of the stiletto in the sole of her foot; the blood gushed out and covered her stocking with blood. Marietta uttered a cry of terror, and rushed to her sister, but Barbarina waved her away; the wound and the flow of blood had brought relief to her wild nature; she was calm, and a ravishing smile disclosed two rows of pearly teeth. "Be still, Marietta," said she, in a commanding tone, "the wound is not deep, not dangerous, but deep enough to confirm my statement when I declare that, while dancing last evening, I wounded my foot upon a piece of glass from a broken lamp." "Ah! now I understand you, you proud sister," cried Marietta, looking up gayly. "You would thus account for your swoon of yesterday?" "Yes, and now give me my slipper, and allow me to take your arm; we will go into the saloon." "With your bleeding foot, with this open wound?" "Yes, with my bleeding foot; however, we had better check the flow of blood a little." The cavaliers who waited for the signora became ever sadder and more thoughtful. Barbarina must be indeed ill, if she allowed her admirers to wait so long, for she was above all the small coquetries of women; they would not go, however, till they had news of her, till they had seen her sister. At last their patience was rewarded; the portiere was drawn back, and Barbarina appeared, leaning upon the arm of her sister. She was pale and evidently suffering. She walked slowly through the saloon, speaking here and there to the cavaliers, and conversing in the gay, gracious, and piquant manner in which she excelled. Suddenly, in the midst of one of these merry interchanges of thought, in which one speaks of every thing or nothing, Barbarina uttered a cry of pain and sank upon the sofa. "I believe, I fear that my foot is bleeding again," she cried. She slightly raised her robe, and lifted up her foot, that small object of wonder and rapture to all the lands of Europe. Truly her white satin slipper was crimson, and blood was flowing freely from it. A cry of horror sounded from every lip. The gentlemen surrounded Barbarina, who lay pale as death upon the sofa, while Marietta knelt before her, and wrapped her foot in her handkerchief. This was a striking scene. A saloon furnished with princely splendor, and odorous with the rarest flowers; a group of cavaliers in their goldembroidered coats and uniforms, glittering with crosses and odors; the signora lying upon the divan in a charming negligee, with her bleeding foot resting upon the lap of her sister. "You are wounded, signora, you bleed!" cried the young Prince of Wurtemberg, with such an expression of horror, you would have thought he expected the instant death of the Barbarina. The lovely Italian looked up in seeming surprise. "Did not your highness know that I was wounded? I thought you were a witness to my accident yesterday?" "Certainly, I was at the opera-house, as were all these gentlemen; but what has that to do with your bleeding foot?" "A curious question, indeed! You did not, then, understand the cause of my swooning yesterday? I will explain. I felt a severe pain in the sole of my foot, which passed like an electric shock through my frame, and I became insensible. While unconscious, my blood, of course, ceased to flow, and the physician did not discover the cause of my sudden illness. This morning, in attempting to walk, I found the wound." "My God, what a misfortune, what an irreparable blow!" cried the cavaliers with one voice; "we can never again hope to see our enchanting dancer." "Compose yourselves, gentlemen," cried Barbarina, smiling, "my confinement will be of short duration, and will have no evil consequences. I stepped upon a piece of glass which had fallen upon the boards, and piercing the slipper entered my foot; the wound is not deep; it is a slight cut, and I shall be restored in a few days." "And now," said Barbarina, with a triumphant smile, more alone with her sister, "no one will mock at me malicious comments upon my fainting. In an hour the hear this history, and I hope it may reach the ears as she was once and make whole city will of the king." "He will not believe it," said Marietta, shrugging her shoulders; "he sent immediately for your physician and questioned him closely as to your sudden indisposition in the theatre. I had just left your boudoir to get you a glass of water, and when I returned I found the king standing before your door and listening to your groans." A wondrous expression of light and peace shone in her great black eyes. "The king was then behind the curtains, he stood before my door, he wished to speak to me, and you tell me this now, only now, when you might have known--" Barbarina paused, and turned away her blushing face. "Well, I might have known that the king, whom you hate so bitterly, had waited in vain at your door, had been turned away by the proud dancer as a common man; this was, indeed, a triumph of revenge," said Marietta, smiling. "I did not turn him away," said Barbarina, with embarrassment. "No! you drew your bolt on the inside, nothing more." CHAPTER XIV. THE STUDIO. Barbarina was right; the wound in her foot was not dangerous. She was ordered to be quiet for some days, and give up dancing. The physician to whom she showed her foot, and declared that she had only just discovered the cause of her sudden swoon, examined the wound with an incredulous smile, and asked to see the shoe, the sole of which must also be necessarily cut, he said; in this way only could he tell if the wound had been inflicted by a piece of glass or nail, and know the size and sharpness of the instrument. Barbarina blushed, and ordered Marietta to bring the shoe; she returned immediately with a slipper, showing a sharp cut in the sole. The physician examined it silently, and then declared that it was a piece of glass which had caused the fainting of the signora; he ordered cooling applications and perfect quiet, and promised restoration in a few days. The king had commanded the physician to come to him immediately after his visit to Barbarina. He was announced, and as he entered, Frederick advanced to meet him. "Well," said he, "is the wound dangerous? will the signora be obliged to give up the stage?" "Ah, surely your majesty cannot believe that the Barbarina has given herself a wound which will destroy her fame and fortune!" "I do not understand you," said Frederick, impatiently; "do not speak in riddles." "I repeat, your majesty, the signora would not intentionally have wounded her foot seriously, and thereby destroyed her art." "Do you believe that she wounded herself voluntarily?" "I am convinced of it, sire. The signora declares that she stepped upon a piece of glass. I desired to see the slipper; Marietta brought me one, in the sole of which I discovered a cut, but it did not correspond at all with the wound in the foot, and had been evidently just made with a knife. Certainly Barbarina was not wounded while she wore that shoe; moreover, I affirm that the wound was not inflicted by a piece of glass or a nail, but by a stiletto; the wound is three-sided; I am confident she wounded herself with a stiletto I saw in her room." The king's face grew dark while the physician spoke; he pressed his lips together: this was ever a sign that a storm was raging in his breast which he wished to control. "Is that all you have to say?" "That is all, sire." "Good! You will visit the signora to-morrow, and bring me news of her." The king was alone, and pacing his room nervously. It was in vain that Biche, his favorite hound, raised herself up and drew near to him. The wise little animal seemed, indeed, to understand the sadness of her master, and looked up at him with sorrowful and sympathetic eyes. Once Frederick murmured half aloud: "She has sworn to hate me, and she keeps her oath." After long thought, he seemed to be resolved, and drew near to the door; he opened it and stood a moment on the threshold, then closed it again, and said: "No! I dare not do that. I dare not do what any other man might do in my place; not I--I am a king. Alas! men think it is a light matter to be a king; that the crown brings no care, no weight to the brow and the heart. Our hearts' blood is often the lime with which our crowns are secured." He sighed deeply, then stood up and shook himself like a lion, when, after a long repose, he rouses himself to new life and action. "Oh! I am sentimental," he said, with a sad smile. "I doubt if a king has a right to dream. Away, then, with sentiments and sighs! Truly, what would Maria Theresa say if she knew that the King of Prussia was a sentimentalist, and sighed and loved like a young maiden? Would she not think she had Silesia again in her dresspocket?" While the king struggled with his passion, Barbarina had a far more dangerous enemy to contend with. Sentimentality is veiled in melancholy, in softened light and faded tints; but ennui has no eye, nor mind, nor heart for any thing. It is a fearful enemy! Barbarina was weary, oh, so weary! Was it perhaps impatience to appear again upon the stage which made the hours so leaden, so long drawn out? She lay the whole day stretched out upon her sofa, her eyes wide open, silent, and sighing, not responding to Marietta's loving words by a glance, or a movement of the eyelash. Marietta proposed to assemble her friends, but she affirmed that society was more wearisome than solitude. At the end of three days, Barbarina sprang from her sofa and tried to walk. "It gives me no pain," said she, walking through the room. "Yes. I remember, Arias said the same as she handed the dagger to her beloved," replied Marietta. "But I have no beloved," said Barbarina; "no one loves me, no one understands this poor, glowing, agonized heart." As she said this, a flood of tears gushed from her eyes, and her form trembled with a storm of passion. "Ah, Sorella, how can you say that--you who are so much loved, so highly prized?" Barbarina smiled contemptuously, and shook her head. "Do you call that love? these empty words, this everlasting, unmeaning praise; this rapture about my beauty, my grace, and my skill, is this worship? Go, go, Marietta, you know it is not love, it is not worship. They amuse themselves with a rare and foreign flower, which is only beautiful because it has been dearly paid for; which is only wondered at while it is rare and strange. You know, not one of these men loves me for myself; they think only of my outward appearance. I am never more solitary than when they surround me, never feel so little beloved as when they swear that they love me boundlessly. O my God! must I shroud my heart, must I bury it under the snows of this cold north? O God, give me a heart for my heart, that can love as Barbarina loves!" She covered her face with her hands, and her tears flowed freely; she trembled and bowed from side to side, like a lily in a storm. Marietta drew near, and laid her head upon her sister's shoulder; she did not try to comfort her: she knew there were griefs to which words of consolation were exasperation; she knew that passion must exhaust itself before it could be soothed. She comprehended the nobility and energy of Barbarina's nature; those bursts of tears were like clouds in the tropics; the storm must break, and then the sun would shine more gloriously. Marietta was right. In a short time her sister withdrew her hands from her face; her tears were quenched, and her eyes had their usual lustre. "I am mad," she cried, "worse than mad! I ask of the north our southern blossoms. I demand that their ice shall become fire. Has not a landscape of snow and ice its grandeur and beauty--yes, its terrible beauty when inhabited by bears and wolves?" "But woe betide us, when we meet these monsters!" said Marietta, entering readily into her sister's jest. "Why woe betide us? Every danger and every monster can be overcome, if looked firmly in the face, but not too long, Marietta, not till your own eye trembles. Now, sister, enough of this; the rain is over, the sun shall shine. I am no longer ill, and will not be laid aside like a broken play-thing. I will be sound and healthy; I will flap my wings and float once more over the gay world." "Do you know, Sorella, that the higher you fly, the nearer you are to heaven?" "I will soar, but think not, that like Icarus I will fasten my wings with wax. No, I am wiser, I will fly with my feet; the sun has no power over them: they are indeed two suns. They warm the coldest heart; they set the icy blood in motion, they almost bring the dead to life. You see, sister, I have adopted the style of speech of my adorers; none of them being present, I will worship and exalt myself." Barbarina said all this merrily, but Marietta felt this gayety was not natural. "Do you know what I have determined upon?" said Barbarina, turning away, so that her face might not be seen; "as I cannot dance either to-day or to-morrow, I will find some other mode of employing my time. I will go to Pesne and sit for my portrait." She had turned away, but Marietta saw that her throat was suffused with a soft flush. "Will you drive to the palace?" said Marietta. "Not to the palace, but to Pesne." "Pesne's studio is now in the palace; the king appointed him rooms there." "Well, then, I must sit to him in the palace." "This, however, will be disagreeable to you; you abhor the king, and it will be painful to be under the same roof. You perhaps suppose the king to be in Potsdam: he is now in Berlin." Barbarina turned suddenly, and throwing her arms around Marietta's neck, she pressed a kiss upon her lips, and whispered: "I know it, Marietta, but I must go." The sisters went therefore to the new studio of the painter Pesne, which was in the royal palace. The king took great pleasure in the growth and development of works of art. While Pesne was engaged on his great picture of Diana and her Nymphs, the king often visited his studio and watched him at his work. He had closely examined the sketch of the portrait of Barbarina, and, on his return from Silesia, commanded Pesne to arrange a studio in the castle, as he wished to be near him. Barbarina sprang like a gazelle up the steps; her foot was not painful, or she was unconscious of it. She was impatient, and would scarcely wait to be announced before entering the room. Pesne was there, and welcomed the signora joyfully. Barbarina looked about in vain for her portrait. "Has misfortune overtaken the portrait as well as the original?" she said, smiling. "Not so, signora," said Pesne; "the portrait excites as great a furor as the original--only, though, because it is a copy." "I do not understand you." "I mean, that his majesty is so enraptured with the copy, that since yesterday it has been placed in his study, although I protested against it, the picture not being finished. The king, however, persisted; he said he wished to show the portrait to his friends, and consult with them as to its defects." Never, in her most brilliant role, was Barbarina so beautiful as at this moment: her countenance glowed with rapture; her happy smile and glance would have made the homeliest face handsome. "Then I have come in vain," she said, breathing quickly; "you can make no use of me to-day?" "No, no, signora! your face is a star seldom seen in my heaven, and I must grasp the opportunity--have the kindness to wait; I will hasten to the king and return with the picture." Without giving Barbarina time to answer, he left the room. Why did her heart beat so quickly? Why were her cheeks suffused with crimson? Why were her eyes fixed so nervously upon the door. Steps were heard in the adjoining room. Barbarina pressed her hands upon her heart: she was greatly agitated. The door opened, and Pesne returned, alone and without the picture. "Signora," said he, "the king wishes place in his rooms; his majesty will suggestions and call my attention to palette and brush, and, if agreeable that the sitting should take be kind enough to make some faults. I will get my to you, we will go at once." Barbarina gave no reply, and became deadly pale, as she walked through the king's rooms; her steps were uncertain and faltering, and she was forced to lean upon Pesne's arm; she declared that her foot was painful, and he perhaps believed her. They reached at last the room in which the portrait was placed. There were two doors to this room: the one through which they had entered, and another which led to the study of the king. This door was closed, and Barbarina found herself alone with the painter. "The king has yet some audiences to give; he commanded me to commence my work. As soon as he is at liberty, he will join us." "Let us begin, then," said Barbarina, seating herself. "You must allow me to-day to be seated. I think it can make no difference to you, as you are at present occupied with my face and not with my figure." Pesne declared, however, that this attitude gave an entirely different expression and bearing to the countenance. Barbarina must, therefore, in spite of the pain in her foot, endeavor to stand. She appeared now to feel no pain; she smiled so happily, she spoke so joyously, that Pesne, while gazing at her animated, enchanting, lovely face, forgot that he was there to paint, and not to wonder. Suddenly her smile vanished, and she interrupted herself in the midst of a gay remark. She had heard the door behind her lightly opened; she knew, by the stormy beating of her heart, that she was no longer alone with the painter; she had not the courage or strength to turn; she was silent, immovable, and stared straight at Pesne, who painted on quietly. The king had motioned him not to betray him. Pesne painted on, from time to time asked Barbarina the most innocent and simple questions, which she answered confusedly. Perhaps she was mistaken; possibly she was still alone with the painter. But no, that was impossible, it seemed to her that a stream of heavenly light irradiated the room; she did not see the king, but she felt his glance; she felt that he was behind her, that he was watching her, although no movement, no word of his betrayed him. "I will not move, I will not turn, but I cannot endure this, I shall fall dead to the earth." But now she was forced to turn; the king called her name, and greeted her with a few friendly words. She bowed and looked up timidly. How cold, indifferent, and devoid of interest was his glance, and he had not seen her for weeks, and she had been ill and suffering! And now, she felt again that she hated him bitterly, and that it was the power of this passion which overcame her when she saw the king so unexpectedly. She felt, however, that every tone of his voice was like heavenly music to her ear, that every word he uttered moved her heart as the soft wind ruffles the sea. The king spoke of her portrait; he said he had made it his study and sought for its faults and defects, as others sought for its advantages and beauties. "I tremble, then, before the judgment of your majesty," said Pesne. "I must confess you have some cause to fear," said the king. "I have not looked at the picture with the eye of a lover, but with that of a critic; such eyes look sharply, and would see spots in the sun; no criticism, however, can prevent the sun from shining and remaining always a sun, and my fault-finding cannot prevent your portrait from being a beautiful picture, surpassed only by the original." "Perhaps, sire, I am myself one of the spots in the sun, and it may be that I grow dark." "You see, signora, how little I understand the art of flattery; even my best intended compliments can be readily changed into their opposites. Allow me, then, to speak the simple, unadorned truth. You are more beautiful than your picture, and yet I wonder at the genius of Pesne, which has enabled him to represent so much of your rare loveliness, even as I wonder at the poet who has the power to describe the calm beauty of a sunny spring morning." "That would be less difficult than to paint the signora's portrait," said Pesne; "a spring morning is still, it does not escape from you, it does not change position and expression every moment." Frederick smiled. "It would be truly difficult to hold the butterfly and force it to be still without brushing the down from its beautiful wings. But, paint now, Pesne, I will seat myself behind your chair and look on." Pesne seized his palette and brush, and began to paint. Barbarina assumed the light, gracious, and graceful attitude, which the artist has preserved for us in her beautiful portrait. She was, indeed, indescribably lovely; her rounded arms, her taper fingers, which slightly raised the fleecy robe and exposed the fairy foot, the small aristocratic head, slightly inclined to one side, the flashing eyes, the sweet, attractive smile, were irresistible; every one admired, and every glance betrayed admiration. The face of the king only betrayed nothing; he was cold, quiet, indifferent. Barbarina felt the blood mount to her cheek, and then retreat to her heart; she felt that it was impossible for her to preserve her self-control; she could not bear this cruel comparison of the portrait and the original, but she swore to herself that the king should not have the triumph of seeing her once more sink insensible at his feet; his proud, cold heart should not witness the outbreak of her scorn and wounded vanity. But her body was less strong than her spirit--her foot gave way, she tottered, and turned deadly pale. The king sprang forward, and asked in a sympathetic and trembling voice why she was so pale; he himself placed a chair for her, and besought her to rest. She thanked him with a soft smile, and declared she had better return home. Would the king allow her to withdraw? A cloud passed over Frederick's face; a dark, stern glance rested upon Barbarina. "No!" said he, almost harshly; "you must remain here, we have business with each other. Swartz has brought me your contract to sign; it requires some changes, and I should have sent for you if accident had not brought you here." "Your majesty can command me," said Barbarina. "We have business and contracts to consider," said the king roughly, "and we will speak of them alone. Go, Pesne, and say to Swartz I await him." Frederick nodded to the painter, and, seizing Barbarina's hand, led her into the adjoining room, his Tusculum, never before profaned by a woman's foot; open only to the king's dearest, most trusted friends. CHAPTER XV. THE CONFESSION. Barbarina entered this room with peculiar feelings; her heart trembled, her pulses beat quickly. She, whose glance was usually so proud, so victorious, looked up now timidly, almost fearfully, to the king. He had never appeared to her so handsome, so imposing as in this moment. Silently she took her place upon the divan to which he led her. Frederick seated himself directly in front of her. "This is the second time," said the king, with a smile, a the second time, signora, that I have had the honor to be alone with you. On the first occasion you swore to me that you would hate the King of Prussia with an everlasting hatred." "I said that to your majesty when I did not recognize you," said Barbarina. "Had you known me, signora, you would surely not have spoken so frankly. Unhappily, the world has silently resolved never to speak the truth to kings. You avowed your resolution, therefore, at that time, because you did not know you were speaking to the king. Oh, signora, I have not forgotten your words. I know that you pray to God every day; not for your own happiness, as all chance of that has been destroyed by this cruel king; but for revenge on this man, who has no heart, and treads the hearts of other men under his feet." "Your majesty is cruel," whispered Barbarina. "Cruel! why? I only repeat your words. Cruel, because I cannot forget! The words of Barbarina cannot be forgotten. In that respect at least I am like other men." "And in that respect should your majesty the least resemble them. The little windspiel may revenge its injuries, but the eagle forgives, and soars aloft so high in the heavens that the poor offender is no longer seen and soon forgotten. Your majesty is like the eagle, why can you not also forget?" "I cannot and I will not! I remind you of that hour, because I wish to ask now for the same frankness of speech. I wish to hear the truth once more from those proud lips. Barbarina, will you tell me the truth?" "Yes, on condition that your majesty promises to forget the past." "I promise not to remind you of it." "I thank your majesty; I will speak the truth." "You swear it?" "I swear it." "Well, then, why did you wound your foot?" Barbarina trembled and was silent; she had not the courage to raise her eyes from the floor. "The truth!" said the king, imperiously. "The truth," repeated Barbarina, resolved, and she raised her flashing eyes to the king; "I will speak the truth. I wounded my foot, because--" "Because," said the king, interrupting her fiercely, "because you knew it was a happiness, a life's joy to the poor, lonely, wearied king to see you dance; because you felt that your appearance was to him as the first golden rays of the sun to one who has been buried alive, and who bursts the bonds of the dark grave. You hate me so unrelentingly, that even on the evening of my return from an exhausting and dangerous journey, you cruelly resolved to disappoint me. I hastened to the theatre to see you, Barbarina, you, you alone; but your cruel and revengeful heart was without pity. You thought of nothing but your pride, and rejoiced in the power to grieve a king, at the sound of whose voice thousands tremble. Your smiles vanished, your enchanting gayety was suppressed, and you seemed to become insensible. With the art of a tragedian, you assumed a sudden illness, resolved that the hated king should not see you dance. Ah! Barbarina, that was a small, a pitiful role! leave such arts to the chambermaids of the stage. You are refined in your wickedness; you are inexorable in your hate. Not satisfied with this pretended swoon, the next evening you wounded yourself; you were proud to suffer, in order to revenge yourself upon me. You knew that a swoon must pass away, but a wounded foot is a grave accident; its consequences might be serious. The king had returned to Berlin, and had only a few days to refresh himself, after the cares and exhaustions of a dangerous journey; after his departure you would be able to dance again. Ah! signora, you are a true daughter of Italy; you understand how to hate, and your thirst for vengeance is unquenchable! Well, I give you joy! I will fill your heart with rapture. You have sworn to hate me; you pray to God to revenge you upon the King of Prussia who has trampled your heart under his feet. Now, then, Barbarina, triumph! you are revenged. The king has a heart, and you have wounded it mortally!" Completely unmanned, the king sprang to his feet, and stepped to the window, wishing to conceal his emotion from Barbarina. Suddenly he felt his shoulder lightly touched, and turning, he saw Barbarina before him, more proud, more beautiful, more queenly than he had ever seen her; energy and high resolve spoke in her face and in her flashing eyes. "Sire," she said, in a full, mellow voice, which slightly trembled from strong emotion--"sire," she repeated, trying to veil her agitation by outward calm, "I have sworn in this hour to speak the truth; I will fulfil my vow. I will speak the truth, though you may scorn and despise me. I will die of your contempt as one dies of a quick and deadly poison; but it is better so to die than to live as I am living. You shall know me better, sire. You have charged me with falsehood and hypocrisy; thank God, I can cast off that humiliating reproach! I will speak the truth, though it bows my head with shame and casts me at your feet. If I could die there, I would count myself most blessed. The truth, sire, the truth! listen to it. It is true I hated you: you humbled my pride. You changed me, the queen of grace and beauty, the queen of the world, into a poor, hired dancer; with your rude soldiers and police you compelled me to fulfil a contract against which my soul revolted. I cursed you. You separated me violently, from the man I loved, who adored me, and offered me a splendid and glorious future. It is true I prayed to God for vengeance, but He would not hear my prayer; He punished me for my mad folly, and turned the dagger I wildly aimed at you, against my own breast. Sire, the hate to which I swore, to which I clung as the ship-wrecked mariner clings to the plank which may save him from destruction, failed me in the hour of need, and I sank, sank down. A day came in which the prayer of rage and revenge upon my lips was changed, in spite of myself, into blessings, and I found, with consternation and horror, that there was indeed but one step between wild hatred and passionate love, and this fatal step lies over an abyss. I cannot tell you, sire, how much I have suffered--how vainly I have struggled. I have hated, I have cursed myself because I could no longer hate and curse you. The day you left for Silesia, you said, 'I think ever of thee.' Oh! sire, you know not what fatal poison you poured into my ears, with what rapture and enchantment these words filled my heart. My life was a dream; I stood under a golden canopy, drunk with joy and blessed with heavenly peace. I saw these words, 'I think ever of thee,' not only in my heart, but in every flower, on every leaf, and written by the sun in the heavens, and in the stars. I dreamed of them as one dreams of fairy palaces and heavenly melodies. In the songs of sweet birds, in the plaudits and bravos with which the world greeted me, I heard only these celestial words, 'I think ever of thee.' I lived upon them during your absence, I wrote them with my glances upon your empty chair in the theatre, I fixed my eyes upon it, and for love of you I danced to it. One night I saw in this chair, not only my golden starry words, I saw two stars from heaven; I was not prepared--their glance was fatal. No, sire, that was no miserable comedy, no actor's work. I sank unconscious, and from that hour I know one does not die from rapture, but sinks insensible. I wept the whole night, God knows whether from shame or bliss, I cannot tell. The next day--yes--then I was false and deceitful. I stuck my stiletto in my foot, to deceive the world; only God might know that the Barbarina fainted at the sight of the king--fainted because she felt that she no longer hated, but worshipped him." She rushed to the door, but Frederick sprang after her; he drew her back, madly but silently; his eyes were radiant with joy. "Remain," said he; "I command you--I, not the king." He placed his lips to her ear and whispered two words: her soft cheeks were crimson. At this moment there was a knock upon the door, the portiere was thrown back, and the wan, suffering face of Fredersdorf was seen. "Sire," said he, "your majesty commanded me to summon Baron Swartz; he is here, and waits for your orders." "Let him enter," said the king; then smiling upon Barbarina, he said, "He comes just in time; we must sign our contract, Swartz shall act as our priest." He advanced to meet the intendant, and asked for the contract between Barbarina and himself. He read it carefully, and said, "There are only a few things to alter." He stepped to his desk and added a few words to the contract. "Signora," said he, turning backward, "will you come here for a moment?" Barbarina, embarrassed and blushing, drew near. In the back part of the room stood Baron Swartz, watching the king and Barbarina with a sly smile; near him stood Fredersdorf, whose pale and melancholy face was brought out in strong relief by the dark velvet portiere. "Read this," said the king to Barbarina, pointing to the words he had just written. "Have you read?" "Yes, sire." Frederick raised his head, and slightly turning, his glowing glance rested upon Barbarina, who, ashamed and confused, cast her eyes to the ground. "Will you sign this?" "I will, sire," said she, almost inaudibly. "You bind yourself to remain here for three years, and not to marry during that time?" [Footnote: By this contract, Barbarina received an income of seven thousand thalers and five months' liberty during each year; but she was bound not to marry during this term of three years.--SCHNEIDER.] "I do, sire." "Take the pen and sign our contract.--Come forward, Swartz, and witness this document.--Fredersdorf, is your seal at hand?" The contract was ready. "You will say, 'This is a sad contract,'" said the king, turning to Fredersdorf. "Yes, sad indeed. The king deals as cruelly with the Barbarina as he has done with his poor secretary. This cold king does not believe in marriage." "No, no! Fredersdorf, I will prove to you that you are mistaken. I have been told that you are ill because I will not allow you to marry. Now, then, Fredersdorf, I will not be hard-hearted. I have to-day made an innocent sacrifice to my hatred of matrimony. The signora has bound herself not to marry for three years. For her sake, I will be gracious to you: go and marry the woman you love, and when the priest has made you one, you shall take your wife to Paris for the honeymoon, at my cost." Fredersdorf seized the hand of the king, kissed it, and covered it with his tears. Barbarina gazed at the handsome, glowing face of Frederick with admiration. She understood him fully; she felt that he was happy, and wished all around him to partake of his joy. CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAITOR. Baron von Pollnitz was ill at ease; for three days he had sought relief diligently, but had no alleviation. He found himself in the antediluvian condition of our great forefather Adam, while he loitered away his time in Paradise. Like Adam, Pollnitz had no gold. Our good baron found this by no means a happy state, and his heart was full of discontent and apprehension; he felt that he was, indeed, unblessed. What would become of him if the king should not be merciful, should not take pity upon his necessities, which he had to-day made known to him in a most touching and eloquent letter. Up to this time he had been waiting in vain for an answer. What should he do if the king should be hard-hearted and cruel? But no, that was impossible; he must consider it a sacred duty to take care of the old and faithful servant of his house, who had been the favored companion of two of Prussia's kings. Pollnitz considered that he belonged to the royal family; he was an adopted member; they could not think slightingly of him, or set him aside. He had exhausted his means, he had borrowed from Jew and Christian; he had, by his gay narratives and powers of persuasion, drawn large sums of gold from the rich burghers; all his friends held his dishonored drafts; even his own servant had allowed himself to be made a fool of, and had loaned him the savings of many years; and this sum scarcely sufficed to maintain the noble, dissipated, and great-hearted cavalier a few weeks. Alas! what sacrifices had he not already made to this insane passion for spending money; what humiliation had he not suffered--and all in vain! In vain had he changed his religion three times; he had condescended so far as to pay court to a merchant's daughter; he had even wished to wed the daughter of a tailor, and she had rejected him. "And yet," said he, as he thought over his past life, "every thing might have gone well, but for this formidable stratagem of the king; this harsh prohibition and penalty as to relieving my necessities which has been trumpeted through the streets--that ruined me; that gave me fearful trouble and torment. That was refined cruelty for which I will one day revenge myself, unless Frederick makes amends. Ha! there comes a royal messenger. He stops at my door. God be thanked! The king answers my letter; that is to say, the king sends me money." Pollnitz could scarcely restrain himself from rushing out to receive the messenger; his dignity, perhaps, would not have sufficed to hold him back, but the thought of the considerable douceur he would be expected to pay moderated his impatience. At last his servant came and handed him a letter. "I hope," said the baron, gravely, "I hope you rewarded the king's messenger handsomely?" "No, sir, I gave him nothing." "Nothing!" cried he angrily. "And you dare to say this to my face! you do not tremble lest I dismiss you instantly from my service? you, and such as you are, cast shame upon our race! I, a baron of the realm, and grand master of ceremonies, allow a royal messenger who brings me a letter to go from my door unrewarded! Ass, if you had no money, why did you not come to me? why did you not call upon me for several ducats?" "If your grace will give me the money, I will run after the messenger. I know where to find him; he has gone to General Rothenberg's." "Leave the room, scoundrel, and spare me your folly!" Pollnitz raised his arm to strike, but the lackey fled and left him alone with his golden dreams of the future. He hastily broke the seal and opened the letter. "Not from the king, but from Fredersdorf," he murmured impatiently. As he read, his brow grew darker, and his lips breathed words of cursing and scorn. "Refused!" said he passionately, as he read to the end, and cast the letter angrily to the floor. "Refused! The king has no money for me! The king needs all his gold for war, which is now about to be declared; and, if I wish to convince myself that this is true, I must go to-night, at eleven o'clock, to the middle door of the castle, and there I will see that the king has no money. A curious proposition, indeed! I would rather go to discover that he had money, than that he had it not. If he had it, I would find a means to supply myself. At all events, I will go. A curious rendezvous indeed--a midnight assignation between a bankrupt baron and an empty purse! A tragedy might grow out of it. But if Frederick has really no money, I must seek elsewhere. I will make a last attempt--I will go to Trenck." The trusty baron made his toilet and hastened to Trenck's apartments. The young officer had lately taken a beautiful suite of rooms. He had his reception-rooms adorned with costly furniture and rare works of art. He had an antechamber, in which two richlyliveried servants waited to receive his orders. He had a stable and four splendid horses of the Arabian breed, and two orderlies to attend to them! From what quarter did Trenck obtain the money for all this livery? This was an open question with which the comrades of the young lieutenant were exercised; it gave them much cause for thought, and some of them were not satisfied with thinking; these thoughts took form, some of their words reached the ears of Trenck, and must have been considered by him very objectionable. He challenged the speaker to fight with the sword, and disabled him effectually from speaking afterward. [Footnote: Frederick von Trenck's Memoires.] Trenck was at dinner, and, contrary to custom, alone; he received Pollnitz most graciously, and the baron took a seat willingly at the table. "I did not come to dine with you, but to complain of you," said Pollnitz, cutting up the grouse with great adroitness and putting the best part upon his plate. "You come to complain of me?" repeated Trenck, a little embarrassed. "I have given you no cause for displeasure, dear friend." "Yes, you have given me good cause, even while I am your best friend! Why have you withdrawn your confidence from me? Why do I no longer accompany you on that most romantic midnight moonlight path to virtue? Why am I no longer watchman and duenna when you and your lady call upon the moon and stars to witness your love? Why am I set aside?" "I can only say to all this that I go no more upon the balcony." "That is to say--" "That is to say that my stars are quenched and my sun has set in clouds. I am, even as you are, set aside." Pollnitz gazed at Trenck with so sharp and cunning an eye that the young man was confused and looked down. The baron laughed merrily. "Dear Trenck," said he, "a lie shows in your face like a spot on the smooth skin of a rosy apple. You are too young to understand lying, and I am too old to be deceived by it. Another point: will you make me believe that this luxury which surrounds you is maintained with your lieutenant's pay?" "You forget that my father has left me his property of Sherlock, and that I have rented it for eight hundred thalers!" "I am too good an accountant not to know that this sum would scarcely suffice for your horses and servants." "Well, perhaps you are right; for the rest I may thank my gracious king. During the course of this year he has presented me with three hundred Fredericks d'or; and now you know the source of my revenue and will not think so meanly of me as to suppose that--" "That, your great love has any thing to do with earthly riches or advancement. I do not believe that I brought in such a charge against you, even as little do I believe that you have been given up! Ah, dear friend, I alone have cause of complaint; I alone am set aside, and why am I thus treated? Have I not been discreet, diligent in your service, and ready at all times?" "Certainly. I can only repeat to you that all is at an end. Our beautiful dream has faded like the morning cloud and the early dew." "You are in earnest?" "In solemn earnest." "Well, then, I will also speak earnestly. I will relate to you something which you do not appear to know. A gardener boy who had risen earlier than usual to protect some rare flowers in the garden of Monbijou saw two figures upon the balcony, and heard their light whispers. The boy made known his discovery to the principal gardener, and he communicated the facts to the chamberlain of the queen-mother. It was resolved to watch the balcony. The virtuous and suspicious queen immediately concluded that Mademoiselle von Marwitz had arranged a rendezvous upon the balcony, and she was sternly resolved to dismiss the lady at once if any proof could be obtained against her. Happily, the queen made known these facts to the Princess Amelia, and I can readily conceive that the balcony remains now unoccupied." "Yes, I understand that." "You can also understand that this event was regarded as a warning of fate, and great caution and forethought were exercised. Not only was the balcony given up, but the old friend and confidant who had played the part of companion and carrier-pigeon was banished and dismissed wholly from service." "You may go further still," said Frederick von Trenck. "You have not stated the whole case. This fortunate providence was a convincing proof of the danger of an engagement which might never hope to be crowned with success, never exist except under the shadows of silence and gloom, with bleeding hearts and tearful eyes; this dream of love was given up at once, fearing that at no distant day both honor and liberty might be lost in its pursuit. They separated! An eternal farewell was faltered!" "That is to say, you would now deceive your confidant and former aid, in order to place yourself more securely--and some day, perhaps, when suspicion is aroused, you can call him as a witness to prove that all intercourse was long ago given up; he must know it, being the confidant from the beginning. This was a well-conceived plot, but you only seem to forget that Pollnitz was not the man to be deceived. He has had too much experience, and has studied the hearts of men, and especially of women, too diligently. A woman who is enjoying her first love and believes in its holy power, convinces herself that it can achieve wonders and overcome all obstacles. She does not sacrifice her love to other duties or to danger, not even if she is a common woman, far less if she is a princess. Princess Amelia has not given up her young and handsome lover; she clings to him with a frenzied constancy, which I confess to you, if I had the honor and glory of being her suitor, would fill me with apprehension and regret. No, no, the princess is just now in a paroxysm of youthful passion, and would rather die than resign her love, and she is fantastic enough to believe in the possibility of a legitimate marriage! Poor thing, she expects to mould the world to her wishes, and arms herself, I suppose, with hair-pins! Princess Amelia was forced to give up her interviews upon the balcony, but she sought other means to gratify her passion. This was simple and easy to do. The maid of honor was taken into her confidence. Marwitz swore to guard the secret fearfully till death; a plan was then arranged with her which was truly well conceived. Lieutenant von Trenck must be spoken of as the suitor of Mademoiselle von Marwitz; he must act at the court-balls and fetes as the tender, sighing, and eager lover of the maid of honor; he must at last make a formal declaration, and receive permission to visit her in her rooms. This is now his daily habit, and the good city of Berlin and the short-sighted, silly court are completely deceived, and look upon Frederick von Trenck as the happy bridegroom of Marwitz, and no one guesses that when the young officer is with the maid of honor, the Princess Amelia is also present, and changes the role with Marwitz." "I see it is in vain," said Trenck, sighing; "you know all: but if you have any real friendship for me, you will tell me who betrayed us." Pollnitz laughed aloud, "You betrayed yourself, my friend; or, if you prefer it, my worldly wisdom and cunning betrayed you. My young and innocent friend, a man like Pollnitz is not easily deceived; his eyes are sharp enough to pierce the veil of the most charming little intrigue, and probe it to the bottom! I know the Princess Amelia; I have known her too long, not to know that she would not so quickly, and without a struggle, sacrifice her love; and further when I saw at the last court-ball, with what a long and dreary face you stood behind the chair of the poor Marwitz, and with what calm and smiling content the princess watched the couple amoureuse, look you, Trenck, then I knew and understood all." "Well, then, as you understand all, I make no further attempt to deceive you. Yes, God be praised! the princess loves me still. It is indeed the princess whom I meet in the apartment of the maid of honor; to Marwitz are the letters directed which my servant carries every morning to the palace, and from the Princess Amelia do I receive my answers. Yes, God be thanked! Amelia loves me, and one day she will be mine in the eyes of the whole world, even as she is now mine in the eyes of God and the angels; one day--" "Stop, stop!" cried Pollnitz interrupting him; "that last sentence must be explained before you rush on with your dithyrambics. You have declared that the princess is yours in the sight of God: what does that mean?" "That means," said Trenck, "that God, who looks into our hearts, knows the eternity and boundlessness of our love; that means that, under God's heaven, and calling upon His holy name, we have sworn never to forget our love and our faith, and never to form any other alliance." "So nothing more than that--no secret marriage? Are you never alone with the princess?" "No, never! I have given her my word of honor never even to ask it, and I will keep my oath. And, after all, the good Marwitz disturbs us not; she gets as far from us as possible: she seems to see us not, and we speak in such low tones, that she does not hear a word we utter." "Ah! so the Marwitz does not disturb you?" cried Pollnitz, with a cynical laugh. "O sancta simplicitas! and this is an officer of the life-guard? The world is going to destruction; or it is becoming innocent and pure as Paradise. It is time for me to die; I no longer understand this pitiful world." "I do not understand you, and I will not understand you," said Trenck gravely. "You laugh at me, and call me a silly boy, and I allow it. I know we cannot understand each other in such matters; you cannot conceive what strength, what self-denial, what energy I exert to make myself worthy of the pure, modest, and exalted love which Amelia has consecrated to me. You cannot comprehend how often my good and evil genius struggle for the mastery, how often I pray God to keep me from temptation. No, I have sworn that this love shall wave pure and unblemished, like a glorious banner over my whole life; come death rather than dishonor! And now, friend, explain your meaning: why all these plots and counterplots? What is your object?" "Nothing more than to warn you to prudence. I do not believe all the world is deceived by your comedy with Marwitz. The king, who appears to see nothing, sees all. He has his spies everywhere, and knows all that happens in his family. Be careful, be ever on your guard." "I thank you for your warning," said Trenck, pressing the hand of the master of ceremonies. "We must soon separate; you know that in a few weeks we go to Silesia. The king is silently preparing for war." "I know it, and I pity you." "Pity me! Ah, you do not understand me. I long for my first battle as a lover does for his first sweet kiss. The battle-field is for me a consecrated garden, where my laurels and myrtles grow. I shall pluck them and weave wreaths for my bride-wedding wreaths. Pollnitz, on the other side, beyond the bloody battle-ground, lies my title of prince, and Amelia's bridle-wreath." "Dreamer, fantastic, hopeless dreamer!" cried Pollnitz, laughing. "Well, God grant that you do not embrace death on the battle-field, or on the other side find a prison, to either of which you have a better claim than to a prince's title. Make use, therefore, of your time, and enjoy these charming interviews. Is one arranged for this evening?" "No, but to-morrow. The reigning queen gives a ball to-morrow. Immediately before the ball I am to meet the princess. Oh, my friend, to-morrow evening at five think of me! I shall be the happiest and most amiable of mortals. I shall be with my beloved!" "Alas! how strange is life, and how little do the fates of men resemble! To-morrow, at the hour when you will be so unspeakably happy, I shall be walking in a thorny, a cursed path; I shall be on my way to the usurer." "To the usurer? That is indeed a sad alternative for a cavalier like the Baron von Pollnitz." "But that is still better than imprisonment for debt, and I have only the choice between these two, unless you, dearest friend, will take pity upon me and lend me a hundred louis d'ors." Frederick Trenck said nothing. He stepped to his desk. The eyes of the baron glittered with joy as he saw Trenck take out a pocketbook, in which he knew by pleasant experience that the young officer sometimes kept gold. His joy was of short duration. No gold was seen. Trenck took out a small, modest, unsealed paper and handed it to him. "Look at this draft," said he. "Had you come yesterday I could have accommodated you joyfully. To-day it is impossible. I have this morning lent my colonel two hundred ducats, and my purse is empty." "Well, you must soon fill it," said Pollnitz, with a coarse laugh. "To-morrow at five you will enjoy your rendezvous, and you will not only speak of God, and love, and the stars, but also a little of earthly things--of pomp and gold, and--Farewell!" With a gay laugh Pollnitz took leave, but he no sooner found himself alone upon the street than his face grew black arid his eye was full of malice. "He has no gold for me, but I have his secret, and I will know how to squeeze some gold out of that," murmured Pollnitz. "Truly I think this secret of Trenck's is worth some thousand thalers, and the king must find the means to pay for it. But stop! The hour of my interesting rendezvous draws near. I am curious to know how I am to be convinced at eleven o'clock, and in the middle of the street, that the king has no gold. I will be punctual, but I have still time to visit a few friends, and seek if possible to win a few louis d'ors at faro." CHAPTER XVII. THE SILVER-WARE. It was a dark, still night. As the clock struck ten the night might really be said to begin in Berlin. The streets were not lighted except by accidental rays from the windows and the carriage-lamps, and the glare of torches carried by the servants who accompanied their masters to places of amusement. By eleven o'clock the streets were deserted. Pollnitz was therefore sure to meet no one on his way to the castle. He directed his steps to that door which opened upon the River Spree, as Fredersdorf had advised him. Silence reigned in the palace. The sentinel stepped slowly backward and forward in the courtyard, and in the distance was heard the baying of two hounds, entertaining each other with their melancholy music. The master of ceremonies began to be impatient; he thought that, the impertinent private secretary had been indulging in some practical joke or mystification at his expense; but as he drew near to the Spree, he heard the light stroke of oars in the water. Pollnitz hastened forward, and his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, discovered a skiff drawn up near the Elector's Bridge. "This is the point! here we must wait," whispered a manly voice. "I think we will not have to wait long," said another. "I see lights in the windows." The side of the castle next the Spree was now suddenly lighted; first the upper story, then the lower, and a pale light was now seen in the vestibule. "Truly, I have not been deceived; something is going on," said Pollnitz, hastening forward. As he entered the court, a curious train was seen descending the steps. In front were two servants with torches; they were followed by twelve heyducks, their shoulders weighed down with dishes, cans, cups, plates, whose silver surface, illumined by the golden glare of the torches, seemed to dance and glimmer along the wall and steps like "will o' the wisps." Two servants with towels brought up the rear, and behind these the pale, sad face of Fredersdorf was seen. "You are punctual," said he to Pollnitz; "you wish to convince yourself that the king has no gold?" "Certainly! though this conviction will deprive me of my last hope, and one does not adopt such a course eagerly." "I think you will be fully convinced. Come, let us follow the heyducks." He took the arm of the baron, and they soon reached the border of the Spree. The large skiff, which had been lying so dark and still, was now lighted by the torches of the servants, who ranged themselves on each side; it was brilliantly lighted, and great activity prevailed. The twelve heyducks, bending under their heavy burden, entered the skiff, and piled up the silver-ware, then sprang again ashore. "We are going to the treasure-room, will you follow us?" said Fredersdorf. "Certainly; if not, you may perhaps expect to leave me here as sentinel." "That is not at all necessary; there are some soldiers with loaded muskets in the skiff. Come." Silently and hastily they all mounted the steps and reached at last the large room where the royal silver had been kept; the door was open, but guarded by sentinels, and Melchoir, who had had the silver in charge, now walked before the door with a disturbed and sad visage. "May I enter, Melchoir?" said Pollnitz to his old acquaintance, greeting him with a friendly smile. "There is no necessity to ask," said Melchoir, sadly. "My kingdom is at an end, as you see, when the silver is gone; there is no necessity for a steward, and the old Melchoir will be set aside, with all those who yet remain of the good old times of the everblessed Frederick William!" Pollnitz entered the room with Fredersdorf, and his eye wandered over the rich treasures spread out before him, and which the heyducks were now packing in large sacks. "Oh, if these plates and dishes could speak and converse with me, what curious things we would have to confide with each other!" said Pollnitz, twirling one of the plates between his fingers. "How often have I dined from your rich abundance! Under the first pomp-andsplendor-loving Frederick, you furnished me with gala dinners; under the parsimonious Frederick William, with solid family dinners! How often have I seen my smiling face reflected in your polished surface! how often has this silver fork conveyed the rarest morsels to my lips! I declare to you, Fredersdorf, I think a dinner plate fulfils a noble mission; within its narrow bound lie the bone and sinew, as also the best enjoyments of life. But tell me, for God's sake, how can you bear that these rascals should handle the king's silver so roughly? Only look, now, at that heyduck, he has completely doubled up one of those beautiful salad-bowls, in order to force it into the mouth of the sack." "What signifies, dear baron? That said salad-bowl will never again he used for salad, henceforth it is only silver." "You speak in riddles, and I do not understand you. Well, well, those fellows have already filled their twelve sacks, and this room is now as empty and forlorn as the heart of an old bachelor. Now tell me what you are going to do with all these treasures?" "Can you not guess?" "I think the king, who now lives in Potsdam, needs his silver service, and as he does not wish to make a new purchase, he sends to Berlin for this. Am I right?" "You shall soon know. Let us follow the heyducks, the room is empty. Adieu, Melchoir, your duties will be light hereafter; you need not fear the robbers. Come, baron." They soon reached the skiff, and found that the twelve sacks had been placed beside the huge pile of dishes, plates, etc. "Alas!" said Fredersdorf, gloomily, "all this might have been avoided if I had already reached the goal I am aiming at; if I had fathomed the great mystery which God has suspended over mankind, upon whose sharp angles and edges thousands of learned and wise men have dashed their brains and destroyed their life's happiness! My God! I have accomplished so much, so little remains to be done! let me only find a sufficiently hardened substance, and the work is done. I shall have laid bare God's great mystery--I shall make gold!" "Do you think ever of this, Fredersdorf?" "I think ever of this, and shall think only of this as long as I live. This thought swallows up all other thoughts; it has destroyed my love, my rest, my sleep, my earthly happiness! But wait, Pollnitz, only wait; one day I shall lift the philosopher's stone, and make gold. On that day you will love me dearly, Baron Pollnitz. On that day I will not be obliged to prove to you, as I have just done, that the king has no money." "I have seen no proof yet," said Pollnitz. "You shall have it now, baron," said Fredersdorf, springing into the skiff. "Will you not go with us? Forward, forward at once!" "But--what is your destination?" "Come nearer, that I may whisper in your ear." Pollnitz bowed his head. "We are going to the mint," whispered Fredersdorf. "All this beautiful silver will be melted. The king will give no more dinners, he will give battle. The king changes his dishes and plates into good thalers to feed his brave army. And now, are you not convinced that the king has no money to pay your debts?" "I am convinced." "Then farewell. Take the rudder, boys, and go forward; enter the arm of the Spree which flows by the mint, and there anchor. The mint is our goal." "The mint is the goal," murmured Pollnitz, with a grim look, gazing after the skiff, which moved slowly over the water, and which, lighted by the torches, shone brilliantly in the midst of the surrounding darkness. The golden light, playing upon the rich liveries of the heyducks and the tower of silver in their midst, formed a scene of wonder and enchantment. Pollnitz watched them until the torches seemed like little stars in the distance. "There go all the pomp and glory of the world, the joys of peace and luxurious rest. The silver will be melted, iron and steel will take its place. Yes, the iron age begins. Alas! it begins also for me--why cannot I go into the mint and be melted down with these plates and dishes?" CHAPTER XVIII. THE FIRST FLASH OF LIGHTNING. During this night Pollnitz slept but little; when, however, he rose from his couch the next morning, his brow was clear and his countenance gayer than it had been for a long time; he had made his plans, and was convinced that he would succeed. "I will earn a hundred ducats," said he, smiling to himself, as in a superb toilet he left his dwelling, "yes, a hundred ducats, and I will revenge myself upon the king for that trumpeting and outcry. This shall be a blessed and beautiful morning." He walked first to the apartment of Colonel Jaschinsky, and announced himself as coming upon most important business. The colonel hastened to meet him, ready to be of service, and full of curiosity. "Lead me to a room where we are absolutely certain not to be observed or listened to," said Pollnitz. They entered the colonel's cabinet. "Here, baron, we are secure." "Without circumlocution, then, count, you know the law which forbids officers to make debts?" "I know it," said Jaschinsky, turning pale, "and I believe that Baron Pollnitz is well content not to belong to the officers." "Perhaps you, sir count, may also cease to belong to them?" "What do you mean by that?" said Jaschinsky, anxiously. "I mean simply that Colonel Jaschinsky belongs to those officers who are forbidden to make debts, but that he disregards the law." "You came here, as it appears, to threaten me?" "No, principally to warn you; you know that the king is particularly severe against his body-guard. You are the colonel of this splendid regiment, and should, without doubt, set the other officers a good example. I doubt if the king would consider that you did your duty, if he knew that you not only made debts, but borrowed money from the officers of your own regiment." "Take care, Baron von Pollnitz!" said Jaschinsky, threateningly. Pollnitz said, smilingly: "It appears that you are menacing ME, that is wholly unnecessary. Listen quietly to what I have to say. I have come to arrange a little matter of business with you. Day before yesterday you borrowed two hundred ducats from Baron Trenck. Give me one hundred of them, and I give you my word of honor not to expose you--deny me, and I give you my word of honor I will go instantly to the king, and relate the whole history. You know, count, you would be instantly cashiered." "I do not know that his majesty would grant a ready belief to the statement of Baron Pollnitz, and you have no proof to confirm it." "I have proof. You gave your note for the money. I think that would be convincing testimony." The count was pale and agitated. "If I give you a hundred ducats, you promise on your word of honor not to expose me to the king?" "I give you my word of honor; more than that, I promise you to defend you, if any one shall accuse you to the king." Jaschinsky did not reply; he stepped to his desk and took out two rolls of ducats. "Baron," said he, "here is half of the money I borrowed from Trenck; before I hand it to you I have one request to make." "Well, speak." "How did you learn that I borrowed this money?" "I saw your note which you gave to Trenck." "Ah! he showed it to you," cried Jaschinsky, with such an expression of hate, scorn, and revenge, that even Pollnitz was moved by it. He took the gold and let it slide slowly into his pocket. "I owe you a hundred ducats; I cannot promise you to return them; but I can promise you that Trenck will never produce your draft, and I will show you how to revenge yourself upon the handsome officer." "If you assist me in that, I will present you with my best horse." "You shall be revenged," said Pollnitz, solemnly. "You can send the horse to my stable; Frederick von Trenck will soon cease to be dangerous to any one; he is a lost man!--And now to the king," said Pollnitz, as he left the colonel's quarters. "Yes, to the king; I must thank him for the confidence he showed me last night." The king was making his preparations for war with the most profound secrecy; he worked only at night, and gave up his entire time seemingly to pleasures and amusements. He was daily occupied with concerts, balls, operas, and ballets; he had just returned from seeing the rehearsal of a new opera, in which Barbarina danced; he was gay and gracious. He received his master of ceremonies jestingly, and asked him if he came to announce that he had become a Jew. "You have tried every other religion at least twice; I know that you have had of late much to do with the 'chosen people;' I suppose you are now full of religious zeal, and wish to turn Israelite. It would, perhaps, be a wise operation. The Jews have plenty of gold, and they would surely aid with all their strength their new and distinguished brother. Speak, then, make known your purpose." "I come to thank your majesty for the supper you graciously accorded me last night." "A supper! what do you mean?" "Your majesty, through your private secretary, invited me to table, with all your splendid silver-ware. Truly the meal was indigestible and lies like a stone upon my stomach; but, I say with the good soldiers, after the lash, 'I thank your majesty for gracious punishment.'" "You are an intolerable fool; but mark me, no word of what you have seen. I wished to prove to you that I had no money, and to be freed from your everlasting complaints and petitions. I have therefore allowed you to see that my silver has gone to the mint. It is to be hoped that you will now compose yourself, and seek no more gold from me. Do not ask gold of kings, but of Jews! Kings are poor, the poorest people of the state, for they have no personal property." [Footnote: The king's own words.] "Oh, that the whole world could hear the exalted and high-hearted words of my king!" cried Pollnitz, with well-acted enthusiasm. "Thrice blessed is that nation which has such a ruler!" The king looked at him searchingly. "You flatter me; you want something, of course." "No, sire, I swear I come with the purest intentions." "Intentions? You have, then, intentions?" "Yes, sire, but now that I stand here face to face with you, I feel that my courage fails, and I cannot speak what I intended." "Now truly," said the king, laughing, "the circumstances must indeed be dangerous which deprive Baron Pollnitz of the power of speech." "Words, your majesty, are important things. Once a few words saved me from death; it may be that a few words, spoken this day to your majesty, may bring me into disfavor, and that would be worse than death." "What were the words which saved you from death?" "These, sire: 'Va-t-en, noble guerrier!'" "This took place in France?" "In Paris, sire. I was dining in a small hotel in the village of Etampes, near Paris. A very elegant cavalier sat next me and from time to time, as if accidentally, addressed me in a refined and winning way; he informed himself as to my intentions and circumstances. I was an inexperienced youth, and the cavalier was adroit in questioning. This was at the time of the Mississippi speculation of the great financier Law. I had gained that day, in the Rue Quinquempois, the sum of four hundred thousand francs. I had this money with me, and after dinner I proposed to go to Versailles. I was not without apprehension, the streets were unsafe, and Cartouche with his whole band of robbers had for some time taken possession of the environs of Paris, and made them the theatre of his daring deeds." "So you received your new friend trustingly?" said the king, laughing heartily. "Yes, sire, and we had just agreed as to the hour of our departure, when a little maiden appeared under the window of our dining-room and sang in a loud, clear voice, 'Va-t-en, noble guerrier!' The strange cavalier rose and stepped to the window to give her a few sous, then went out--and I saw him no more." "And you conclude from this that the words of the song saved your life? you think that the man with whom you were eating was a poisoner?" "I thought nothing, sire, and forgot the adventure. A year after, I was standing in the street as Cartouche was being led to execution. All Paris was abroad to see the famous brigand. I had a good place, the procession passed immediately by me, and look you, I recognized in the poor sinner now being led to execution, the elegant gentleman of the cabaret at Etampes! He knew me also and stood still for a moment. 'Sir,' said he, 'I dined with you a year ago. The words of an old song gave me notice to leave the cabaret immediately. They announced to me that the pursuers were on my heels; your star was in the ascendant, stranger; had I accompanied you to Versailles, you would have lost your gold and your life.' Your majesty will now understand that these words, 'Va-t-en, noble guerrier,' saved my life." "I confess it, and I am now most curious to hear the words which you fear will bring my displeasure upon you." "Sire, I have been for more than forty years a faithful servant of your exalted house. Will you not admit this?" "Faithful?" repeated Frederick; "you were faithful to us when it was to your advantage: you deserted us when you thought it to your interest to do so. I reproached you with this in former times, but now that I know the world better, I forgive you. Go on, then, with your pathetic appeal." "Your majesty has often commanded me to make known to you every thing which the good people say of your royal family, and when any one dared to whisper a slander against you or yours, to inform you of it at once." "Does any one dare to do that?" said the king, with an expression of anguish upon his noble face. "Yes, sire." The king breathed a heavy sigh, and walked hastily up and down; then placing himself before the window, and turning his back on Pollnitz, he said, "Go on." "Sire, it is lightly whispered that the young Lieutenant Trenck has dared to love a lady who is so far above him in her bright radiance and royal birth, that he should not dare to lift his eyes to her face except in holy reverence." "I have been told that he was the lover of Mademoiselle von Marwitz," said the king. "The world and the good Berliners believe that, but the initiated know that this pretended love is only a veil thrown by the bold youth over a highly traitorous passion." Pollnitz was silent; he waited for the king to speak, and watched him with a malicious smile. Frederick still stood with his face to the window, and saw nothing of this. "Shall I go on?" said Pollnitz at last. "I command you to do so," said the king. Pollnitz drew nearer. "Sire," said he, half aloud, "allow me to say what no one knows but myself. Baron Trenck visits Mademoiselle von Marwitz every day, but a third person is ever present at these interviews." "And this third person is--" "The Princess Amelia!" The king turned hastily, and the glance which he fixed upon Pollnitz was so flashing, so threatening, that even the bold and insolent master of ceremonies trembled. "Are you convinced of the truth of what you have stated?" said he harshly. "Sire," said he, "if you wish to convince yourself, it is only necessary to go this evening between five and six o'clock, unannounced, into the rooms of the Princess Amelia. You will then see that I have spoken truth." Frederick did not reply; he stepped again to the window. and looked silently into the street. Once more he turned to Pollnitz, and his face was clear and smiling. "Pollnitz, you are an old fox; but you have laid your foundation badly, and your whole plot is poorly conceived. Look you! I understand this intrigue perfectly. You hate poor Trenck; I have long seen that. You hate him because I honor and promote him, and you courtiers always regard those as your enemies who stand higher in favor than yourselves. Trenck deserves his good fortune, in spite of his youth; he is a learned and accomplished officer, and a most amiable and elegant gentleman. You cannot forgive him for this, and therefore you accuse him. This time you shall not succeed. I tell you I don't believe one word of this silly scandal. I will forget what you have dared to say; but look to it, that you also forget. Woe to you if you do not forget; woe to you if your lips ever again utter this folly to me or to any other person! I hold you wholly responsible. In your own mad, malicious brain is this fairy tale conceived; it will be your fault if it goes farther, and is ever spoken of. Conform yourself to this, sir, and retreat in time. I repeat to you, I hold you responsible. Now go, without a word, and send me my adjutant--it is high time for parade." "Flashed in the pan, completely flashed," said Pollnitz to himself, as with a courtly bow and a smiling lip he took leave of the king. "I had hoped at least for a small reward, if it was only to see that I had made him angry. Alas! this man is invulnerable; all my files wear away on him." Could he have seen what an expression of care and anguish overshadowed the king's face when he was alone--could he have heard the king's sighs and the broken words of sorrow and despair which he uttered, the wicked heart of the master of ceremonies would have been filled with gladness. But Frederick indulged himself in this weakness but a short time; he drew his royal mantle over his aching heart, he cast the veil of sadness from his eyes, and armed them with the might of majesty. "This rendezvous shall not take place; this romantic adventure shall come to an end. I will it!" said he, with an energy which only those can feel whose will is law, and from whose words there is no appeal. Frederick took his hat and entered the vestibule, where his staff awaited to accompany him to the parade. The king greeted them all sternly, and, passing by them rapidly, he descended the steps. "The king is very ungracious," whispered the officers amongst each other. "Woe to him upon whom his anger falls to-day!" A storm-cloud did indeed rest upon the brow of the king; his eye looked fierce and dangerous. The regiment stood in line, the king drew up in front; suddenly he paused, his face grew black--his eye had found an object for destruction. "Lieutenant Trenck," said he, in a loud and threatening tone, "you have this moment arrived, you are again too late. I demand of my officers that they shall be punctual in my service. More than once I have shown you consideration, and you seem to be incurable. I will now try the power of severity. Colonel Jaschinsky, Lieutenant Trenck is in arrest, till you hear further from me; take his sword from him, and transport him to Potsdam." The king passed on; the cloud had discharged itself; his brow was clear, and he conversed cordially with his generals. He did not give one glance to the poor young officer, who, pale and speechless, handed his sword to his malicious colonel, looked with anguish inexpressible toward the castle of Monbijou, and followed the two officers whose duty it was to conduct him to Potsdam. That afternoon Mademoiselle von Marwitz waited in vain for her lover; that afternoon the Princess Amelia shed her first tears; and, for the first time, entered the ballroom by the side of her royal mother, with dejected mien and weary eyes. The glare of light, the sound of music, the laugh and jest of the gay crowd, filled her oppressed heart with indescribable woe. She longed to utter one mad cry and rush away, far away from all this pomp and splendor; to take refuge in her dark and lonely room; to weep, to pray, and thus exhaust her sorrow and her fears. Perhaps the king read something of this fierce emotion in the face of the princess. He drew near to her, and taking her hand kindly, he led her away from her mother. "My sister," he said, in a low voice, but in a tone which made the heart of the princess tremble, "my sister, banish the cloud from your brow, and call the smiles to your young, fresh lips. It ill becomes a princess to be seen at a fete with a sad visage; melancholy, this evening, will be particularly unseemly. Be on your guard; you must not decline a single dance; I wish this as your brother, I command it as your king. Conform yourself to this. Do you understand fully all that I have said to you, and all that I have not said?" "I understand all, your majesty," whispered Amelia, with the greatest difficulty keeping back the tears, which, "like a proud river, peering o'er its bounds," filled her eyes to overflowing. Princess Amelia danced the whole evening, she appeared gay and happy; but it did not escape the watchful eye of the Baron Pollnitz, that her smile was forced and her gayety assumed; that her eye wandered with an expression of terror toward the king, who was ever observing her. Suddenly all was changed, and she became radiant with the fire of youth and happiness. Mademoiselle von Marwitz, while the princess stood near her in the Francaise, had whispered: "Compose yourself, your royal highness, there is no danger. He has been arrested for some small military offence, that is all!" Here were indeed peace and comfort. Amelia had been tortured by the most agonizing fears, and this news was like a messenger of peace and love. A military offence--that was a small affair. A few days of light confinement, and he would return; she would see him again; and those blessed interviews, those glorious hours of rapture, would be renewed. The princess had deceived herself. Several days elapsed, and Trenck did not return, and she knew nothing more than that he was in Potsdam, under arrest. Eight days had passed on leaden wings, and still he came not. This severe punishment for a small offence began to be resented by Trenck's comrades; they did not dare to murmur, but their countenances were clouded. "Colonel Jaschinsky," said the king, on the ninth morning, "go to Trenck and counsel him to ask for my forgiveness; say to him, that you believe I will forgive him, if he asks for pardon. You shall not say this officially, only as a friend. Remark well what he shall answer, and report it to me strictly." The colonel returned in an hour, with a well-pleased smile. "Well, will he ask for forgiveness?" said the king. "No, your majesty; he asserts that for a small fault he has been too harshly punished, and he will not bow so low as to plead against an injustice." "Let him remain in arrest," said Frederick, dismissing Jaschinsky. The king was alone; he walked up and down with his arms folded, as was his custom, when engaged in deep thought. "A head of iron, a heart of fire!" murmured he; "both so young, so proud, so fond, and all this I must destroy. I must pluck every leaf from this fair blossom. Sad mission! Why must I cease to be a man, because I am a king?" Eight days again went by--eight days of fetes, concerts, balls. The princess dared not absent herself; she appeared nightly in costly toilet, with glowing cheeks, and her lovely hair adorned with flowers, but her cheeks were rouged, and her sad smile accorded but little with her flowers. The king had carried on diligently but secretly his preparations for war, under the shadow of these luxurious festivities. Now all was ready; he could lay aside his mask and his embroidered dress, and assume his uniform. The ballroom was closed, the music silenced, the silver melted into thalers. The king left Berlin and joined his generals at Potsdam. On the day of his arrival he commissioned his adjutant, General von Borck, to release Trenck from arrest, and send him to Berlin with a letter to the queen-mother; he was to have leave of absence till the next day. "I will see, now, if they understood me," said Frederick to himself. "I have given them a hard lesson; if they do not profit by it, they are incurable, and force me to extremity." Alas! they had not understood this hard lesson; they were not wise, not prudent; they would not see the sharp sword suspended over their heads: their arms were madly thrown around each other, and they did not grasp this only anchor of safety which the fond brother, and not the stern king, had extended to them. They were lost! they must go down to destruction! The next morning, during the parade, Trenck drew near the king. He had just returned from Berlin; his cheeks were glowing from his rapid ride, and in his eyes there was still a shimmer of that happiness with which the presence of his beloved had inspired him. "Your majesty, I announce myself," said he, in a fresh and gay voice. The king said nothing. He looked at the handsome, healthy, and radiant youth with a glance of profound sympathy and regret. Frederick von Trenck saw nothing of this. "Does your majesty command me to join my regiment at Berlin?" said he, in the most unembarrassed manner. And now the king's eyes flashed with rage. "From whence come you?" said he, sternly. "From Berlin, sire." "Where were you before you were sent to Berlin?" "In arrest, sire." "Go, then, to your old place--that is to say, in arrest!" Frederick von Trenck remained in arrest till every preparation was completed. The army was ready to march. The king assembled his officers, and announced to them that they were bound once more to Silesia to bloody battle, and, with God's help, to glorious victory. On that day Frederick von Trenck was released from arrest. The king received him with a gracious smile, and commanded him to remain near him. Trenck's comrades envied him because of the royal favor; because of the friendly smiles and gracious words which, more than once during the day, the king directed to him. No one understood how Trenck could remain sad and silent under all these evidences of royal favor; no one understood how this gallant young officer could enter upon this campaign with bowed head and heavy brow; he should have sat upon his horse proud and erect--not dreaming, not lost in melancholy musing. No one but the king could comprehend this; his sympathetic soul was touched by every emotion of his young officer, and he had pity for every pang he inflicted. All this vast crowd of men had taken leave of those they loved and cherished. Trenck alone had been denied this solace. They had all received a love-greeting, a blessing, and a last fond kiss--a last tear to encourage them in battle, perhaps in death. Trenck had no kiss, no blessing, no farewell. He had said farewell to fortune, to love and hope; and even now, though marching to battle, perhaps to victory, he had no future. Tears were flowing for him, and tears would be his only inheritance. BOOK III. CHAPTER I. THE ACTORS IN HALLE. His excellency, Gotshilf Augustus Franke, president of the university at Halle, bore unmistakable marks of anger and excitement upon his usually calm countenance, as, seated at his study-table, he glanced from time to time at a paper spread out before him. The entrance of two of his friends and colleagues seemed scarcely to interrupt his disagreeable train of thought, as he bade them good morning and thanked them for coming to him so promptly. "I have requested your presence, my friends," he continued, "to inform you of the receipt of the answer to the petition which we presented to the General Directory." "Ah, then," cried Professor Bierman, "our troubles are at an end!" "Not so," said Professor Franke, gloomily; "the wishes of the servants of the Lord do not always meet with the approbation of kings. King Frederick the Second has refused our petition which was presented to him by the General Directory." "Refused it?" exclaimed the two professors. "Yes, refused it; he declares that he will not allow the actors to be expelled from Halle, until it can be satisfactorily proved that they have occasioned public disturbances in our midst." "This is unheard-of injustice," exclaimed Professor Bierman. "It is a new proof of the king's utter godliness," said Professor Heinrich. "He has already gone so far as to declare that these actors shall receive Christian burial." "Astounding!" cried the president. "This is a sacrilege, which will assuredly meet a just punishment. But," he continued after a pause, glancing anxiously around, "let us not forget that we are speaking of our king." "He seems to forget that even kings are but the servants of the Lord. His acts show a determination to destroy the church and its supporters." "Your remark is, I fear, too true," answered Professor Franke; "but the object of our meeting was not to discuss the king, but to discover, if possible, some means of extricating ourselves from the disagreeable position in which we have been placed by the unexpected refusal of our petition. We were so confident of a different answer to our just demand, and have expressed this confidence so publicly, that, when the result is known, we shall be ridiculed by both citizens and students." While the worthy professors were still deep in their discussion, they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who announced that there was a gentleman at the door, who called himself Eckhof, and who desired to be admitted to President Franke. "Eckhof!" exclaimed all three, and the two friends looked mistrustfully at Franke. "Eckhof! Do you receive Eckhof?" "Does this actor dare to cross your threshold?" "It appears so," cried Franke, angrily. "He has the boldness to force himself into my presence.--Let him enter; we will then hear how he justifies this intrusion." As Eckhof entered the room, the three professors remained seated, as if awaiting the approach of a criminal. Apparently unmoved by this want of courtesy, Eckhof advanced to the president, and, after making a respectful bow, offered him his hand. Franke, ignoring this movement, asked, without changing his position, to what singular accident he might attribute the honor of this visit. Eckhof appeared grieved and astonished at the reception, but replied, "I came, your excellency, to ask a favor. My friends have determined to give me a benefit to-night, and we have selected Voltaire's wonderful tragedy, 'Britannicus,' for our performance. The tickets are all sold, two hundred of them to the students. There is, however, one thing wanting to make the evening all I would wish, and that is the presence of your excellency and some of the professors at the representation. Therefore I am here, and have taken the liberty of bringing these tickets, which I beg you will accept for the use of yourself and your brother professors," and, bowing once more, he placed the tickets upon the table before which he was standing. "Are you so lost, sir, to all sense of propriety," cried Franke, "as to believe that I, the president of the university, a professor of theology, and a doctor of philosophy, would enter your unholy, Godforsaken theatre? No, sir, even in this degenerate age. we have not fallen so low that the men of God are to be found in such places." "These are very hard and unchristian words, your excellency, Professor and Doctor Franke, words which no Christian, no man of learning, no gentleman should employ. But I, although a poor actor, bearing no distinguished title, will only remember what is becoming for a Christian, and will say, in the words of our Lord, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.'" "Those holy words become a blasphemy on your lips," said Professor Heinrich, solemnly. "And still I repeat them. 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.' Do you not know that in judging me, you condemn yourselves? I came into your presence, hoping to reconcile the difficulties and misunderstanding which I heard had been occasioned by the theatre between the professors and the students; but you have treated me with scorn and declined my assistance, and nothing remains for me but to bid you farewell, most learned and worthy men." He bowed ceremoniously, and passed out, without again glancing at the indignant professors, and joined Joseph Fredersdorf, who awaited him below. "Well, did they accept your invitation?" "No, my friend, all happened as you predicted; they refused it with scorn and indignation." "Now you will agree with me that we can hope to do nothing in Halle." "Yes, you were right, I fear, Joseph; but let us dismiss so painful a subject. We will now go to our rehearsal, and we must perform our tragedy with such care and in such a manner that the thunders of applause which we receive will reach the ears of our enemies." The three professors were still in the room of the president, in earnest consultation. "So this miserable Eckhof is to have what he calls a benefit tonight?" said the president. "Two hundred students will be present," groaned Professor Heinrich. "And our lecture halls will be empty." "We must exert our energies and put a stop to these proceedings; it is scandalous that our students have forsaken their studies to run after these actors." "Truly something must be done, for not only our fame but our purses are at stake." "This evil cannot continue; we must take prompt measures to root it out," said the president. "The General Directory decided that the actors should not be expelled from Halle, unless it could be proved that they had been the occasion of some public difficulty. It is therefore necessary that such a difficulty should arise. According to Eckhof's account, there will be two hundred students at the theatre to-night. There are still, however, nearly one hundred who will not be present at his performance. Among these there must be some brave, determined, devout young men, who, in the name of God, of science, and of their teachers, would willingly enter the lists against these actors, and create a disturbance. We must employ some of these young men to visit the theatre to-night, and to groan and hiss when the other students applaud. This will be all-sufficient to raise a riot amongst these hot-blooded young men. After that, our course is plain; we have but to send in our account of the affair to the General Directory, and there will be no danger of a second refusal to our petition." "An excellent idea!" "I am afraid, however, it will be difficult to find any students who will put their lives in such jeopardy." "We must seek them among those to whose advantage it is to stand well with the president." "There are some who receive a yearly stipend through me, and others who live only for science, and never visit the theatre. I name, for example, the industrious young student Lupinus. I shall speak to him, and I am sure he will not refuse to assist us; he is small and not very strong, it is true, but he stands well with the students, and will carry others with him. I know five others upon whom I can count, and that is enough for our purpose. I will give them these tickets which Eckhof left here. He desired that we should make use of them, and we will do so, but to serve our own purpose, and not his." Having arrived at this happy conclusion, the three professors separated. CHAPTER II. THE STUDENT LUPINUS. Young Lupinus sat quiet and alone, as was usual with him, in his room, before his writing-table, which was covered with books and folios. He was thinner and paler than when we first met him in Berlin. His deeply-sunken eyes were encircled with those dark rings which are usually the outward sign of mental suffering. His bloodless lips were firmly pressed together, and the small hand, upon which his pale brow rested, was transparently thin and white. Lupinus was working, or appeared to be so. Before him lay one of those venerable folios which excite the reverence of the learned. The eyes of the young man rested, it is true, upon the open page, but so long, and so uninterruptedly, that it was evident his thoughts were elsewhere. The professors would, no doubt, have been rejoiced had they seen him bent thus earnestly and attentively over this volume. If, however, they had seen what really claimed his attention, they would have been seized with horror. Upon his open book lay a playbill, the bill for that evening, and upon this "thing of horror" rested the eyes of the young student. "No, no," he said, after a long pause, "I will not go. I will not be overcome by my heart, after the fierce struggle of these two long, fearful months. I will not, I dare not see Eckhof again; I should be lost--undone. Am I not lost even now? Do I not see ever before me those great, burning eyes; do I ever cease to hear his soft, melodious voice, which seems to sing a requiem over my dead happiness? I have striven uselessly against my fate--my life is blighted. I will strive no longer, but I will die honorably, as I have lived. I only pray to God that in my last hour I may not curse my father with my dying lips. He has sinned heavily against me; he has sacrificed my life to his will. May God forgive him! Now," continued Lupinus, "enough of complaints. My resolution is taken; I will not go to the theatre, for I dare not see Eckhof again." He suddenly seized the playbill, and pressed the spot where Eckhof's name stood again and again to his lips, then tore the paper into many pieces, and threw them behind him. "So long as I live, I must struggle--I will battle bravely. My heart shall die, my soul awake and comfort me." Again he bent his head over the great tome, but this time a light knock at his door interrupted him, and the immediate entrance of Professor Franke filled him with amazement. "My visit seems to astonish you," said the professor, in the most friendly tone. "You think it singular that the president of the university should seek out one of the students. Perhaps it would be so in an ordinary case; but for you, Lupinus, who are the most learned and honorable young man in our midst, we cannot do too much to show our respect and esteem." "This is an honor which almost shames me," said Lupinus, blushing; "an honor of which, I fear, I am unworthy." "I desire to give you a still greater proof of my esteem," continued the professor. "I wish to make you my confidant, and inform you of an intrigue which, insignificant as it appears, will be followed by important results." With ready words, Franke proceeded to explain to Lupinus his own views with regard to the actors; what he considered their wretched influence over the students, and also the ill-advised decision of the General Directory. He then informed Lupinus of his plan for creating a disturbance in the theatre, and requested his assistance in carrying it out. Lupinus listened with horror to this explanation and request, but he controlled himself, and quietly received the ticket which the president handed him. He listened silently to the further details, and Franke understood his silence as a respectful assent. When the president had at length taken leave, and Lupinus was again alone, he seized the ticket, threw it on the ground, and trampled it under foot, thus visiting upon the inoffensive ticket the scorn he had not dared exhibit to the president. "I--I am to be the instrument of this miserable plot!" he cried passionately. "Because I lead a lonely, joyless life. I am selected to execute this infamy. Ah, how little do they know me! how slight a knowledge of the human heart have these learned professors! Eckhof in danger, and I remain silent? Eckhof threatened, and I not warn him? That were a treachery against myself, a crime against art and my own poor heart. If I remain silent, I become an accomplice in this vile conspiracy." At this thought, he took his hat, and hurried from the room. When he reached the door of Eckhof's lodging, he hesitated. A profound pallor succeeded a burning glow upon his countenance, and he murmured to himself: "No, no; I have not the strength to see him to-day. I should die if his eyes rested upon me. I will go to Fredersdorf." Joseph Fredersdorf was at home, and received Lupinus with astonished delight. "The holy one trusts himself in the den of the wicked," he said, with a bright smile. "This is an unheard-of event, which doubtless indicates something important." "You are laughing at me, but you are right. I am here for a purpose; nothing unimportant would have induced me to come to you after the ungrateful manner in which I declined your friendly advances. But I am sure you will forgive the intrusion when you become aware of the motive which has led me to you." With hurried words and frequent interruptions from Fredersdorf, Lupinus informed his friend of the president's visit, and its object. "This is a regular conspiracy," said Joseph, as Lupinus finished. "If it succeed, the punishment of the actors will be the result." "It must not succeed--we must prevent that. The first thing to be done is to gain over the other students to whom the president has intrusted this plot. We must either do that or prevent them from entering the theatre." "But if we can do neither?" "Then we must allow what we cannot prevent, but we must seek to avert the evil consequences. We will address ourselves to the king, and inform him who has occasioned this disturbance, and why it was done." "The king is just, especially for me, be active, and the for you must allow master, Eckhof. He Come to Eckhof." and happily it is not difficult to see him, as my brother is his private secretary. We must victory will be ours. And now, my dear friend, me to call you so from this day, let us go to my must thank you himself for this kind warning. "No!" said Lupinus, "it is a matter of no importance to Eckhof, who has given the information. There is much to be done to-day. I will seek to gain over the students; you must hasten to Eckhof." "And will you not accompany me?" "No, my friend, not to-day. Let us await the events of this evening. Perhaps I shall ask you to present me to him to-morrow." "Ah, that would be a real triumph for me!" "Let us first take care that this plot fails, and the actors are not driven from Halle." "When we have accomplished this, will you promise to walk arm-in-arm with me three times through the market-place?" "Not only three times, but as often as you will." "Now I feel the strength of Samson, and the craft of Delilah. With this reward before me, I will vanquish all enemies." CHAPTER III. THE DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE. So of as in dense was the crowd which filled the streets in the neighborhood the theatre on the evening of Eckhof's benefit, that it appeared if the entire population of the city of Halle must be unanimous wishing to do honor to this wonderful artiste. Eckhof owed this triumph to the students; he had been their darling from the time of his first appearance among them, and now he had become the favorite of the entire city, with the exception of the professors. Had the theatre been three times its actual size, it could scarcely have accommodated all who had made applications for tickets. The parterre was given up almost entirely to the students, upon whose countenances was plainly seen their deep interest in the evening's entertainment. Here and there among them a few earnest faces and darkly flashing eyes might be seen, but they seemed to arrest no eye but that of Lupinus. He had passed every countenance in review, and had instantly recognized by their expression those students who had entered into the plot of the president. He had failed in his effort to discover them before the opening of the theatre, and was, therefore, unable to prevent their attendance. Professor Franke had informed these students that they might count upon the assistance of Lupinus, and one of them had just whispered to him: "There will be a fierce struggle, and I fear we shall be worsted, as our number is so small. Did you bring your rapier?" Before Lupinus could answer, he was separated from his questioner by a crowd of students pushing their way forward. It seemed as if these new arrivals had not come to the theatre for mere amusement. They glanced threateningly around them, as if seeking a concealed enemy. In passing Lupinus they greeted him with a few low-spoken words, or a warm pressure of the hand. These students were the special friends of Joseph Fredersdorf. To them he had confided the danger which threatened the actors this evening, and had demanded their aid in maintaining peace and quiet. They scattered about amongst the crowd of students, and whispered to their friends and acquaintances: "No disturbance this evening. We must be quiet, whatever occurs." At length this fluttering, whispering crowd were silenced by the ringing of the bell which announced the rising of the curtain. The piece began, and never had Eckhof displayed such fire, such enthusiasm; the students had never exhibited such rapt and earnest attention. Their excitement was shown by their flashing eyes and glowing cheeks, and the low murmurs of delight which arose occasionally from this dark mass. But at length a moment arrived when it became impossible to suppress the expression of their delight, and forgetting all resolve to the contrary, they called aloud, amid thunders of applause, for their favorite Eckhof, who had just left the stage. "A disturbance is now unavoidable," said Lupinus to himself, "but Eckhof deserves that we should forget all such miserable considerations. To die for him were to be indeed blessed." As Eckhof appeared upon the stage, in answer to the repeated calls upon his name, Lupinus gazed upon him with a beaming countenance, and joined the others in their cries of delight. The unalloyed triumph of Eckhof endured but for one moment, for suddenly, high above the shouts of applause, arose a piercing, derisive whistle, succeeded by hisses and groans. As if by magic, the aspect of the parterre was changed. Every student looked wrathfully at his neighbor, as if determined to discover and punish the rash offender who dared run counter to the general approbation. A few students were endeavoring to calm the rising storm; but renewed hisses and groans made this impossible, and one voice was heard high above the others: "You hissed, sir; I forbid it!" "And I forbid you to applaud," was the answer. "So long as you applaud, I will hiss. Accommodate yourself to that." A universal cry of wrath arose as if from one voice. The struggle was inevitable, as Lupinus had foreseen; the parterre of the theatre was converted into a battle-ground, and a fierce combat began among these young, hot-blooded students. The manager ordered the lights to be extinguished, and the police to be called in, but for a long time their efforts were ineffectual in subduing the contest. We will leave the theatre with Lupinus, who, as soon as he could extricate himself from the battling crowd, hurried through the streets, toward the lodging of Fredersdorf. He found a post-carriage before the door, and Fredersdorf, dressed for a journey, was just leaving the house. As he was stepping into the carriage, Lupinus placed his hand upon his shoulder, and said, "Where are you going, Fredersdorf?" "To Berlin, to the king." "The king is not in Berlin; he is in Silesia, with the army." "I received letters from my brother to-day. The king has gone to Berlin for a few days, and my brother is with him. I will have no difficulty in obtaining an audience. I shall give the king a correct version of this affair. He will perceive that this disturbance was occasioned by the professors, and he will not allow us to be driven from Halle. Farewell, my friend; in four days I return, and you shall hear the result of my journey." "I intend to accompany you." "You intend to accompany me?" "Yes; perhaps you will need a witness; I must be with you. I thought you would have counted on me." "How could I suppose that Lupinus, the learned student, who will receive his diploma at the end of a few weeks, would tear himself from the arms of his beloved Science, to go with a comedian before the king, and bear witness for the hated and despised actors?" "Ah, Fredersdorf," said Lupinus; "if you consider Science my beloved, I fear you will soon have occasion to call me a faithless lover." "What can you mean? How! you also--" "Let us be off, my friend. We will discuss that in the carriage." CHAPTER IV. THE FRIENDS. Four days after the unfortunate occurrences in the theatre, Fredersdorf and his friend Lupinus returned from their secret journey, the object of which was unknown even to Eckhof. No sooner had they alighted from their travelling carriage, than they proceeded arm-in-arm to Eckhof's lodging. They found him at home and alone, and Fredersdorf saw from his pale countenance and lustreless eyes that his sensitive, easily excited nature had been deeply wounded by the late events. "I bring you a new pupil, my master," said Fredersdorf, drawing Lupinus forward, who stood deeply blushing before Eckhof. Eckhof smiled sadly. "A pupil who desires that I should lead him through all the classes and degrees of the school of suffering and humiliation?" "A young student, Eckhof, who up to this time has been the pride and delight of the university; who, however, now wishes to relinquish this honor, and become one of your followers. In one word, this is Lupinus, who desires to waive his right to the prospective dignity of the title of doctor of medicine, and to become your pupil, and eventually an actor." "You are kind and tender-hearted as ever, Joseph," said Eckhof, gently. "You know that I bear a wound in my heart, and you seek to heal it with the balm of your friendship, and this kind jest." "This is no jest, but a reality. Truly, you resemble a pair of lovers, who have not the courage to believe in their own happiness. Eckhof will not believe that the learned student Lupinus wishes to become his follower and pupil, and Lupinus stands there like a young girl who has received a declaration and does not dare say yes. Speak, Lupinus, and tell this doubter that you have come voluntarily; that I have not pressed you into the service as Frederick William impressed soldiers. Truly, I had trouble enough in divining from your broken words and repressed sighs, your blushes, and your deep admiration for Eckhof, this secret which lay in your bosom. But now that it has been discovered, take courage, my friend, and raise the veil which conceals your desires." Lupinus remained speechless, only the heaving of his breast betrayed his excitement. Eckhof had compassion on the evident embarrassment of the young student, and approaching him laid his hand gently on his shoulder. Lupinus trembled and grew pale under Eckhof's gentle, sympathetic glance. "Do you wish really to become an actor?" questioned Eckhof. "Yes," he replied in a low voice, "I have long wished it, I have struggled with this wish, and thought I had overcome it; but the struggle has been in vain; in vain have I buried myself in books and studies. I will keep up this internal strife no longer, but will follow the inclinations of my heart, which lead me to you. In this new life I shall be happy and contented; and this I can only hope to be, in giving my life to poetry and art." "Ah, he speaks and thinks as I did," said Eckhof to him self; then turning to Lupinus, he said: "You wish to be an actor; that means, you desire a life of shame and humiliation. No one shall become an actor if I can prevent it. Do you know, young man, that, to become an actor, means to have the whole world, and perhaps even God, arrayed against you?" "You are unjust, Eckhof," cried Fredersdorf--"unjust to yourself and to the world. You scorn your own triumph, and those who prepared that triumph for you." "You are right so far, my friend," replied Eckhof sadly. "But is it not also true that we are persecuted and driven forth? Has it not been proved that for an actor there is no law, no justice?" "Who knows," said Fredersdorf, smiling, "that we may not still triumph over these miserable conspirators?" "Are you aware that the theatre has been closed, and our representations forbidden until the decision of the General Assembly, with regard to the late disturbance in the theatre, shall be known?" "The General Assembly will order the theatre to be opened, and our representations to recommence." Eckhof heard this with a cutting, derisive laugh. "Dear friend, such an order would render justice to the scorned and oppressed on earth!" "And they will receive justice; but it must be sought in the right place." "Where is that place?" "Where the king is." "Ah! the king! That may be true in your case, because your brother is his private secretary, but it is not true for me--not true for the German actor." "Eckhof, you are again unjust. The king is too noble, too free from prejudice, to be deceived by the dust with which these learned professors have sought to blind him. The king knows that they occasioned the late disturbance in the theatre." "Who has told you that?" "The king himself." "You have seen the king?" "I have. I hope you will allow now, that it is not a good thing for me only that my brother is private secretary to the king. I have seen his majesty, and I informed him of this wretched intrigue of the professors. He might not have put entire faith in the accounts of the actor, Joseph Fredersdorf, but I was accompanied by a responsible witness, who confirmed my words." "Who was this witness?" "This is he," said Joseph, drawing Lupinus forward. "Ah!" sa